Jon flinched, hearing the mutt call his name, as the world around him fell apart.
It all rushed to him at once. He could see her, with his very eyes, playing like a recorder over and over in his mind. He saw her first moments, pulled out of Harrenhall, stuck in some strange office, and awakening in a bedroom with strangers. He saw her among others in some academy, akin to the Citadel that all of the maesters of Westeros flock to for their studies. He saw her, Needle in her left hand, boldly pursuing until her last breath, until the last goblet of wine fell from her hands. He saw her roam among the spirits of dead, and soon, coming to terms with a concept of death, or, soon, Jon figured out, the imagination of death. Unable to blink his eyes, frozen in both time and space, it suddenly halted, the visions before his eyes ceasing.
Unknown to Cosmo, his telepathic messages had been corrupted, or more accurately, a portion of it had been erased. Something was amidst, a greater presence had infiltrated the message. One of power and being that Jon could not comprehend, and as he stood, his gaze to the clouded, shattered skies, he could see only one image. An image that overcome the sight of his sister Arya, his little sister, cradling the body of another girl her age, her tears spilling upon twisted steel. The image grew in detail, fire dancing, the sight of red lines forming, connecting, drawing before him upon a black background a immensely detailed yet simplistic symbol. One, that the Snow himself, was unaware of. Before the message ended, a voice pierced the corruption, one that Jon felt was familiar, but oddly, could not piece together, due to the use of tongue that sounded awfully akin to High Valyrian...
"Vīlībāzma ajomemēbza; Ñuhor līr gūrēnna."
---
"Ughh, bloody hells...Cosmo, was it? Warn me next time, boy." Jon remarked, touching his nose with his gloved right hand, feeling fresh crimson ooze out of his nostrils. It was a message for but him, a message that he knew nothing about, nor the language it was spoken it. Wiping away his slightly bleeding nose, the bastard looked down at the dog, pushing aside the frightening imagery and haunting voice.
"I...I understand now, let us just gather ourselves, okay?" the Snow reassured, the irony of this situation being that he was originally the first panic at the ruined world around him.
Hearing the reassuring statements of Max and Chloe, the black-haired swordsman softly smiled, dusting off his wolf-pelt, ebony cloak.
"Thank you, m'ladies, both of you. My name is Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark and loyal brother to the Night's Watch. If you don't mind me asking, what are your names? I suppose a good step in...uhh, not being 'awkward' if you will is a name, eh?" the Northerner smirked lightly, feeling a bit more relaxed near Max in particular, but also Chloe. Granted, he was still an awkward mess, but in a way, it was kinda of adorable. Kinda, especially when you take into account Jon is a bit of well-toned...uhh...okay he is a hunk let us just be frank here.
Noting all the chaos going about him and all of the swift movements by others, Jon paused, unsheathing Longclaw from his scabbard abruptly. Although, unlike before, he did not recklessly raise the Valyrian-steel bastard sword, but rather, gently pointed it to the ground. Grabbing a piece of black cloth that had ripped from his cloak, he began to tend to his sword, wiping away any dirt or muck.
"We have to keep together, no bloody misadventures away like those fools." he remarked, nodding his head over to some lord with a glowing sword and the Tyrells.
"We...well, some of us don't have a single clue why we are here. Seven Hells, who knows what is in these ruins." the Snow forewarned, not exactly trying to scare his allies, but certainly not wanting to sugarcoat the scenario.
Eventually done cleaning Longclaw, he rested the longsword on his right shoulder, scruffing up his bread a bit.
"Only the North knows how to survive the winter for many years, but the South only knows how to survive a few. Us Northerners are stern, our blood of the First Men and strong as ice. A'ye, a winter is coming that hasn't been seen in ages. Moving to Essos would be costly, not to mention, slavery runs wild." the Snow remarked to an outsider whom seemed curious of his world. His wolfish eyes focusing back at everyone who remained, Jon sighed, looking around.
"Where to we even begin? Half of these fools are crazed, the other half as bewildered as I." the Snow murmured under his breath, stuttering as he realized how rude his comment may of come off.
"N-Not that I'm implying any of you are like that...I...ahh hells." he grumbled, defeated, the bastard sometimes not great with his words. He was a man of action, much unlike Samwell, who was pratically a master of such.
