Time Ticks By, Nothing Changes Who: Jon Snow When: 26 July 2013 Where: A hotel in London, England Dream Location: Winterfell, the North, Westeros Status: Complete Word Count: 721
Despite the hot, soothing bath - and two glorious wanking sessions - lulling nightcap to a day full of adventures chock-a-block with more surprises than packed into a Kinder Egg, Jon found he’d trouble sleeping that night.
His head felt full. And though a birth defect kept Bran from becoming a football legend or hiking Hadrian’s Wall as eldest brother dreamt to do, his legs were still molded in the sight of God; built for kicking and flopping.
Swift unconscious thwap of left foot bent Jon’s kidney as Beckham bent a ball, sending his sibling to the fucking rural side of hotel mattress.
The sheets were cold and starchy farther away from Bran. Sturdy weave and weft threaded together to withstand all manner of sins and the hot, bleachy water necessary to purge the evidence. Jon tossed for a time, burying curls still sodden from the bath beneath his pillow because he simply couldn’t stand to have his neck craned at a jaunty angle.
Good for side sleepers and those afflicted by sleep apnea, I reckon. Bet the fucking Elephant Man never met a pillow he didn’t fancy, ruddy piece of shit.
Never having grown out of the fetal phase, tetchy bairn slept on his belly. Preferred a dense, well-worn feather pillow to any tempur-pedic, contoured, therapeutic, memory foam codswallop consumerist bollocks ever bulk ordered for a hotel suite.
That, or the warm, comforting embrace of his lover. Rise and fall of a pectoral, thump-a-bump, thump-I-love-you-bump of a beating heart beneath his ear; loss felt acutely as sugar-induced toothache.
Soon, Jon, you’ll be home soon. Probably have trouble sleeping without Bran’s night-triathlons.
Ironic thought was accompanied by a garbled snort and well-cranky shove as his precious corner of Siberia was invaded yet again. The far edge of the world, very last inches of cushiony, springy double-wide shared with brother’s thrashings as bright LED clock flashed 1:30 am... 1:56 am... 2:22 am...
3:00 am.
It wasn’t till Jon threw in the proverbial towel and budged over to the sofa that he finally found respite and managed to kip down for what remained of the night hours.
Though, where Bran’s foot had dislodged from his side, dreams filled the void.
~ ~ ~
“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”
A cold unrelated to the early snowfall salting Winterfell’s bailey passed straight through Jon at hearing himself addressed in such a manner. The voice was kinder than most, but words were sharp as blades properly swung and the stinging cut of insult struck a phantom pain across his heart.
“Did I offend you? Sorry. Dwarfs don’t have to be tactful. Generations of capering fools in motley have won me the right to dress badly and say any damn thing that comes into my head. You are the bastard, though.”
Only the faint din of feasting drunks replied as Jon Snow stood sentinel, wired hilt of a single-handed blade transferring delicate mesh pattern into his palm as he gripped tighter and tighter.
“Yes. I can see it. You have more of the North in you than your brothers.”
And you will have more of my blade in you than these pells if you say bastard one more time, Tyrion Lannister. Short and stubby, easily hacked away at with fendente or soltani; the half man already looked indistinguishable from the splinted training posts all knotted and lumpy. Could Hullen blame him for the err? Could Father? Or might the excuse of too much summerwine and a boy’s foolishness be enough to spare his life and send Jon to service at the Wall should he lobb the imp’s head off in an attempt to achieve grave silence.
“Half brothers,” he corrected. Decided he was too drunk after all to split tooth and skull and simply pouted instead, returning the tourney blade to a nearby storage barrel.
“Let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.”
But it had already been used to hurt him. And just like the flesh, the heart scarred and hardened.