Hey everyone.
So, I'm not fully out of my hiatus just yet. Still need to handle a few things on my end, but I'm finally at the point to where I'm comfortable balancing my time writing and time with my GF and her devil child (know that I say that with all the love in the world dear).
Currently, this story is a "one-shot", though depending on reader feedback, SkyRig and me will expand it into an actual story.
Let us know what you think.
Also, I have a ko-fi. There are no subscription plans, and I am not gonna beg people for money. Donate if you feel like it. There ARE plans where I'm open for commissions, but not at this time.
Father,
I do not know whether you will receive this letter, but I pray it reaches you all the same.
I have so many things I wish to tell you, but first and foremost, I wish to apologize for my sudden leave. I could give you a myriad of excuses, but the simple truth is that I could stomach the shame no longer. You've given me so much, a bastard and stain on your honor. I could never hope to repay the kindness you showed me at the expense of your relationship with Lady Stark.
I've heard the other lords and even some of the household servants speak ill of you in hushed whispers and closed doors, of how you disgraced your house and betrayed your marriage. I want to believe I am not the root of these whispers, yet each time I hear them, I barely muster the strength to reign myself in. I do not wish to trouble you any further.
I confess that my leaving is not only motivated in the hopes the slights made against you will cease. I wish to see more of the world. You've always told me my future is in Winterfell and warned me against joining the Night's Watch, but how am I to be a man, much less your son, if I remain ignorant? Admittedly, I was not thinking things through when I made my plans to flee Winterfell and make for White Harbour.
Had I known I would wander aboard a merchant ship bound for the Sunset Sea of all places…
I struggle to explain in full, yet I fear I will run out of ink before we reach my tale's end. At the very least, know that I am well, and that I am safe.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
Once again, I do not know whether this letter has reached your hands. Perhaps I am wasting paper and ink writing to you, yet I dare to hope you are reading my words. It will have been a month since I sent the first letter to the port master and carrier.
To start, the stories told by the Lords of the Lonely Night are not entirely made of tall tales. There are lands that exist beyond the Sunset Sea, though my being here can be nothing short of luck. The merchant ship I boarded was caught in a horrid storm so violent many of the passengers and deckhands were thrown overboard. I do not know how we survived or did not join the fate of the doomed expeditions who dared to brave the Sunset Sea before, but I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
This land is called Fódlan. Looking at the maps, it is a continent the size of Essos, or what map makers managed to put to parchment. The only reason it has not fully been mapped is because of tensions with a country known as Almyra, whose navy is said to be the greatest in the world. I know not the truth, save for the curses and thinly veiled contempt. In truth, it seems the people of Fódlan do not look kindly upon outsiders. I am lucky an entertainment troupe took pity upon me and offered me shelter and the opportunity to learn their language.
I've also learned that magic thrives in this place. I understand so little of it. Even now, I doubt my eyes. Yet the truth cannot be denied. I can scarcely imagine the reaction of Septa Mordane, were she to read this.
I could speak of the wondrous things I've seen in the time spent since I sent off my last letter… Yet all I want to know is whether my letters have even reached you.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
Words cannot describe the joy I felt when I received your letter. I only wish it had not taken months for the courier ship to arrive at White Harbour.
I also apologize for not sending another letter to you until now. My time with the Mittelfrank Opera Company has been tumultuous as it is hectic. I've developed a newfound respect for theatre and opera troupes. I never realized how difficult it could be to create dresses and props from scratch. Septa Mordane may be pleased to know that even magic cannot surpass the might of the needle, if you will excuse my attempt at humor.
One of the members of the troupe, a kind girl named Dorothea, has taken it upon herself to "show me the ropes" as it were. She's a hard worker, and quite popular among the nobility. I must admit, I feel some fondness for Dorothea. In a way, she reminds me of Robb, albeit more…
free in how she expresses herself. She desires to one day marry someone of wealth and status, something I cannot begrudge her for in the time spent in Enbarr.
I promised myself I would explain Fódlan proper, hence why I've taken it upon myself to purchase a map of the "known world" surrounding the continent as it were. The eastern lands are largely unknown to any not of Almyra and Morfis, the south-west continent below Almyra. To the far north is Sreng, a country of "savages" or so I've heard. To the east is Albinea, a land described in the same tone as the North, and Brigid, a collection of islands. They call it an archipelago…I believe that is how it is spelled? Further east is Dagda, another land I am still unfamiliar with.
The land of Fódlan is dominated by three ruling countries; the Adrestian Empire, the Kingdom of Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance. Adrestia is the country Enbarr calls home and is its capital. From what I've managed to learn in my time studying this land's history, the Empire was founded over a thousand years ago and once spanned the entirety of Fódlan until civil war broke out, leading to the creation of Faerghus, and years later, the Alliance. Much like Westeros and its great houses, the greatest authority are the noble houses sworn to the Hresvelg royal family, though it seems the Emperor's power has waned in recent years.
