POPPY | A Game Of Thrones

EIGHTEEN

i saw wild dangerous beauty,
i saw devotion. i saw you.

Jon had been sentenced to scrubbing tables in the mess hall, and for what? For helping the others, or was it because of Thorne's jealousy? Jon scowled as he worked, the rag moving back and forth across the worn wood. "I know for a fact that some of the officers sneak off to the brothels in Mole's Town," Samwell said quietly, his voice tinged with frustration. Sam had the misfortune of being nearby when Thorne's anger flared, and now he was scrubbing tables alongside Jon.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Jon grumbled, his arm already aching. He could feel the tension in his muscles, but the monotony of the task dulled his senses.

Sam stopped, his brow furrowing as he glanced at Jon. "Don't you think it's a bit unfair?"

Unfair? Jon thought. There was no fairness at Castle Black, not here, not under men like Thorne. Once, Jon had believed the Night's Watch was full of honorable men, but those illusions had long since shattered. "They make us swear our vows while they sneak off for a little Sally on the side?" Sam asked, incredulous.

"Sally on the side?" Jon let out a rare chuckle, the sound strange even to his own ears. It had been too long since humor found him, and longer still since he allowed it.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" Sam muttered, scrubbing with renewed fury. "We can't protect the Wall unless we're celibate? The whole idea is absurd."

Jon shrugged, the laughter fading as quickly as it came. "I didn't think you'd be so bothered."

"Why not, because I'm fat?" Sam's eyes widened, and he shifted awkwardly.

"No—"

"I like girls just as much as you do. Maybe they don't like me as much... I've never been with one, you see." Sam's voice softened, and Jon could see the vulnerability in his friend's eyes. Sam was letting him in, sharing a secret that he had likely never spoken aloud.

"You've probably had hundreds," Sam muttered, looking down at the brush in his hands.

Jon paused, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. He could let the silence stretch or speak the truth. "No," he began slowly, spreading more powder on the table. "As a matter of fact, I'm the same as you."

Sam scoffed, clearly not believing him. Jon continued, his words flowing more freely now. "I came close once. I was alone with a naked girl, but—"

"You didn't know where to put it?" Sam interrupted, grinning despite himself.

Jon laughed, shaking his head. "I know where to put it."

"Was she old? Ugly?"

"Young and gorgeous." The memory of Ros came back to him, the way her eyes had sparkled with mischief, but it was another name that lingered on his lips.

Sam leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Was it... Hermione?" The name sent a chill through Jon's blood, a coldness that crept into his bones.

Jon's jaw clenched, his mind racing with the memory of Hermione atop the Wall, snow clinging to her wild hair. She had kissed him then, her lips soft and warm in the biting cold. He wanted her more than anything, but—

"No," Jon growled, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. "It was a whore named Ros." Sam watched him closely, waiting for more. Jon hesitated, then continued, his voice quieter now. "But I've thought about her. Hermione kissed me... on top of the Wall."

Sam's eyes widened in shock. "How was it?"

Jon smiled faintly, leaning against the table. "You don't want to know."

"That good?" Sam asked, his curiosity evident.

"Better." The kiss had been more than he could have imagined. Otherworldly. He could still feel her lips, still see the way the snowflakes caught in her hair. She had asked him to leave with her that night, to go far away from Castle Black, from the Wall, from everything.

"And yet you're still here?" Sam's confusion was palpable. "Your father is Lord Eddard Stark, you could still be welcomed home, unlike the rest of us."

Jon's heart clenched at the reminder. "What's my name?" he asked, his voice hardening.

"Jon Snow."

"And why is my surname Snow?"

"Because... you're a bastard from the North."

Jon nodded, the weight of the word sinking deep into his chest. He remembered the innocence of his youth, back when he didn't fully understand what it meant to be a bastard. He, Robb, and Hermione had been inseparable then. They played at being knights, calling out names like Balon the Brave and Aegon the Conqueror, but the truth had come eventually. The whispers, the sneers, Catelyn's cold stares... They had all taught him the harsh truth of what it meant to be Jon Snow.

"I never met my mother," Jon said quietly, his voice growing distant. "My father wouldn't even tell me her name. I don't know if she's alive or dead. I don't know if she was noble, or a fisherman's wife, or a whore. And all I could think, standing there on the Wall with this beautiful girl, was... if I got her pregnant, she'd have a child. Another bastard named Snow." The words tasted bitter on his tongue, like old wounds torn open anew.

He thought of Hermione again, her golden eyes filled with hope. She had wanted him, wanted to give herself to him without care for his name or station. But Jon knew better. He knew the shame that came with being a bastard, the scorn, the sneers, the life of being unwanted. He couldn't let that happen to her children. Not Hermione's.

"And that's not a life for a child," Jon finished, his voice low and rough. He had lived that life, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Sam stared at him, the silence stretching between them. Then, a small grin tugged at his lips. "So... you didn't know where to put it?"

Jon couldn't help but laugh, the tension breaking. With a broad grin, he tossed the cleaning brush at Sam, who yelped and ducked.