Jon Snow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tooktheblack) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-09-04 10:51 pm
tooktheblack) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-09-04 10:51 pm
wear it like armor [open]
WHO: Jon Snow
WHERE: woods; House 25; weirwood (locked to Starks only)
WHEN: 18 August (plague prompt); early September
OPEN TO: all; weirwood prompt locked to Starks only
WARNINGS: usual sad bastard warnings.
a. bring out your dead
It had only taken a few days after visiting his lord father for Jon to fall ill and he tried to ignore it and push past it as much as he could. He did what he could to keep going, to maintain his routine, but after three days he fell to the fever and the rash and took to his bed.
Jon couldn't ever remember being ill like this. Once, during the False Spring, he'd fallen ill with a flu that all the rest of the Starks had fallen ill with one after another in succession. While Sansa and Robb had the touch of Catelyn Stark to soothe them when they thrashed in the sheets, Jon only had broth from Old Nan and the fevered dreams of a boy who wanted his mother more than anything. He wanted his mother to put cool cloths against his forehead and to brush his hair back from his brow.
His mother never came.
Now, as a man grown, he wouldn't do anything so weak as beg for his mother but he did, in passing, wish to be put out of his misery a handful of times. He hoped that none of his other siblings had fallen ill with this and that only he and Father had gotten it. Perhaps the girls and Robb had been spared and Jon would be better in a few days. Didn't it pass? All things passed in time.
So, for the first time since that illness as a boy, Jon Snow took to his bed and didn't rise for a week.
b. but i'm feeling better!
After laying in bed for a week and a half, Jon finally felt well enough to venture out into the woods. His traps were all a loss, considering they hadn't been checked while he was ill and he spent a few hours redoing the lot of them. It was tedious work, yes, but he was just glad to be out of his bed and moving around again. He hadn't been the best patient while he'd been ill and he'd been really glad to be out of the house; he had the idea that he'd spend the whole day out of doors if the women in his life would let him.
Once he'd reset all of his traps, he took one of the bows to actually hunt, feet silent against the leaves. It was times like these that he missed Ygritte. For all that he was good with a bow, she was better, and she could shoot further and cleaner than he ever would. Still, he had a duty to feed those in the village and he wouldn't manage that if he was lost in a dream of days past. Seeing a rustle out of the corner of his eye, he nocked an arrow and let it loose, pleased when it struck a grouse. It'd make a fine dinner for someone, whether it was his family or up at the Inn.
c. you have found...the shrubbery!
The weirwood was still a tiny thing but even as a sapling, Jon knew what it meant. He occasionally said prayers in front of a heart tree for his family who hadn't come here to this village - for Bran, for Rickon whom he knew was dead and gone. He said them for Catelyn Stark, that his siblings might have their mother again. He said them for Ygritte, for the brothers he'd lost at the Wall and the brothers who had betrayed them. It was a time to think and reflect, to remember the Old Gods and the First Men and how they'd given rise to the man he was today.
It seemed so far away from him now, the snows of the North and the battle that they had yet to fight. There was a war to wage against the dead and yet he was here in a place that was summer-green, a place that winter lasted only a few turns of the moon before it became spring and then autumn. It seemed like madness that seasons would last only a few moons' turn but he guessed for those not from Westeros, the opposite must seem true.
He knelt for what felt like an eternity, his lips moving without sound escaping as he gave his prayers to this fledgling tree in hopes that House Stark would take root here in this village and be strong once again.
WHERE: woods; House 25; weirwood (locked to Starks only)
WHEN: 18 August (plague prompt); early September
OPEN TO: all; weirwood prompt locked to Starks only
WARNINGS: usual sad bastard warnings.
a. bring out your dead
It had only taken a few days after visiting his lord father for Jon to fall ill and he tried to ignore it and push past it as much as he could. He did what he could to keep going, to maintain his routine, but after three days he fell to the fever and the rash and took to his bed.
