Playing the Game (Game of Thrones)

In the end, Jon chooses to stay. It’s the right call to make. He’s just been going, going, going for so long now. He’s been pushing forward at all costs. Even after venturing into the heart of Valyria and finding out the truth about himself, he’d just kept going. So yeah… it was time to take a moment to smell the roses.
 
But regardless, after making his intentions to stay in Winterfell for a while longer before venturing North clear, Jon finds himself meeting a very young girl with familiar hair and familiar eyes.
 
“I… I named her Jyene, after her mother. But I suppose she’s still young enough… you could give her another name… i-if you wanted.”
 
Its just Jon, Sansa, and young Jyene Snow in their father’s study this time. Daenerys is elsewhere, helping to manage his household as more and more of it arrives in Winterfell by the day along with his armies.
 
Staring down at the cherub-like face before him, Jon can’t help but smile.
 
“No… Jyene is just fine.”
 
Much like her mother, Jyene had brown eyes and dark hair. She was very Northern in that way, and just like Jon, her Targaryen blood had not won out. It was wild to think that just as he was half Targaryen, Jyene was a quarter Targaryen. In that way, the North had had its due, taking its revenge on the Targaryen Dynasty. Both he and his firstborn were as Northern in looks as they came.
 
Reaching out slowly, hesitantly, to avoid startling the young girl, Jon gives her a soft, kind smile.
 
“Hello there, young one. My name is Jon… and I am your father.”
 
He leaves off his other names and all of his titles. This isn’t some court announcement or anything like that. This is a man finally meeting the daughter of the woman he impregnated. While it wasn’t Jon’s fault that he had to leave… he still feels some guilt at Jeyne’s loss. She didn’t deserve to burn out as quickly as she did. She should have had a long, happy life ahead of her.
 
If only he’d known what state he would be leaving her behind in, perhaps he would have fought harder to stay. Perhaps he would have even chosen differently. But then… none of the things that had happened would have happened. All of the suffering he’d managed to prevent in Essos would have continued on in his absence. He never would have discovered his divinity, or at least it wouldn’t have been in the same way.
 
As young Jyene slowly, hesitantly reaches out and places her small hand in his own, Jon is forced to acknowledge that Jeyne Poole’s life and death were not his to command. And all he could do to atone for his part in any suffering she might have experienced, was to be there for the girl she’d left behind.
 
“M-Mama talks about you a lot…”
 
Blinking at the way the girl says that, Jon looks to Sansa in confusion, only to see the Lady of Winterfell blushing in embarrassment.
 
“She… she calls me Mama. Jeyne died when she was little more than a toddler. I’m… I’m the only mother she’s ever known.”
 
What Sansa is leaving unsaid, that she’s not disabused Jyene of the notion, that she’s acted in the exact opposite manner of her own mother in this regard by choosing to accept Jyene as a surrogate daughter… Jon doesn’t miss it. The smile he gives Sansa Stark is blindingly bright, even as he reaches out and takes her hand in his as well, making her fidget and squirm shyly.
 
“Thank you, Sansa. Thank you for being there for her when I could not. And… I think I speak for both myself and Jeyne when I say… she couldn’t ask for a better mother.”
 
Sansa’s breath hitches, and her free hand goes up to her chest as if to still her pounding heart. Jon just gives the hand he’s holding one last comforting squeeze, before turning back to Jyene. He notices the way those brown eyes of hers dart back and forth between him and her ‘mama’, and sees an intelligence in them as she looks at him assessingly for a moment before seemingly finding him to her satisfaction. A broad smile that’s decidedly a mix of both his and Jeyne’s smiles spreads across the little girl’s face, showing off rows of pretty white teeth as she beams up at him.
 
Jon’s heart fills with a sensation of pure and utter bliss, and in that moment he’s not even truly divine anymore. He’s just a man… a man with his daughter and her could-have-been mother. Taking both of Jyene’s hands in his own, Jon licks his lips.
 
“Would you tell me? Would you tell me more about the things you and your Mama have done together?”