I owe an apology to Maester Luwin for being a poor attentive student. Please do not tell Arya or Theon. I feel they may be insufferable if we ever reunite.
The Kingdom of Faerghus is the land of knighthood. Their values remind me greatly of the North and the westerlands. They hold a great deal of honor, and they're said to produce the greatest knights ever known. It's ruled by the Blaiddyds, though tragedy struck the royal family years ago. They call it the Tragedy of Duscur. The king traveled to a foreign land, and he and many others lost their lives. The nobles of the kingdom blamed the people of Duscur and went to war. I hesitate to express my feelings as I am still learning more of Fódlan and its neighbors, but if I may speak frankly, what happened to the people of Duscur is abhorrent. Even if Faerghus was justified, the stories I've heard… I dread to think of it further, father.
The Leicester Alliance is a peculiar country in that it is not ruled by a king or an emperor. Rather, it is ruled by a coalition of nobles who've sworn themselves to none but themselves. They are led by the counterparts of Westeros' great houses, the Five Great Lords of the Roundtable. They hold themselves to the standard of nobility, but the Alliance is said to host the greatest mercantile operations than anywhere else on the continent. They've also had frequent desputes with Almyra. Based on what I've learned at the moment, I feel Almyra is the Dorne of Fódlan.
There is still more wish to tell you, but I've nearly run out of ink, and I've few papers left to write with. With any luck, this letter will find its way to you as the last two had.
Also, father, please do not apologize. The decision to leave Winterfell was mine and mine alone. My greatest regret is not realizing the pain my departure would cause you and my half-siblings. Please tell them they are in no way at fault, and if the gods old and new permit it, we will meet again.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
Once more, I apologize for not having sent a letter to you sooner. A great many things have happened since I wrote to you last. In my haste to tell you of Fódlan, I neglected to speak of the Officer's Academy. It is the strangest place I've ever heard of. Imagine the age-old practice of fosterage, where lords send their children to train and study under the tutelage of another lord and their house, yet in addition to the art of warfare, they learn the art of the written word as though they studied to become maesters.
I've only recently learned the Officer's Academy hosts not only lords-to-be, but even commoners. So long as one has the recommendation of a lord or the coin to pay for tuition, anyone can study there.
Dorothea, the girl I spoke about in my last letter, received a letter of recommendation from a noble. Oddly, it seems I've also received such a letter. I've become something of a curiosity at the Mittelfrank Opera Company, a foreigner from an unknown land beyond the "eastern fangs", the stretch of sea between Almyra and Morfis. Evidently, passage through there is quite treacherous, which perhaps may explain why so few of our ships never return from the Sunset Sea. I am now certain the merchant ship's arrival here nearly a year ago was a stroke of fortune, but I digress.
The noble who offered Dorothea recommendations pulled me aside one day. He tested me on my knowledge of Fódlan and about Westeros. As your letters make no mention of exchanged words between Fódlan and Westeros, I assume neither land has approached the other despite how frequent the courier ships travel back and forth between us. He seemed surprised and intrigued when I told him of the North, though I fear I may have offended him when I spoke of matters involving religion. The people of Fódlan believe in a single god, a Goddess and her disciples, the greatest among them being the Saint Seros, the supposed patron of House Hresvelg. Still, I supposed I made an impression as I was offered a letter of recommendation.
It is a great opportunity, especially for a bastard like me. Dorothea urges me to accept, but I must tell you of my doubts. I spoke how I wish to see more of the world, to become a better man, but this is far and beyond anything I expected. What if I make a mistake and offend one of the nobles there? What if they don't accept me, not for being a bastard but for being a "heathen"?
Father…what should I do?
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
I hope my letters to you and my siblings found their way safely to Winterfell.
It has been a few months since I took your advice to heart and accepted the opportunity to study at Garreg Mach Monastery. I admit, I did not expect a place like the Officer's Academy to be part of a monastery, but perhaps it is something I should have expected. The teachings of Saint Seros are known far and wide in Fódlan, and the number of people who don't believe are mainly those who live on the neighboring lands and continents.
Even more surprising who is the "seneschal" of the Officer's Academy. Archbishop Rhea's position is equal to that of a High Septon, if not greater. I saw her for myself during the opening ceremony, where prospective students were lead to a great hall. Words cannot describe her beauty, father. I would swear she is the Maiden, incarnate.
Please do not tell this to Theon. I fear he may be insufferable in his next few letters, if not uncouth.
For the most part, there does not appear to be any great discrimination regarding one's birth. Quite frankly, I am surprised by how accepting people are when I tell them I am a bastard child.
…I must speak plain, father. The time away from Winterfell is time I've spent thinking. I have come to a great realization, one that rends my heart worse than any dagger could accomplish.
