Heroes/Game of Thrones Fic: Winter is Long
Title: Winter is Long
Fandom: Heroes (spoilers through season 3), Game of Thrones (vague Season 1 spoilers)
Characters: Jon Snow, Adam Monroe
Rating: PG
Content advisory: None
Author’s note: Written for Five Acts, Round Six for aurilly for the prompt “alcohol.”
Summary: At the top of the Wall, Adam relates a bit of what he knows.
Jon wrapped his cloak more tightly around him, but it did little to keep out the bitter chill of the wind sweeping across the top of the Wall. He trained his eyes on the fire at the watchpost as he picked his way across the uneven track.
When he reached the feeble glow, he found the two men on duty tending the fire. Pyp stood eagerly to greet him. The other man-a full brother with light hair and a fine black cloak-Jon did not know.
“You’re welcome to your turn, Jon. I swear it’s getting colder up here by the minute,” Pyp said. “You’d better train that wolf of yours to serve as a blanket.” He clapped Jon on the shoulder and began to shuffle down the path, toward his well-deserved rest.
The man by the fire sat looking at Ghost, who stood legs akimbo, staring right back. “I’ve never seen a direwolf heel like a pet,” the man said. “Do you fancy yourself a Stark?”
“Lord Stark is my father,” Jon snapped.
A knowing smile spread over the man’s face. “You’d be Jon Snow, then.” He pulled a flagon of wine out from under his cloak and offered it with a gloved hand. “Wine?”
“No.” Jon dropped onto the bench Pyp had occupied, as close to the fire as possible. Ghost sat on his haunches at Jon’s side, attention still focused on the black brother. “Wine’s not permitted while we stand watch,” he said stiffly.
The man chuckled. “Freezing to death is not permitted while we stand watch, pup. I’ve no wish to be stiff and slow with cold while we wait up here for a fight that will never come. Besides, it would take more wine than I could carry up here to dull my senses. Pity, really.”
Jon examined the man, who he’d glimpsed briefly this morning in the yard. He held a sword across his lap, and his clothes were of high quality. The sigil on his doublet--a winding line with two straight lines emerging on one side and one on the other-was unfamiliar. “You’re one of the rangers.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it, Lord Snow?”
“I’m no Lord.”
“Nor I. Adam Monroe.” The man extended a hand, which Jon shook.
Jon looked again at the sword. It was slim-not much broader than the blade he’d had made for Arya-and the long pommel bore the same symbol that decorated Adam’s doublet. “I’ve never seen a sword like that.”
“Nor are you likely to.” Adam stood, and pulled the blade from its scabbard. Its sharp edge gleamed red in the flickering firelight. “It’s Valyrian steel, forged long ago by a master craftsman. It has no equal in the Seven Kingdoms. Or beyond.”
Jon found his eyes fixed on it in grim fascination. “Is it the sword of your house?”
“I have no house. We’ve that in common.” He slid the sword back into its scabbard and sat down. “Drink?”
Jon accepted the flagon and took a sip: the wine was surprisingly sweet. “This isn’t the swill they serve in the common hall.”
“A home brew. Old recipe. We old men like our creature comforts.” Adam smiled. “Of course, Mormont doesn’t see it that way. He’ll have me out riding down wildlings until the Wall melts.”
“You’re not so old,” Jon said. “Maester Aemon still does his duty, and he’s seen more winters than any man here.”
“Is that so?” Adam rubbed a gloved finger over the hilt of his sword. “He’s a sad case, the Maester. Locked away not for his own sins, but for his family. I’d rather not be locked away at all, of course, but I’d much rather pay for my own folly than for another man’s.”
“You’re a criminal, then?”
“What do you think?”
Jon considered him. “Your weapon and your clothes are fine, so you’re no common raper or thief. I’ve never seen your sigil, and I’ve studied. I would know your house if it were in the Seven Kingdoms, so you’re probably from the Free Cities. It’s unlikely you’re a younger son sent here to unburden his family. You must have come to take the black on your own.”
“You’re very young, but you’re not as dull as the rest.” Adam threw another log onto the fire. “Still, it’s obvious you have Stark blood. You think in straight lines, in black and white. You believe every man at the Wall is either a criminal or a brave fool like your uncle.”
“Benjen Stark is not a fool.”
“Then where is he, hm?”
Jon looked out into the darkness of the frozen lands beyond the Wall and didn’t answer.
“The Wall is more than a prison and more than a cause, Jon Snow. It’s a convenient place for those in power to dispose of inconveniences. Those who once called me friend decided I was a danger to their schemes, and so locked me away where they needn’t listen to my counsel. They said my ideas were poison.”
“Were they?” Jon asked.
“They were only ideas. Ideas harm no one. Words may, and actions often do, but ideas have no power themselves. They take men, real men, to give them force.” Adam took his wine back and drank deeply. He wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve. “And that is more of my story than I’ve told any man here.”
“Am I meant to thank you for the privilege?”
“I don’t expect it,” Adam said. “But you should thank me for the warning. You’ll need to see the shades of gray if you’re to survive on the Wall.” He pushed himself to his feet. Despite his boasting, his feet seemed unsteady with drink. “Now, I need a piss. Don’t finish the wine without me.”
“I won’t,” Jon said stiffly. He and Ghost watched Adam stumble down the path until he disappeared from the glow of the firelight. Then he settled his hand in Ghost’s fur and stared over the edge of the Wall.