 
As Jyene excitedly nods and begins to babble, Jon listens intently. It was a tragedy that Jyene had never gotten to know Jeyne as her mother, because Jon knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jeyne had no doubt loved her daughter with all her heart. But at least the little girl had him and Sansa… and she would soon be part of an even larger family as well. The others, Daenerys and Bellegere chief among them, would dote on her unquestioningly. Of that, Jon had no doubt. Jyene, regardless of what her last name ended up being, would grow up loved and cherished, surrounded by family.
 
For her and for the rest of his children, Jon would set this world to rights. He would fix the broken mess that was Westeros, and he would figure out how to stop the threat he sensed to the North. One way or another… Jon wouldn’t let anyone, or anything hurt his loved ones ever again.
 
-x-X-x-
 
After a long morning spent being regaled with the exploits of young Jyene and a slightly embarrassed but also fondly smiling Lady Stark, Jon finds himself making his way to Winterfell’s Godswood. Specifically, he winds his way through the three acres of forest to find the Godswood’s Weirwood Heart Tree.
 
Even after all of the trouble that Winterfell had suffered in its absence, even after changing hands what feels like three or four times… the Godswood at least, was still intact. That was good, because Jon… Jon needed answers.
 
He wasn’t all-knowing. He didn’t automatically understand everything happening around him. There were limits, even to divinity it seemed. But he’d had an epiphany, overnight. He’d wondered, briefly, why he hadn’t felt the Seven since stepping onto their home turf. But then… this wasn’t there home turf, was it?
 
He was thinking like a Targaryen. He was thinking like an Essosi, really. Over in Essos, they looked across the sea to Westeros and saw nothing but the religious monolith that was the Seven. But Jon had grown up in the North for almost the first full two decades of his life. And the North had never forgotten THEIR gods, for all that Southerners like Catelyn Stark had done their absolute best to bring the ‘Light of the Seven’ to the Northern ‘Savages’.
 
Of course, he wasn’t going to feel the Seven here in the North. This was not the heart of their power. This was the heart of the Old Gods’ power. This was the home of his mother’s gods, of his uncle’s gods, of his grandfather and great-grandfather and going all the way back to the original First Men, thousands and thousands of years ago.
 
Still, it was a little odd, wasn’t it? He hadn’t sensed the Old Gods’ presence either, so far. Why was that? If the Seven had no sway here, this far North, then where were the Old Gods holding them at bay?
 
Coming to a stop in front of the Weirwood Heart Tree at the center of Winterfell’s Godswood, Jon does not kneel. Not because he is a King, or a Khal, or whatever title one might want to foist upon him at this point. No, he does not kneel, because he is a divinity in his own right. Instead, he bows his head respectfully to the Weirwood, able to sense at least something different about the tree in front of him compared to any other three in the Godswood.
 
Reaching out metaphysically, Jon searches for what he’s looking for, eyes drifting shut as he studies his surrounded with a different sort of sense. Frowning, he pushes deeper, further… and slowly but surely uncovers the truth of this place and of the North and its Gods in general. The Old Gods are not like any God he’s heard of or encountered before. But then, he should have known that to begin with. Once again, he’s blinded by his own hubris, by his own expectations formed from years of traveling across Essos.
 
The Old Gods are not like the Seven, nor like the Red God R’hllor, and certainly not like the fragments of the Valyrian Gods he encountered in old Valyria in the form of Balerion and Meraxes. They are not divine presences in the conventional sense. The Old Gods… aren’t gods at all.
 
Instead, the Old Gods of the North are… the North itself. They are the nature all around Jon. They are the trees that surround him on all sides. The ground beneath his feet. The rivers frozen over on the surface, but still flowing in their depths. They are even the people and the things that those people make. The Old Gods are every stone of Winterfell, every wooden beam cut down and hewn by human hands. They are even in the descendants of the First Men. They are Sansa, they are Jyene… they are him.
 
It’s a little startling to realize, and somewhat amusing, to say the least. Because in the end, despite being a nascent Dragon God in his own right, Jon can’t help but feel very, very small in that moment. And yet, it’s a good feeling. No wonder the Seven have no hold here in the North, in spite of multiple attempts by their Andal Servants to push their influence throughout all of Westeros, including its Northern Region.
 