I told you my greatest regret was failing to realize how I hurt you and my siblings for leaving without warning. I now realize my greatest regret was taking everything for granted. I once spoke how I could not bear hear people slander you because of me, yet now I realize the truth of it now.
I am an ungrateful cur.
You told me how you accepted the whispers and curses thrown your way because of your moment of weakness, and how you would brave them and prove how their words are ultimately naught but wind. I will never be able to thank you for such understanding, such kindness, yet I must confess I never considered how lucky I was to have you for a father. I was too self-centered, too focused on my own station, to realize I was more fortunate than others in my position. Few bastards could claim their sire would adopt and love them equally as their trueborn half-siblings.
The rest of the letter is marred with tearstains and is barely legible.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
To my dear half-siblings,
I hope my letter finds you well. And I sincerely hope your response isn't an inch thick this time.
The customs and culture of Fódlan still confuse me, even though I've spent a year here. I wrote to you all how the nobility and even the royal families care little for gender, only merit and blood, and it would appear the same holds true in regards to the staff positions here at the Officer's Academy. Archbishop Rhea recently hired a new professor, who is now the head of the Black Eagle House. A female sellsword named Byleth Eisner.
I believe you will like her, Arya, if not for the fact she is bar none the most skilled warrior here I've met. Even Lady Edelgard sings her praises.
Its only been close to a tenday since Professor Byleth joined the academy, so I am not familiar with her character beyond her skill with a blade. At best, I know her father, Sir Jeralt Eisner, was an accomplished knight and is spoken of in the same tone as Ser Arthur Dayne. I find it odd that Sir Eisner retake his post among the Knights of Seiros, yet his daughter became an instructor? I do not wish to speak ill of someone I've only known for a short time, but even I can tell Professor Byleth is not an ideal choice as an instructor. Perhaps Archbishop Rhea sees something in her that others do not.
In regards to my classmates, I've spoken of Lady Edelgard at length in my last letter, so let me tell you my thoughts of the others.
Hubert von Vestra is the heir of House Vestra and has been Lady Edelgard's confidant since childhood. He reminds me of the tales I've heard of the Bloodraven and his days serving King Daeron II and his successors before he was sent to the Wall for breaking Guest Rights. He clings to Lady Edelgard like a shadow, and his bearing is intense, as though he is already a lord and not merely an up-and-coming noble. He holds us to a great standard, and I think none save Lady Edelgard can hope to match it. At the very least, I can say the future Emperor will have no better aid than Hubert.
Ferdinand von Aegir is the son and heir of Adrestia's Prime Minister. I do not ordinarily judge people harshly, but I must be blunt. He is INSUFFERABLE. He speaks of the pains of his station and how nobles must hold themselves to a higher standard, and I admire him for that, but by the Old Gods, he espouses his rhetoric so much that I am convinced he loves the sound of his own voice! Do not get me started on his "rivalry" with Lady Edelgard. Beyond that, however, I feel we would find a dear friend of Ferdinand. He would fit well in the North for his deep care for the smallfolk.
Linhardt von Hevring is the son of a count, and if I am being frank, he would be at home at the Citadel. I dare say he could become an archmaester in under five years. Whenever he's not sleeping or dozing off, he spends the majority of his time at the library reading book after book or discussing theories and topics with another teacher by the name of Hanneman. We've spoken a few times, and he's quite amicable, but he's so absent minded I fear he might end up falling asleep in his own bowl of soup if left unsupervised.
Meanwhile, Caspar von Bergliez is a rowdy boy, one year shy of his majority. He's the second son of a count, and he has no indoor voice. Whenever he gets excited, he tends to scream at the top of his lungs. Unlike Linhardt, he spends most of his days in the training field. He was one of the first people to approach me when I joined the Black Eagles, asking me how Northern Westerosi fought and who was the strongest among us. You'll be happy to know, Robb, I named you one of the better swordsmen. For your sake, I hope your skills are up to par.
And in case you're wondering, yes, this is payback for that prank you helped Arya with on my two and ten nameday.
I've told you all about Dorothea, I believe. I feared she would not fare well in the monastery, but it would seem my fears are unfounded. She's already formed quite the social gathering while tempting the hearts of the male nobles. At least those who are not married or have no standing to be engaged. While I understand her desire for companionship, I truly hope she doesn't take things too far. I've seen the way some look at her. The only reason they haven't acted is because of Lady Edelgard. I think that development took us both by surprise. It's not everyday you hear how a member of royalty befriended someone of lower standing.
Bernadetta von Varley is a bit of an odd duck. She's the only daughter of Count Varley, a man who based on reputation is neither well-liked nor respected. The few times I've heard her speak of her father paint a grim picture, which might explain why she seems to shrink and avoid just about everything. She would rather spend her days hiding under a desk or in the safety and comfort of her dorm room. Despite her skittish attitude, Bernadetta is quite the archer. I saw her hit no less than a dozen bullseyes in the yard yesterday.