Fandom: Heroes (spoilers through season 3), Game of Thrones (vague Season 1 spoilers)
Characters: Jon Snow, Adam Monroe
Rating: PG
Content advisory: None
Author’s note: Written for Five Acts, Round Six for aurilly for the prompt “alcohol.”
Summary: At the top of the Wall, Adam relates a bit of what he knows.
Jon wrapped his cloak more tightly around him, but it did little to keep out the bitter chill of the wind sweeping across the top of the Wall. He trained his eyes on the fire at the watchpost as he picked his way across the uneven track.
When he reached the feeble glow, he found the two men on duty tending the fire. Pyp stood eagerly to greet him. The other man-a full brother with light hair and a fine black cloak-Jon did not know.
“You’re welcome to your turn, Jon. I swear it’s getting colder up here by the minute,” Pyp said. “You’d better train that wolf of yours to serve as a blanket.” He clapped Jon on the shoulder and began to shuffle down the path, toward his well-deserved rest.
The man by the fire sat looking at Ghost, who stood legs akimbo, staring right back. “I’ve never seen a direwolf heel like a pet,” the man said. “Do you fancy yourself a Stark?”
“Lord Stark is my father,” Jon snapped.
A knowing smile spread over the man’s face. “You’d be Jon Snow, then.” He pulled a flagon of wine out from under his cloak and offered it with a gloved hand. “Wine?”
“No.” Jon dropped onto the bench Pyp had occupied, as close to the fire as possible. Ghost sat on his haunches at Jon’s side, attention still focused on the black brother. “Wine’s not permitted while we stand watch,” he said stiffly.
The man chuckled. “Freezing to death is not permitted while we stand watch, pup. I’ve no wish to be stiff and slow with cold while we wait up here for a fight that will never come. Besides, it would take more wine than I could carry up here to dull my senses. Pity, really.”
Jon examined the man, who he’d glimpsed briefly this morning in the yard. He held a sword across his lap, and his clothes were of high quality. The sigil on his doublet--a winding line with two straight lines emerging on one side and one on the other-was unfamiliar. “You’re one of the rangers.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it, Lord Snow?”
“I’m no Lord.”
“Nor I. Adam Monroe.” The man extended a hand, which Jon shook.
Jon looked again at the sword. It was slim-not much broader than the blade he’d had made for Arya-and the long pommel bore the same symbol that decorated Adam’s doublet. “I’ve never seen a sword like that.”
“Nor are you likely to.” Adam stood, and pulled the blade from its scabbard. Its sharp edge gleamed red in the flickering firelight. “It’s Valyrian steel, forged long ago by a master craftsman. It has no equal in the Seven Kingdoms. Or beyond.”
Jon found his eyes fixed on it in grim fascination. “Is it the sword of your house?”
“I have no house. We’ve that in common.” He slid the sword back into its scabbard and sat down. “Drink?”
Jon accepted the flagon and took a sip: the wine was surprisingly sweet. “This isn’t the swill they serve in the common hall.”
“A home brew. Old recipe. We old men like our creature comforts.” Adam smiled. “Of course, Mormont doesn’t see it that way. He’ll have me out riding down wildlings until the Wall melts.”
“You’re not so old,” Jon said. “Maester Aemon still does his duty, and he’s seen more winters than any man here.”
“Is that so?” Adam rubbed a gloved finger over the hilt of his sword. “He’s a sad case, the Maester. Locked away not for his own sins, but for his family. I’d rather not be locked away at all, of course, but I’d much rather pay for my own folly than for another man’s.”
“You’re a criminal, then?”
“What do you think?”
Jon considered him. “Your weapon and your clothes are fine, so you’re no common raper or thief. I’ve never seen your sigil, and I’ve studied. I would know your house if it were in the Seven Kingdoms, so you’re probably from the Free Cities. It’s unlikely you’re a younger son sent here to unburden his family. You must have come to take the black on your own.”
“You’re very young, but you’re not as dull as the rest.” Adam threw another log onto the fire. “Still, it’s obvious you have Stark blood. You think in straight lines, in black and white. You believe every man at the Wall is either a criminal or a brave fool like your uncle.”
“Benjen Stark is not a fool.”
“Then where is he, hm?”
Jon looked out into the darkness of the frozen lands beyond the Wall and didn’t answer.
“The Wall is more than a prison and more than a cause, Jon Snow. It’s a convenient place for those in power to dispose of inconveniences. Those who once called me friend decided I was a danger to their schemes, and so locked me away where they needn’t listen to my counsel. They said my ideas were poison.”
“Were they?” Jon asked.
“They were only ideas. Ideas harm no one. Words may, and actions often do, but ideas have no power themselves. They take men, real men, to give them force.” Adam took his wine back and drank deeply. He wiped the back of his mouth with his sleeve. “And that is more of my story than I’ve told any man here.”
“Am I meant to thank you for the privilege?”
“I don’t expect it,” Adam said. “But you should thank me for the warning. You’ll need to see the shades of gray if you’re to survive on the Wall.” He pushed himself to his feet. Despite his boasting, his feet seemed unsteady with drink. “Now, I need a piss. Don’t finish the wine without me.”
“I won’t,” Jon said stiffly. He and Ghost watched Adam stumble down the path until he disappeared from the glow of the firelight. Then he settled his hand in Ghost’s fur and stared over the edge of the Wall.