Its all but impossible for any conventional God or Goddess to usurp the Northern Old Gods. One would need to tear them out, root and stem. Just marrying into the Northern lines and diluting them with Andal blood… it would never work. Because every single Northerner, man and woman, had the smallest bit of their Gods within them. The blood would ALWAYS run true. In the end, any child born of a Northerner and an Andal would be more Northerner than Andal.
 
In fact… the corners of Jon’s mouth quirk upwards in a sardonic grin as he digs a little deeper and finds out its even more than that. Any child born in the North at all, no matter where their parents came from, was born with a piece of the North’s unique nature within them. Even Andals beget of two Andals… would become First Men in nature.
 
Amusing, to say the least. Perhaps Jon should have been alarmed, perhaps it should have upset him… but in truth, it was comforting in a way. It was almost nice, really, to know that the world wasn’t so small that he could no longer be surprised. And it was even nicer to know that his eventual conflict with the Seven… because there would be conflict between him and that Pantheon, Jon was sure of that, would not risk the North.
 
The Seven might be able to take him down, he knew not if he was powerful enough to win against them yet, but they would NEVER have the North. Not in a million years.
 
Letting out a low, pleased sigh, Jon begins to pull back his senses from the Weirwood in front of him… only to pause as he feels something akin to fear from the thrumming power suffusing the land. Its not quite that direct… as previously mentioned, the Old Gods of the North are not some of the pantheons of conscious divinities like the Seven or some of the Essosi Gods and Goddesses. But he still gets this sense of unease… directed not towards the South, but towards the North.
 
Frowning, Jon solemnly nods his head as he lets out a low sigh.
 
“I know… I can sense it. The Darkness… we’ll all have to work together to push it back, won’t we?”
 
He gets a sense of… approval, causing a wan smile to spread across his face.
 
“Heh, not to worry. I’m here to help.”
 
-x-X-x-
 
“So then, you’re the Prodigal King everyone’s talking about. Heard you left a bastard. Now you return with more titles then most kneelers on this continent ever get, and a couple of armies besides.”

The first words spoken to him by the Free Folk’s Envoy cause Jon’s eyebrows to rise high on his head. He’s not expecting the Wildling Woman who’s staring him down to be so… educated in her words. Smiling slightly, Jon just inclines his head at the somewhat blatant disrespect she’s showing him.
 
“I am he. Westeros needs me… so here I am.”
 
Scoffing, the beautiful wildling, with long blonde hair the color of honey reaching all the way down to her waist, shrugs her shoulders.
 
“The name is Val. I am the Ambassador for the Queen-Upon-The-Wall, Queen Ygritte. The Free Folk have no quarrel with you or yours. Do you have quarrel with us?”
 
Jon hums at that, pretending to consider her words.
 
“… You say you have no quarrel with me or mine, but as you yourself stated, I am of the North, recently returned here. What you see around you is mine. The North is mine, my people, and I will protect them.”
 
Val grits her teeth at that.
 
“We don’t have quarrel with the people South of the Wall either. Not unless they make quarrel with us. Told the Lady Stark that. We won’t kneel to her or anyone else, but we also don’t want to fight. We’re just trying to prepare for what’s to come.”
 
Her last few words are so frigid, so standoffish, that its clear from both them and the way she tenses up that she’s expecting him to make a mockery of her concerns, of what she’s saying. When Jon just nods seriously, she looks downright surprised.
 
“Ambassador Val… I am aware that the true threat in the North is not your people. I promise you… I want to help the Free Folk fight it.”
 
The look of doubt on Val’s face makes it clear she’s not sure whether she believes him or not. Jon has to consider what to do here. Should he unveil his divinity to this Free Folk Woman, to make her truly see who and what he is? Or should he continue to masquerade as nothing beyond a conquering warlord for a little while longer, since that’s clear what she expects of him.
 
It might be easier for her if she doesn’t have to grapple with the fact that she’s in the presence of a god. But then again, it also might make it easier for him to get what he wants from this exchange…

-x-X-x-

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