Jon couldn't ever remember being ill like this. Once, during the False Spring, he'd fallen ill with a flu that all the rest of the Starks had fallen ill with one after another in succession. While Sansa and Robb had the touch of Catelyn Stark to soothe them when they thrashed in the sheets, Jon only had broth from Old Nan and the fevered dreams of a boy who wanted his mother more than anything. He wanted his mother to put cool cloths against his forehead and to brush his hair back from his brow.
His mother never came.
Now, as a man grown, he wouldn't do anything so weak as beg for his mother but he did, in passing, wish to be put out of his misery a handful of times. He hoped that none of his other siblings had fallen ill with this and that only he and Father had gotten it. Perhaps the girls and Robb had been spared and Jon would be better in a few days. Didn't it pass? All things passed in time.
So, for the first time since that illness as a boy, Jon Snow took to his bed and didn't rise for a week.
b. but i'm feeling better!
After laying in bed for a week and a half, Jon finally felt well enough to venture out into the woods. His traps were all a loss, considering they hadn't been checked while he was ill and he spent a few hours redoing the lot of them. It was tedious work, yes, but he was just glad to be out of his bed and moving around again. He hadn't been the best patient while he'd been ill and he'd been really glad to be out of the house; he had the idea that he'd spend the whole day out of doors if the women in his life would let him.
Once he'd reset all of his traps, he took one of the bows to actually hunt, feet silent against the leaves. It was times like these that he missed Ygritte. For all that he was good with a bow, she was better, and she could shoot further and cleaner than he ever would. Still, he had a duty to feed those in the village and he wouldn't manage that if he was lost in a dream of days past. Seeing a rustle out of the corner of his eye, he nocked an arrow and let it loose, pleased when it struck a grouse. It'd make a fine dinner for someone, whether it was his family or up at the Inn.
c. you have found...the shrubbery!
The weirwood was still a tiny thing but even as a sapling, Jon knew what it meant. He occasionally said prayers in front of a heart tree for his family who hadn't come here to this village - for Bran, for Rickon whom he knew was dead and gone. He said them for Catelyn Stark, that his siblings might have their mother again. He said them for Ygritte, for the brothers he'd lost at the Wall and the brothers who had betrayed them. It was a time to think and reflect, to remember the Old Gods and the First Men and how they'd given rise to the man he was today.
It seemed so far away from him now, the snows of the North and the battle that they had yet to fight. There was a war to wage against the dead and yet he was here in a place that was summer-green, a place that winter lasted only a few turns of the moon before it became spring and then autumn. It seemed like madness that seasons would last only a few moons' turn but he guessed for those not from Westeros, the opposite must seem true.
He knelt for what felt like an eternity, his lips moving without sound escaping as he gave his prayers to this fledgling tree in hopes that House Stark would take root here in this village and be strong once again.
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"Well, these will get you far," Jon said. Taako seemed to be concerned with how much of a meal it would make and Jon wondered if that meant he was a proper cook. It would be nice to have another, honestly, because while Jon could hunt plenty and bring food to the inn, they still needed men and women who could cook it.
"Were you a cook before? You seem to know more about it than I ever have."
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Jon wouldn't mind it either, honestly, because more hands was always helpful - especially as their village grew.
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"Is there something I ought to be looking to trap or hunt for you, then? Something that you'd be better able to prepare?"
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And that, truly, was more macabre than he intended. "I've never roasted a crow, though, bird or otherwise."
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"Seems like it'd be too many bones for not enough meat. They're annoying birds, though," Jon said, remembering them. Then again, ravens, the larger and more useful cousins, could be just as annoying.
"The men who came from King's Landing told me that if they could kill a pigeon with a sling they could bring it to a woman who'd stew it for a few copper. That seems like too much work for too little reward too."
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"It wasn't always perfect, no, but one of the things that was good about it was I always had plenty to eat and there were cooks to make it for me."
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