He’s had two lifetimes, now, of better food than this: all the years he had lived at Winterfell, growing into a man alongside the Starks, and all those years as a trueborn son of the Aerie. Not so much the Watch, less so New Amsterdam.
On reflection... he takes a sip of the coffee, then makes a face.]
Thought it couldn’t get worse. They say they’ve been living like this for three years?
[He sounds more dismayed than outraged. They have little enough here: it reminds him a little of what the Free Folk were like on the run, but even they had their goats and their aurochs.
Jon knows better than most what it costs to stretch what rations you have when there isn’t enough to feed the people who depend on you.]
ii. dishwashing
[As if without needing to be asked, Jon has taken up washing dishes. He looks like a little storm-cloud doing it, but he is doing it.]
Have you heard what else might need to be done?
[Despite his grumpy expression -- which may just be his face -- his voice is gentle. It is a genuine question.]
iii. GHOST (objectively the prompts you were probably looking for)
a. [A while after that meal, after washing dishes, Jon hears that people have been finding some of their belongings back in the eggs.
He had Longclaw in New Amsterdam; he does not have it, or anything else, here, only his fine blue shirt with the wolves on it and a pair of breeches. Cause for dismay, for both the simple reason that it's his sword, nearly a part of his arm, and Valyrian steel besides, and for the more complicated one, that he had long ago promised the Old Bear that he would not lose it or allow it to be taken from him. He couldn't be so lucky as to wake up holding it a second time… could he?
He tries to find his way back to the sac that he can remember pulling himself out of, only vaguely, before they had marched him to the cell. That one? No, maybe that one.
The smell in this place sharpens, and he's hungry… no surprise after that sort of meal. These people are barely surviving.
It has been so long that he isn't prepared for the big blue and white blur that darts toward him. And then he understands, and falls to his knee and opens his arms to the big white direwolf.]
Ghost!
[Someone is watching. He calls out,]
Please, leave him. He's mine. I'm his. That is, I raised him from a pup.
b. [Some time after, Jon is walking around the camp. He looks different than he had before: he now wears a padded jacket, boots, no more Three Wolf Moon shirt. A sword is buckled at his waist, along with a dagger in a smaller scabbard. The sword's pommel rides high on his chest, under his arm: a wolf's head in carved white stone, with garnets for eyes.
The great white wolf trots at his side, or a little behind him. The looks people give them… some are awed, some are curious, some are threatened. When the wolf shows a little too much interest in anything he shouldn't, he gets a sharp word from Jon, and backs away from it.]
I am sorry. I give you my word, he doesn't cause much trouble. I raised him myself.
[For his part, the wolf does not seem docile, but he does seem well-mannered. And maybe you're mistaking him for a dog to begin with. Ask yourself: was any dog ever this big?]
BASE CAMP // MESS HALL // GHOST
He’s had two lifetimes, now, of better food than this: all the years he had lived at Winterfell, growing into a man alongside the Starks, and all those years as a trueborn son of the Aerie. Not so much the Watch, less so New Amsterdam.
On reflection... he takes a sip of the coffee, then makes a face.]
Thought it couldn’t get worse. They say they’ve been living like this for three years?
[He sounds more dismayed than outraged. They have little enough here: it reminds him a little of what the Free Folk were like on the run, but even they had their goats and their aurochs.
Jon knows better than most what it costs to stretch what rations you have when there isn’t enough to feed the people who depend on you.]
ii. dishwashing
[As if without needing to be asked, Jon has taken up washing dishes. He looks like a little storm-cloud doing it, but he is doing it.]
Have you heard what else might need to be done?
[Despite his grumpy expression -- which may just be his face -- his voice is gentle. It is a genuine question.]
iii. GHOST (objectively the prompts you were probably looking for)
a. [A while after that meal, after washing dishes, Jon hears that people have been finding some of their belongings back in the eggs.
He had Longclaw in New Amsterdam; he does not have it, or anything else, here, only his fine blue shirt with the wolves on it and a pair of breeches. Cause for dismay, for both the simple reason that it's his sword, nearly a part of his arm, and Valyrian steel besides, and for the more complicated one, that he had long ago promised the Old Bear that he would not lose it or allow it to be taken from him. He couldn't be so lucky as to wake up holding it a second time… could he?
He tries to find his way back to the sac that he can remember pulling himself out of, only vaguely, before they had marched him to the cell. That one? No, maybe that one.
The smell in this place sharpens, and he's hungry… no surprise after that sort of meal. These people are barely surviving.
It has been so long that he isn't prepared for the big blue and white blur that darts toward him. And then he understands, and falls to his knee and opens his arms to the big white direwolf.]
Ghost!
[Someone is watching. He calls out,]
Please, leave him. He's mine. I'm his. That is, I raised him from a pup.
b. [Some time after, Jon is walking around the camp. He looks different than he had before: he now wears a padded jacket, boots, no more Three Wolf Moon shirt. A sword is buckled at his waist, along with a dagger in a smaller scabbard. The sword's pommel rides high on his chest, under his arm: a wolf's head in carved white stone, with garnets for eyes.
The great white wolf trots at his side, or a little behind him. The looks people give them… some are awed, some are curious, some are threatened. When the wolf shows a little too much interest in anything he shouldn't, he gets a sharp word from Jon, and backs away from it.]
I am sorry. I give you my word, he doesn't cause much trouble. I raised him myself.
[For his part, the wolf does not seem docile, but he does seem well-mannered. And maybe you're mistaking him for a dog to begin with. Ask yourself: was any dog ever this big?]