Lastly, there is Petra Macneary, granddaughter of Orlan Macneary, the king of Brigid. She attends the Officer's Academy as an exchange student, though I believe there is more to it. Brigid was annexed by the Empire years ago. I thought her the same as Theon and a hostage, yet Lady Edelgard and Hubert treat her being here as if she came to Garreg Mach for fosterage. Like Caspar, she was one of the first to approach me. She heard I am also not from Fódlan and asked for my help in learning the language better. Humorously, she writes Adrestian Common better than speaking it.
There are some other students at the academy who've piqued my interest, but I have neither the time nor the ink to write about them. Perhaps in my next letter.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Robb,
It's been two months now since I joined the Officer's Academy. In that time, I've met all manner of people, from smallfolk to nobles, and as of recently, befriended the infamous Claude von Riegan. I included a correspondence from him in my letter to father. I've not looked it over myself out of respect for Claude's privacy, but his flippancy makes me worry. That is not the reason I write to you.
The reason is Felix Hugo Frauldarius.
He's a student from the Blue Lions and hails from Faerghus, yet he is by far the most infuriating man I've ever met! He's incredible with a sword, perhaps a close second to Professor Byleth, but by the Old Gods, he's as blunt as a whetstone and the social skills of a lizard-lion! He addresses his prince with such rudeness it's amazing he still has his head attached. I understand he and Prince Dimitri are old friends, but not even the sanest Targaryen would put up with such verbal abuse. I've tried to reprimand him like some others in his house, but he brushes off my words.
That is to say nothing of his views of knighthood.
I try to be understanding, to not judge as I am a stranger in a strange land, but Felix tries my patience. I do not know what to do. Should I try to intervene? Try to understand him? Truthfully, I don't know why Felix irks me beyond his attitude.
I don't suppose you have any advice for your wayward brother?
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Arya,
As promised, I've included correspondence from Petra and that combat manual Professor Byleth parted with. You'll be surprised to know the professor was willing to give it to me for nothing. Sir Eisner merely asked that you take good care of the manual. That thing is at least a century old, considering how flimsy the bindings are. In regards to your request about sending you a sword, I'm afraid I must side with Lady Catelyn on this. While I will happily support you as my dearest sister, I hesitate to gift you a blade forged here in Fódlan. The Killing Edge in particular is deadly sharp. Even a mere graze was enough to leave a bleeding wound.
I could send you a practice blade, but that's as far as I am willing to go. Truthfully, I think you would like it. I haven't read up on the native fauna, but the wood is surprisingly sturdy. I holds well against steel.
Also, I've already written to father, but it will be a long time before you receive another letter. Recent troubles have caused trouble for the postmaster and courier services. A shame, that. I've heard that Archbishop Rhea was open to correspondence with his Grace.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
I've decided to pen a collection of letters to send off when the courier services resume and ships sail for Westeros again.
It's been roughly six months since I joined the Officer's Academy. It amazes me still how swiftly Fódlan's ships sail across the oceans. If only Brandon the Shipwright had such ships, but I digress.
Things have become quite hectic as of late. So much has happened, I don't know where to start. The Black Eagles have been assigned several missions, and so far, we've been thrown from one battle to another. Recently, one of my classmates was kidnapped by a brigand calling himself the Death Knight. A name well-earned by the design of his armor and martial skill. Having fought alongside Professor Byleth, I can say with confidence she would have few rivals in Westeros. I could write pages describing the sight of the two crossing blades, were it not for the fact the Death Knight held one of my own classmates hostage.
The student in question is Flayn, the younger sister of Archbishop's aid and assistant, Seteth. I fail to understand why anyone would kidnap her. She's a devout follower of Fódlan Goddess and spends her time assisting Manuela in the infirmary or assisting the students and professors. Stranger still is the Death Knight's apparent lord, the Flame Emperor. He only appeared to announce himself and to save the Death Knight before Professor Byleth could gain the upper hand.
The only theory anyone can come up with is Flayn's Crest.
In a prior letter, I told you about the Crests, how they are "divine gifts" of Fódlan's goddess…yet the more I learn about this land's culture, the more I see how obsessive people are over them. Do you recall my letter about Sylvain's brother, Miklan, and how he was disinherited for his lack of Crest?
Divine gifts or no, these Crests are not worth shedding blood over. Perhaps Lady Edelgard has a point. Perhaps the Crests are more a source of misfortune than they are a blessing.
Forgive me. This isn't something I should be writing to you about.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
Odd as it is to say, this most recent month, the month of the Wyvern Moon, is probably the least stressful time we've had. Most of our days are spent battling among ourselves and testing our abilities in preparation for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion; a recreational event of the climactic battle between Adrestia and Faerghus hundreds of years ago when the latter broke away from the Empire.
The Black Eagles also have a few new students. After the madness involving the Death Knight last month, Felix Hugo Fraldarius decided to transfer to Professor Byleth's class alongside Ashe Ubert. It seems they've taken in by Professor Byleth, though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. She seems to have this strange pull. I can't really describe it.
