Game of Thrones: Fanfic: The Choosing

[m_findlow]

Title: The Choosing
Fandom: Game of Thrones
Characters: Jon Snow, Maester Aemon
Author: m_findlow
Rating: PG
Length: 1,520 words
Content notes: none
Author notes: Written for randi2204's prompt "Any, any, when you have a choice to make and don't make it, that in itself is a choice" at fic_promptly
Summary: Jon Snow is faced with a difficult choice

Jon's sword slashed heavily through the air.

The others had all left well over an hour ago. The sun was near set and they were tired and hungry, or perhaps just tired of being felled by Jon's sword and thrown into the dirt. Whether he meant it as a training exercise or simply a way to vent some of his frustrations, none could tell. He slashed, partied, ducked and weaved with a furious purpose, and though not as nimble as he might have been before, somehow more powerful and forbidding. Perhaps he'd learned something of how Wildlings fought whilst he'd been travelling with them. Were it not for the serious expression on his face, the others might have taken bets on who would be the first to topple him. As it was though, they were too afraid lest he should hear of it. Not everyone yet sure what he might do.

There were a good many who'd come to respect him before he'd left to go beyond the Wall, and a good many others who he'd earned that right from during their time north, though very few of them had survived. Even of those who held firm to the belief that Jon was not a traitor, and that he'd done as he was commanded by the Halfhand, a good few of those were wavering in their desire to openly support him. No one wanted to risk being on the wrong side of favour, not with a new Lord Commander about to take charge, whoever that might be.

Jon swept across the yard, thrusting at his invisible foe, yet bringing down all the force he could muster, as if they truly were there. He was angry, and couldn't find any other way to quell the rising tide inside him but to take to the yard. He was angry that he was being treated with such distrust, angry at the news of his brother's death, angry at the rift opening up within the castle walls, angry at Lannisters and Freys, Baratheons and Tyrrells, and anyone else who refused their calls for aid.

Moreover he was angry at himself. Had he truly done the right thing, following Quorin Halfhand's orders, worming his way into the Wildling camp, treating with Mance Rayder, lying with Ygritte and then abandoning them all at the first opportunity? Had the Halfhand perhaps known what fate Jon might face should he succeed? Had he been willing to sacrifice Jon for the information he could bring to the Watch, knowing he'd be treated with suspicion and hatred for killing a brother and aiding the enemy?

His leg pained him terribly, though he kept going, darkness continuing to fall around him. Even though he'd been at it for well over two hours, no amount of lunging or stepping would ease the tightness of the muscles in his leg, making it feel as if Ygritte's arrow was still lodged firmly through it. He'd deserved that. Had someone betrayed him in that way, he might have put an arrow through them as well. Were it not for those bloody oaths, he'd have put one in every Lannister and Frey he crossed paths with, avenging fathers, brothers, sisters and mothers all. Blood or not, they were his family, all but gone now.

The sword clanged against the wooden post, a silent sentinel that had become an unwilling target. For those up in the hall, ones with keen hearing might have heard its ring, reminding them that he wasn't there. It was his choice not to cast a vote. It may have been his duty, but no one had said it was his ultimate obligation to do so, Maester Aemon having confirmed it for him. He didn't want to vote because he couldn't stomach the thought of Janos Slynt leading them, Ser Alliser pandering and scheming at his side. Nor could he bring himself to vote for Bowen Marsh or Cotter Pyke, and putting in a protest vote for Three Finger Hobb was more than he could bear. Let his brothers choose their new leader and he would follow dutifully, but he wouldn't bring any of them to power by his own hand. That was assuming they even let him live long enough to serve. Ser Alliser was thoroughly determined to have him executed for treason. If Janos Slynt was voted in, his end was almost a forgone conclusion. The former Gold Cloak held no love for him. Other brothers might have run at the prospect, and he certainly had a right to. There were plenty of fights to be had south of the Wall, where he could begin to avenge his family, but running would only confirm his guilt as far as they were concerned.

'You missed the Choosing, Jon,' came the croaking voice of Maester Aemon, pottering his way across the practice yard towards his apartments.

'I must have lost track of time,' Jon said, knowing that of all people, Maester Aemon was least likely to take offense to his indifference. 'I trust my vote wasn't the deciding one?'

'No. Yet it was notable by its absence, none the less.'

Jon heaved a sigh, feeling at home and a stranger all at once beneath the castle walls.

'Even a blind man can tell it is far too dark to be practicing at swords, Jon.'

'I wasn't tired and I wasn't hungry. Nor do I have a Lord Commander to serve, assuming I still have a place as a steward at all, so what else would you have me do? Do you think the Wildlings will care whether it's light or dark when they come for us?'

He wished that were his reason for still being out here, but truth be told, he could train and have every man along the Wall as skilled as the greatest knights of all time and still it wouldn't be enough. If Tormund could rally the Wildling army once more, they would return full force, breaking through the Black Gate, swarming them, burying them like a horde of ants over a scrap of bread. One hundred thousand men against one hundred. And that was to say nothing of the White Walkers who were coming for them. The might be able to slay a few thousand Wildlings, but White Walkers would be seemingly impossible to stop. Just thinking about it made him want to weep. Stannis wouldn't come to their aid again, not now that he had a foothold in Westeros.

He walked across the yard and slotted the tourney sword back in its placeholder, listening to the satisfying sound of the steel scraping the sides, his leg throbbing with aches and pains that reminded him of why he was still here.

'How long will this go on, Jon?' The Maester asked, his gaze burning into him as if he could see something only blind men could see.

'Until we have a new Lord Commander I should think. Or until the Wildlings return, or the White Walkers come for us, whichever comes first.'

'And you will continue to abstain from the Choosing?'

Jon rounded on the old man in the fading light. 'I did my duty and I might still lose my head for it no matter who ends up Lord Commander. Shall I have the honor of choosing my own executioner? Tell me what you want me to do Maester!'

'You're not a boy anymore, Jon. You're a man of the Night's Watch. Your choices are your own, and your duty is to the Watch, just as it always has been.'

The Maester gave a small sigh of his own. 'You are so much like your father. Unfailingly cautious in all things but war, and then fiercely resolute in that. There are a great many more bruises and aches up in that hall thanks to you. They may not have chosen such a fate, but they will learn from it, just as you have.'

'We're not ready,' Jon confessed. 'We barely made it out alive the first time. War is coming for us and we're sitting here arguing over who should lead.'

Maester Aemon closed the gap between them, laying a hand on Jon's arm.

'Who you choose to lead isn't nearly as important as who you choose to follow.'

Jon frowned, not understanding the Maester's words. To him they seemed to be one and the same thing.

'I think I'll turn in early tonight,' Maester Aemon said. 'Tell Samwell not to worry if you see him.'

Just as the Maester was toddling away, Jon had a burning desire to know one thing.

'Maester Aemon. Do you mind my asking who you voted for?'

The Maester turned and gave him a weak, crooked smile.

'Three Finger Hobb, of course. Don't tell him, though. He still can't figure out who it is that keeps voting for him.'

Jon couldn't figure out if the Maester was lying to avoid telling him, or if this was his warped sense of humour. Something nagged in the back of his mind that the Maester had more up his sleeve then just his arm.