Game of Thrones: A Second Chance

Jon I

Something wasn't right. Jon felt...off. More off than usual. Not only did he feel the pain of losing Daenerys, but he also felt a physical pain in his chest, almost like he had an arrow lodged in it. Of course, he didn't. But still, it really hurt.

"Ghost," Jon called, and the white wolf came over to him. Jon looked him over, not seeing any arrow wounds. Only the missing ear and the scars on his face from the wights. Odd, if Ghost wasn't hurt, whose pain was he feeling? He couldn't think of anything.

Jon ran his hand through the fur of Ghost's back. Apart from Tormund, he was his only companion. The Free Folk were afraid of him now, ever since he hurt that girl, Lenna. She was quite pretty, but Jon couldn't lay with another woman ever again, even if it meant the fate of House Targaryen. Daenerys was it for him. And now she was dead. By his own doing.

For five days he pondered whether he should just end it all, end all the suffering he has been going through in a world without Dany. All it would take was Longclaw. No more dreams with her in it, taunting him, no more pain. But whenever he decided he would do it, Ghost was there to judge him. His red eyes seemed to call Jon 'pathetic'. So Jon wouldn't do it. He refused to be weak.

"You're a good boy, Ghost, you know that?" Jon says to him. Ghost's tongue lolls out in response. Jon pats him once more and then stands. He watches as the direwolf exits the tent, off to go hunt most likely. Jon can't help but think about Rhaegal. Tormund's questioning brought back memories.

The magnificent creature he'd bonded with had died far too young, in Jon's opinion. He had been heartbroken to hear what happened to him, lost to the seas beside Dragonstone. Left to rot, not buried like Viserion had been after the battle.

Sometimes Jon pretended that Rhaegal was fine, that he'd see him again. He did the same with Dany and Drogon. But the truth was, they were gone. Everyone was. Arya was West, Sansa was too busy to ever visit, and Davos served Bran now. They all probably forgot about Jon by now. The only one he might see again is Drogon, coming to roast Jon for what he did to his mother.

-

Later, he finally left his tent. The air was crisp, but not as cold as when the threat of the dead loomed over them. Winter had come, and now it was ending.

"Hey, crow! You lookin' to help bring fresh logs to camp?" Tormund called over to him when he entered the new wildling camp. Jon pondered it. He was originally just trying to get fresh air to clear his mind.

"Aye," He nodded. "Why not?" It would make him feel less useless.

"That's the Jon Crow I know," Tormund chortled, slapping Jon on the back. Jon did not appreciate his joke. "Are you feeling better about the Dragon Queen?"

He felt the familiar stab of pain through his heart. It must have shown on his face, for Tormund patted his back, more gently this time.

"Sorry, lad. I know she meant a lot," Tormund spoke solemnly. "But you're home now. You were always meant to be up north. It's in your blood."

Half of his blood. But Tormund didn't know that. Jon shrugged, and swept a hand through his curly black locks. "Where's the wood?"

Tormund guffawed like Jon had just said the best joke in the world. "In the trees, you silly man. Come on, I brought you an axe."

Jon took the offered axe with a grimace. He did not know what he was signing up for, but it was too late to turn back. He followed Tormund to the forest and picked out a decent pine tree. Tormund, being Tormund, picked out the thickest tree in sight.

Jon had made it through a few swings of his axe before a shooting pain hit his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and fell back against the tree, sitting. His hand gripped his shoulder as a wave of pain continued to rip through it. It felt like his chest, but worse. Like he was bleeding out, but he didn't feel any wetness.