The Professor is an odd one. Whenever she isn't teaching classes, holding training sessions or seminars, she spends time advising her students. I've spoken to her a few times myself, seeking advice on how to improve my swordplay in preparation for a swordsmanship tourney. We spent most of the day in the yard, or rather I spent most of the day being her training dummy. I recall hearing how she earned the nickname "Ashen Demon". I think I understand how she earned that name. My welts and bruises prove it.
I must confess, the Professor interests me somewhat. She's a sellsword, but the archbishop trusts her greatly. In the short time she's been here at the monastery, she's even earned the trust and admiration of her colleagues. I cannot deny she has this…"pull" about her. There is something about her that draws you in. Whether it's charisma or something else, I don't know.
We've spoken before. Actually, she happened upon me as I was sending off my letter to you two months ago. She was quite curious to know more about Westeros, though I suppose the same can be said about most of the students at the Officer's Academy.
As for Felix, I took yours and Robb's advice in trying to find common ground, though it was highly unpleasant. I think Felix appreciated my attempts as much as I did, but he was at least somewhat forthcoming after I defeated him in a spar. His brother Hugo died in the Tragedy of Duscur, defending Prince Dimitri from would-be assassins. His father, Lord Fraldarius, said he died a glorious death. Felix disagreed.
While it does not excuse his behavior…I suppose I can understand where he's coming from. To die in the name of honor and duty is something I've thought about for a while since I joined the Black Eagles. I would happily offer my sword for such a cause, but whenever I think of how others might tell me you or Robb died with honor, my chest burns hot, and my throat grows tight.
I don't think I'll ever come to like Felix…but at the very least, I feel as though I understand him better now.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
It has been two months since I wrote this letter. Something horrible happened.
Sir Jeralt Eisner, Professor Byleth's father, is dead. Killed by one of our own. The mood at Garreg Mach is somber, with nary a smile to be seen. As I write this letter, the sky remains cloudy and gray. The Professor rarely leaves her father's quarters anymore, not that I blame her. The only one who's gone to speak with her is Lady Edelgard.
A memorial service is to be held tomorrow.
…I miss you. You, my siblings, Old Nan, Ser Rodrik, and even Lady Catelyn, frigid as her silence may have been.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
I do not know how to even start this letter. Even as I put together my thoughts and put pen to paper, I struggle to comprehend what transpired. I've seen the power of Crests and the mighty power of the Hero Relics, but…
this? Earlier this month, the Black Eagles set out to punish the blackguard responsible for Sir Eisner's death. It turns out Monica was an assassin by name of Kronya and was in league with Solas, the bastard responsible for the chaos that overtook Remire Village.
Solas cast some sort of spell to trap the Professor, claiming we would never see her again. She proved him a liar by freeing herself, but she returned changed. Her hair and eyes are just like the archbishop's, and the Sword of the Creator now glows brighter than any other Relics I've seen.
Professor Byleth claims Fódlan's goddess gave her power, but even she's not sure what her new changes mean. She seems to be the same woman I met when I enrolled at Garreg Mach with Dorothea, but I can't help but feel uneasy. I feel this is the start of something, but I do not know what comes next. There's a tension in the air I've never felt before.
I've noticed Archbishop Rhea looking at the professor oddly. The look she gives her reminds me of the looks Sansa gave Lady Catelyn whenever she showed off her sewing. Perhaps I am just tired and am seeing things, or perhaps I'm overthinking things. It's certainly no secret the archbishop has had some kind of fascination with the professor.
Our roster of classmates has grown again. Mercedes of the Blue Lions has joined us alongside Leonie, Lorenz, and Lysithea from the Golden Deer. I'm not surprised seeing as how they've expressed an interest in joining Professor Byleth's class for the last few months. Leonie has been my sparring partner for some time, and her transfer couldn't have happened at a better time. I don't know what lit a fire under Fraldarius, but he's been battle hungry for
weeks.
For the moment, things feel calm. But I fear they won't last for much longer.
I hope I'm merely imagining things.
Yours,
Jon Snow
…
Father,
Fódlan now stands at the dawn of war. The drums beat even as I write this letter, unsure whether you will ever receive it.
I do not know what stories you will have heard should word reach Westeros' shores, but at the very least, let me tell you the story that I know. Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg has declared war on the Church of Seiros and all those who follow them, accusing them of abusing the allure and power of the Crests for their selfish gain and controlling the masses. The people's blind faith in Saint Seiros' teachings and her dogma allowed them to amass power, enough to rival the very nations who subscribe to their religion and teaching.
Whether Edelgard is right to accuse them of corruption, I do not know. I've met people of the church who are genuinely good people. People aware of the faults and failings of the Church of Seiros, how people took advantage of others' faith, and wished to change things for the better. Claude spoke how he wanted a world of unity, a future where all in Fódlan stood united. Edelgard told us we did not have to follow her into war, that we could follow our own paths.
