Where caged Wolves lie - Part I

[Darth Vader]

After awakening from his dream

Jon awoke from his slumber with a start, gasping for a breath of air.

He slowly pulled himself into a seating position on the bed, the blankets crinkled and creased from where he was laying. Jon brought his hands to his face, whipping the gloves off as he brushed the fatigue from his eyes, and wiped off a mat of sweat running down his forehead. Then, the Lord Commander surveyed his surroundings once again.

As he had expected, he was still sat within the confinement of his barren, plain cell room. Nothing had changed from the time when Jon had fallen asleep. The same sink, the same bed and the same chamber pot all stood upright in the same places. The room's saturation had altered, though. It brightness was a lot more dull and moody. Jon looked over his shoulder to peer through the thin slant in the wall.

It had struck nighttime, as he had anticipated.

Jon sighed. He couldn't have slept for more than a few hours, at most. Or had it been longer? Time was difficult to pinpoint in this narrow box. Was it the evening, still, or had the clocks already passed midnight?

Jon placed a hand at his temple. This was the torture of it all, then. Being locked away to rot and turn mad, not knowing what time of the day it was, when you would get out. The bastard gritted his teeth. It was a clever kind of torture, he admitted to himself.

Jon stood to his feet, and he began to pace. No, no... he couldn't lose his head like this, he refused to. He had to think, the pieces of the puzzle had to fit together somehow. He must remember.

Jon's mind paced back through what it still knew. He was Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, for a time, voted by his brothers as they saw tactical genius and strategical wit within him. He was able to hold the wall against a hundred thousand wildlings and two giants, after all. All by himself. Jon grinned as he reminisced on this feat. His greatest victory, indeed. And he was not the only to bask in that victory, the Watch did just as much. They'd accomplished quite the feat, after all. A hundred men had bested an army ten times bigger than themselves.

But, no... that wasn't enough to go on. That brought him nowhere closer to the truth. The conclusion of his rather unfortunate situation. Of where he was, how he got here, how he could find a way back home. His only place was at the Wall.

Jon tried to remember his family. Ahh, yes... there was his brother, Robb. His best friend and his greatest rival. He could never bring himself to feel hatred toward him. Then little Rickon, who was never quite old enough to understand what being a bastard meant. And there was Bran. Jon could only remember how'd he fell from that tower, and lost mobility in both of his legs from the impact. He always wanted to be a knight, not a cripple... Jon reminisced wearily. And then there was Sansa, who Jon had never clicked with as well as his other siblings. She was old and mature enough to know and understand the stigma that came with what Jon was.

Jon's thoughts drifted over to his lord father. Eddard Stark of Winter, long-faced and dark-haired. Many people had pointed out the striking resemblance Jon bore to his father whilst making small talk. You may not have my name, but you have my blood... the last words his father had spoke to him echoed in his brain. You are a Stark, and do not forget that.

Lady Catelyn, Lord Eddard's wife and (in technicality) Jon's stepmother would disagree with his fathers words if she heard them, Jon remembered. She despised him, only because he was another woman's son. We don't want you here the bitterness and anger in her voice bit away at Jon's conscious. You are not one of us. Jon felt as weak as a small child again as he recalled how cruel and undermining that woman had been to him his whole life growing up in Winterfell. How was it a sin to be born?

Jon's eyes snapped wider as it all slowly came back to him.

Suddenly, he remembered.

His father, beheaded as though he were a common brigand at the order of a false king... a long and terrible war... his brothers, slain...

His first love, Ygritte, killed by Jon's own hands...

Bitter anger and sadness pierced through Jon's being as the memories flooded back to him. As he recalled all the horrors that had happened to his family, all that he had done, everything that he had seen and heard...

Jon wanted out.

The Lord Commander rushed for the steel door of his cell, banging his fist against it, ramming his weight into it with no hope of it budging. "Hey?!" he called. No answer. He continued to push and knock against the steel, hoping someone on the outside would hear him. "Let me out!" he almost demanded it. And still, no reply came.

Jon grunted, spinning away from the door in frustration, his fists balled up. He kicked his fur-cloak away from his with his foot as he passed up, marching back over to the bed, flopping down onto it and staring at the wall.

Jon wouldn't sleep that night. He'd only lie awake, wracking with regret and self-doubt at how hard the truth of his reality had struck him. He felt weak, vulnerable, scarred...

He felt as though he wanted to sob and weep for those he had lost, yet all his tears were frozen up.