Jon Snow & The Season 5 Finale If Some Brothers In Black Were Actually Black

***The following takes place during the final scene of Game of Thrones Season 5 Finale, Mother’s Mercy.***

In the dark of night Jon Snow wrote by candlelight, his fingers stiff from winter’s cold. “Winter is coming.” Those were the words of his house, the Starks of Winterfell, to which he was born a bastard and lived until his 14th name day. The son of Lord Eddard Stark, affectionately known as Ned to those who loved him most, Jon was a man whose honor had held to that of his father. A shame, he once thought to himself, how he was then born of his father’s disgrace with a maiden, his desire having overtaken his marriage oath if only for one night. Maybe that is why I broke my oath as well, he thought. I am my father’s son.

Jon laid down his quill and breathed into his hands, flexing the joints of his fingers. It wasn’t until he heard the screaming outside that his spirit stirred, longing to leave his body. He had done it before – frightening at first, yet becoming easier each time he left his own body for that of Ghost’s. He felt the grit of ice and snow against his four feet as he peered around the corner of Castle Black to see the commotion. He saw the men; he counted a dozen of them, or thereabouts, huddled outside his tower.

Ser Darryl gestured wildly in the middle of the pack, arguing with – is that Ser Alliser Thorne? Ser Darryl had been sent to the Wall after being falsely accused of theft in Deepwood Motte. Ser Darryl was one of 2 men in Westoros with skin of teak, and he and Sean both served as Brothers. They were both exonerated of their crimes a fortnight after their arrival to Castle Black, but they had already said the words. Jon crept forward, Ghost’s ears perked high.

“Was she into you though? I’m saying though, but was she into you? Cause you acting real jealous right now.” Darryl addressed Ser Alliser, who was growing in frustration. Sean approached, having been woken from his night’s rest. Ser Darryl waved at Sean to come forward. “This dude talking about ‘Lord Commander broke his oath’ and he’s in league with the wildlings.”

“Aye, he did break his oath,” Sean replied as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

“So you wanna kill him? You wanna catch a body on that shit?”

“Whoa, whooooooa. Kill him?” Sean was now awake. “Who talking about killing him?” Sean asked as the crowd looked amongst themselves with unsurety.

wtf he talkin bout

“Right here, Alliser Thorne and them!” yelled Ser Darryl, pointing at Ser Alliser and the Brothers of the Watch behind him.

“He broke his oath!” Ser Alliser said with strength in his voice, although he knew he shouldn’t speak of mutiny so loudly. He knew of those very loyal to Jon, he knew—

“His oath? With the northern white girl, the one who seen less sun than us? The one Little Olly killed when Lord Commander was fighting a battle not 10 feet from here? You mean that oath?”

“They can’t be trusted!” Ser Alliser yelled, this time disregarding the volume of his voice. “Those… wildlings, those… savages! They’ll slit our throats in our sleep, each one of us.” He paced back in forth in anger. “He’s no Lord Commander of mine. She was an oath-breaker, and the bastard, too.”

“My pardon, ser,” a man said, “the wildling girl identified as transloyal.”

“This motherfucker right here!”


Ser Darryl took a step back, stretching his arms to his sides spreading the circle of men around them. “First of all, you can shut all the fuck up, that’s not even the point. Second of all, how you talking about breaking oaths when you plotting to kill the Lord Commander? Do you remember that in your oath? Can we go through the words? Can I see the transcript?”

Sean rallied behind his Brother. “Talking about killing him, you should be thanking him. You heard what they said, the dead bodies turning into – what they call them? What they call them?”

“White Walkers.”

“White-fucking-Walkers, like my Black ass want to deal with that.”

“But the Walkers aren’t real!” Someone yelled from the crowd. He had skin of raw chicken, freshly plucked. “Yeah!” cheered another, “Lies to stay in power!” A third Brother joined in, the mob now encouraged in their resolve. “I don’t trust the liberal media, and – and – their fairy tales!“

“Motherfucker there’s a giant right there!” Ser Darryl pointed to the giant sitting in the corner. He clapped for each syllable: “Right. The. Fuck. There.”

“Yeah man, White Walkers definitely real,” added Sean, befuddled by his Brothers’ most sincere absurdity, those with skin of athlete’s foot cream.

Ser Alliser moved his hand to the hilt at his waist, having had enough of the treachery. “If you people are loyal to the bastard boy,” he said as he drew his sword, “then maybe you deserve to die too.”

“You people? You people?” Sean asked.

“Okay then step to, then! Old craven ass mad cause Lord Commander cut off your man’s head cause y’all can’t follow simple orders!” Ser Darryl added.

billcollector2
“Old punk ass, craven ass, didn’t-ride-for-my-homie-and-let-him-get-decapitated ass n—” A knock at the door jolted Jon back into his own body as it slowly creaked open.

“Enter,” he said, adjusting his tunic and black fur that lay upon his shoulders to keep him warm. It was a messenger, alerting him to come outside. Jon swallowed hard. “Um. I’m good.”

“But my Lord,” the messenger said, “it’s, like, really important.”

“Nnnnnope. Uh-uh.” Jon looked away and shook his head.

“My Lord, there’s this thing I reaaaaaally want to show you.”

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  • Jordan Calhoun is a writer and pop culture savant in New York City. He holds a B.A. in Sociology and Criminal Justice, B.S. in Psychology with a minor in Japanese, and an M.P.A. in Public and Nonprofit Management and Policy. He might solve a mystery, or rewrite history. Find him on Twitter @jordanmcalhoun

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