I chose to follow her and Professor Byleth.
The professor is someone I've learned to place my trust in. She has been not only my instructor and teacher, but someone I dare call a dear friend. When I told her of my doubts and fears, she was the one who encouraged me to take a step forward. To become the man I wanted to be. When I told her of my selfish motivations, how I left Winterfell out of shame, she did not judge me. She told me to step back and look at my past, to find things worthy of protecting.
She did not judge me for being a bastard or a craven.
And so I march into war with her and the Emperor of Adrestia.
Father…are you disappointed in me? Are you ashamed to know your bastard might have made a mistake? Truthfully, it is not your disappointment that I fear. What I fear is that I may never know what you think of me.
However you feel, please know one thing.
I am proud.
I am proud to have been your son.
Yours,
Jon Snow of House Stark
…
Lord Stark,
It has been a year since I wrote the letter stating my intentions. One year since the war Edelgard has come to call the Unification of Fódlan began.
Lately, I have been reminded of the stories you told us when my siblings and I were younger, how you rode off into war with the future King Baratheon when Aerys II Targaryen demands yours, King Robert's, and Ser Jon Arryn's heads. I remember how the guardsmen who fought alongside you spoke of the glories and battles of war, how they made names for themselves and fought with pride and honor in the name of House Stark and the North.
I did not realize you did not speak of the horrors that accompany war.
Although the Empire remains dominant in the battle to defeat the Alliance, the Kingdom, and the Church of Seiros, that does not mean we are invincible. I've watched scores of our soldiers perish, consumed by flames, sliced apart by razor-sharp winds, impaled by icy spikes, or burnt to a crisp by thunderbolts. I've seen soldiers who followed me into battle be cut down by axes and swords, impaled by spears, or riddled with arrows by archers.
I now understand war is not a place where glory is to be won. War is a place of survival, where the only things that matter are you and the enemy before you.
I wish I had stayed in Winterfell, if only so I would have been spared the reality of war.
Felix has changed much since the war began. Before, he'd been the perfect picture of a sellsword eager to make his name in the heat of battle. What better place is there for a skilled swordsman to make his mark? Now, he stares sullenly at our fallen comrades. I scarcely remember the two of us trading barbs or japes at each other's expense. The people of the Empire call him and the other former students of the Blue Lions traitors, something that hurts Mercedes deeply. Ashe seems to care little, but I can tell he is troubled. Sylvain's presence is the only thing keeping up morale among the defected Faerghus troops, what with his antics and foolish drunken dances.
I see so little smiles among my former classmates faces. Even Petra smiles less now.
I want her to smile more.
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Lord Stark,
Another year has passed since the Unification of Fódlan began.
I had to execute a traitor today. He was a boy, maybe six and ten. We killed his parents on the battlefield. Soldiers sworn to the Kingdom. He posed as a new recruit, looking to make a name for himself under Felix, who the Kingdom now calls the "Devil of Faerghus" for the trail of corpses he leaves in his wake. I caught the boy nearly stabbing Felix in the back with a dagger.
If I hadn't intervened, Felix would've killed him on the spot. He saw the boy and his dagger coming. I thought I could spare him, save his life. Instead, I merely delayed the inevitable. Hubert tasked me with his execution. "Make a show of it," he said.
I can't get his face out of my head. Those cold, lifeless eyes staring up at me as his head rolls to the ground.
Father… Is this what it means to fulfill one's duties?
…you are a stronger man than I.
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Father,
It will have been three years now. Still no word from Westeros.
Perhaps that is a good things. The thought of dragging you into this fucking war haunts my nights more than I care to admit.
I scarcely remember what Robb and the others look like. I barely remember Winterfell anymore these days. All I can think about is whether I will live to see tomorrow, and whether I will have to bury another face from the academy.
I also learned something new about Lysithea today. She's dying. She has little over a decade left to live, maybe less. She turned eight and ten today. I do not know why, but every time I look at her, I think of Rickon. He was barely two name days when I left…
If you call yourself a father, if you hold any love for him… Shower him with care, father. Please.
I'm so tired of seeing people I know die.
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Father,
It's been four years now.
I don't know why I even write these fucking letters anymore. The courier ships have not left the ports of Hrym since this all began.
I don't know if any of you are even still alive or what's going on in Westeros. For all I know, the King is dead, his heirs turn out to be bastards or also dead, and the Seven Kingdoms are at each other's throats.
I don't know whether I still have a home to go back to when this is over!
I don't know how many more people I'll send to their deaths!
I don't even remember what the
FUCK I'm even fighting for anymore.
I don't know what to do anymore…
I don't know what to do.
The rest of the letter is ineligible…
…
Lord Stark,
This past year has been trying. The Alliance, despite its neutrality, has lost little in the way of territory, and the Kingdom continues to hold us in a stalemate. We buried another hundred dead today. I lost forty men.
The only reason I remember to continue writing these stupid letters is because of Petra.
She rarely smiles anymore, yet somehow she finds the strength to offer me words of encouragement, to remember the lives of everyone who died to make a difference. She even told me of Brigid burial customs and a "send-off ceremony" where a priest uses a flute to sing a song that will guide the souls of the dearly departed to the skies. I've never played the flute in my life, and Petra only succeeds in blowing air through the holes. If nothing else, it was good for a quick laugh.
Petra is amazing. Unlike me, she's been staying true to herself and staying strong, for herself and for the soldiers of Brigid who joined the war effort. Even when one dies under her command, she commits to remembering their sacrifices. She remembers them all by name, carving them on a piece of driftwood in her quarters. A makeshift memorial stone, she told me.
I asked her how she could stay strong in horrible times like this. Do you know what she told me?
"You and all those who stand beside me."
Petra fights for Brigid, and for those she calls friends. An ordinary goal, one others might mock her for. I admire her all the more for it.
Strangely, I find myself thinking back to our days in the academy. Petra approached me to learn how to write and speak in the common Andal tongue. We were no more than classmates at first, and even when she grew fluent enough in the language, she still sought me out. I remember how we spoke for hours about our respective homelands. She told me about some of the greatest sights in Brigid, how the sunset would create a beautiful reflection in the waters near her home. I think I joked how I wanted to see it one day.
Petra reminded me of it, saying she would be happy to show me more of Brigid when the war ended. She was smiling when she said it.
Father, is this how you felt with Lady Catelyn?
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Lord Stark,
Professor Byleth has returned.
I thought I was seeing at first. I was sure I had gone mad. It was not until Edelgard announced her return and gathered the Black Eagles Strike Force that I realized it was her. She hadn't aged at all these past five years.
I won't forget how everyone smiled brightly for the first time in years. The good times didn't last for long, I'm afraid. Edelgard announced her intentions to take the Great Bridge of Myrddin, a key strategic point and our gateway into the Leicester Alliance.
A new battle draws closer, yet for the first time in years, I feel hopeful.
I've never felt so terrified.
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Lord Stark,
The Empire has finally regained its momentum.
We've taken Derdriu, and the Leicester Alliance has fallen. Claude is alive, but he's decided to live in exile. Apparently, he accounted for his potential defeat and convinced the rest of the Roundtable to support Edelgard. He even somehow secured an alliance with Almyra of all countries. I would have asked how he did it, but he was long gone by the time I tried seeking him out. The professor said he was smiling sadly.
I couldn't blame him. Not when we killed Hilda.
I barely interacted with her during our days in the academy. She was surprisingly overbearing and intimidating, even though she came off as friendly. I remember how she always tried to foster her work onto others, preferring to be a dullard do-nothing slacker. Leonie always complained about her, yet she spoke with such fondness when talking about her old classmate.
She wasn't the only one. We killed Ignatz and Raphael back on the Great Bridge. I tried to get them to surrender, but they fought to the bitter end.
I remember Raphael mentioning he had a younger sister named Maya. I'll see to it his body is returned to her. He deserves to be with his family. She'll likely despise me, and she is well within her right to.
Such is the right of the living, after all.
…did you live, knowing you would carry the grudges of the families you ruined, father?
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Lord Stark,
The Church of Seiros attacked us today. They attempted to reclaim Garreg Mach. Seteth and Flayn led the charge.
I don't know whether they survived or if they were killed. All I know is that Professor Byleth went to face them after we cut her a path to the commanders.
Did she kill them? Did she spare them? I don't know. I'm afraid to know. All I know is that she returned with a bloodied blade.
We suffered minimal losses in the unexpected attack. Among those we lost was Randolph, Caspar's uncle and one of Edelgard's generals. Commander Ladislava was also a casualty. She was a commoner, but she was bar none one of Edelgard's most loyal. Her burial is to be given all due ceremony, and her family promised a life of comfort when the war ended. A cold comfort considering they lost their daughter, but it is what Ladislava wanted.
I hope this war ends soon. I'm so tired, father…
Sincerely,
Jon
…
Lord Stark,
The war's end is within sight.
It may be premature to write such things, but we're approaching the final hurdle. Although we lost Arianrhod to the strange javelins of light, we've received word that King Dimitri I and Rhea march for the Tailtean Plains. Seems they intend to recreate the battle that won the kingdom its independence.
Edelgard has also told me, Professor Byleth, and Lysithea of the enemy that haunts Adrestia and the rest of Fódlan. A group of unscrupulous monsters who view the people of Fódlan as beasts. The same ilk as Solon and Kronya.
Hubert calls them "those who slither in the dark". I had an inkling this group was more than they seemed, but what little information Edelgard willingly divulged painted a dark picture.
Having seen the weapons they wield firsthand at Arianrhod, Edelgard has no need to convince me further. One way or another, these bastards die.
…I've been thinking of you all a lot lately. Slowly, surely, I'm starting to remember Winterfell. Strangely, I can picture how you all must be in the last seven years since I left Westeros. Perhaps it's my imagination, or my premature thoughts of seeing you all again.
There is no telling what may happen. Perhaps I will return home, alive and well and with stories to tell. Perhaps I will return home in a coffin.
Either way, I will see you all again.
The wolf may die, but the pack survives.
Your son,
Jon Snow of House Stark
…
Dear Eddard Stark,
It has been many years since our last correspondence, and much has changed. Allow me to introduce myself once more. I am Petra Macneary. Nearly six years ago, I was a student and classmate of Jon Snow at the Officer's Academy of Garreg Mach Monastery. I wrote to you then as his friend.
Now I write to you as his comrade and dearest companion, and as the queen of Brigid. I succeeded with grandfather's blessing a few days ago. Jon has not awaken, but the healers assure me he is well on the road to recovery and remain hopeful he will awake by the week's end.
I am told the courier ships have been granted leave to resume their operations beyond the "fangs". With any luck, you shall receive this letter by the month's end, if not sooner. I've seen how smoothly Almyran ships sail.
To the matter at hand, however.
I write to you now both as queen of Brigid, and as Jon's dearest companion. I have fought at his side these past few years. I've seen how the Unification of Fódlan has taken its toll on him. He was bright-eyed when I met him at the Officer's Academy all those years ago, a stranger taken in by the wonder of the new world he found himself in. I confess, I felt as if I found a kindred spirit with him. More than that, I was taken by his appearance. His wolfish eyes reminded me so much of an old fairy tale my parents used to tell me when I was younger, of a hedge knight who entered into a pact with a wolf spirit. The spirit would take over the knight's body on nights of the full moon, and in exchange, the knight would fulfill his desire to become a defender of the people.
I thought Jon Snow was the one who made that story come to life. I never thought I would find someone who I would come to care for so dearly.
Truthfully, it was Dorothea who pushed me to befriend him. As a foreigner like myself, he had no one to rely on. She thought he would appreciate companionship from someone who understood his plight and worries. In turn, Jon became someone who helped me to understand Westeros and its people. I confess, there is still much I do not understand, even with the tomes your maester so graciously parted with. I know only of the North from the stories Jon has told me. He looks like a child whenever he tells me of his home of Winterfell.
You should feel proud, Lord Stark. You raised a great man.
Over the course of the war, I lost many countrymen and classmates. I was forced to kill people I once knew. Truly, the Unification of Fódlan tested us in ways we never hoped, and I cannot say whether our future is better or worse off. I trust in Edelgard, but there is no telling what the future holds for us. If I may be frank, it scares me. Yet I must move forward regardless, for those I proudly call my dearest friends, and for my people. Such is the duty of Brigid's queen.
And, if you would allow me, I would face this uncertainty with Jon by my side. Which brings me to the point of this letter.
I, Petra Macneary, humbly ask for your son's hand in marriage.
I await your response with all due eagerness and nervousness.
Sincerely,
Petra Macneary, Queen of Brigid
Things to note about this one-shot/story:
* This oneshot is mainly inspired by VixenRose1996's "A Dovahkiin Spreads His Wings", which has a similar premise: Jon leaves Winterfell, disappears, and returns to Westeros years later as a changed man.
* It totally slipped our minds that we did not include the direwolves or make any mention of them. It was decided we wouldn't include them as we were halfway done by the time we did remember. House Stark still has the direwolves, only Ghost is instead under Ned's care and not Jon's.
* This chapter/one shot was a lot longer than what you just read. We had to cut out a lot of stuff as the format of the story is Jon writing letters to his family back in Winterfell, not giving detailed flashbacks. We also omit his feelings on the other characters who didn't join the Black Eagles as we didn't see much of a point including them when we decided on the roster.
* The decision to base this story/one-shot on the Crimson Flower route and have Byleth recruit some characters but not everyone is to reflect the morally gray tone of Crimson Flower, as well as the fact this is an ASOIAF story as well. That, and we felt this route in particular would give Jon some spectacular character development.
* TheStrangerThatCameFromNowhere is the one who pushed for a Jon/Petra pairing. I (SkyRig) felt Jon/Bernadetta would've been a lot cuter, but hey, what do I know?
* Rickon is mentioned as being two years old by Jon in his letters, and he mentions early on he's been in Fodlan for over a year now. Between the five-six year timeskip that leads into the War Phase and the scrapped Edelgard letter to Robert Baratheon a year after the Unification war, it is currently 304 After Conquest.
* The lack of response latters from Eddard and the cut off communication midway into the Academy Phase is to keep up the ambiguity of what's happening in Westeros in the event this one-shot expands into a proper story.
