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Ghost ran with them for a time and then vanished among the trees. Without the direwolf, Jon felt almost naked. He found himself glancing at every shadow with unease. Unbidden, he thought back on the tales that Old Nan used to tell them, when he was a boy at Winterfell. He could almost hear her voice again, and the click-click-click of her needles. In that darkness, the Others came riding, she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, as they moved south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children… (Jon VII, AGoT)

The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.

So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his favourite people, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all, but Old Nan's eyes would fail her and she'd ask him to describe the sight to her. (Jon III, ACoK)

Jon could see fear and fire in her eyes. Blood ran down her white throat from where the point of his dirk had pricked her. One thrust and it's done, he told himself. He was so close he could smell onion on her breath. She is no older than I am. Something about her made him think of Old Nan, though they definitely looked nothing at all alike. "Will you yield?" he asked, giving the dirk a half turn. And if she doesn't? (Jon VI, ACoK)

"Some woman. Most of them are." Someone had said that to him once. He did not remember who.

She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. "And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?"

"I never knew my mother. Or any such song." He suddenly thought of Old Nan and her stories. That made him sad. (Jon VI, ACoK)

Ygritte trotted beside Jon as he slowed his garron to a walk. She claimed to be three years older than him, though she stood half a foot shorter; however old she might be, the girl was a tough little thing. Stonesnake had called her a "spearwife" when they'd captured her in the Skirling Pass. She wasn't wed and her weapon of choice was a short curved bow of horn and weirwood, but "spearwife" fit her all the same. She reminded him a little of Old Nan, though Old Nan was far, far older. It was hard to tell how unbent or shriveled Ygritte might be, with all the furs and skins she wore. (Jon II, ASoS)

When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father's face. Old Nan was with him, laughing at him, shedding her clothes till she was naked as her name day, certainly a hundred years ago, trying to kiss him, but he couldn't, not with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night's Watch. I will not father a bastard, he told her. I will not. I will not. "I know a story about a man who didn't want to father a bastard," she whispered, her skin dissolving in the hot water, the flesh beneath sloughing off her bones until only skull and skeleton remained, and the pool bubbled thick and red. (Jon VI, ASoS)

"Lord Snow?" Clydas peered at him closely with his dim pink eyes. "Are you…unwell? You seem…"

"He's to marry Old Nan. A...servant at Winterfell." Jon could almost see her in that moment, wrinkly-faced and toothless, all saggy, liver-spotted skin and wisps of white hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Old Nan in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll tell him the story of ice spiders as big as hounds in the far north. (Jon VI, ADwD)

It had been so long since he had last seen Old Nan. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Nan... Her face was always so wrinkly. He could only hope that she stuck Ramsay with the knitting needles she always used. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this little old woman. (Jon XI, ADwD)

"I won't say you're wrong. What do you mean to do, crow?"

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night's Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Ser Rodrik, teaching him swordplay. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Jory, teaching him and Robb and Bran how to fish for trout in the wolfswood. Of Gage baking scones. Of Hullen, saddling a horse. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Old Nan, swaying in her rocking chair as she hummed out tales. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

"I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said. (Jon XIII, ADwD)

#jon x old nan #jonan

There’s an old Chinese tale, it goes roughly like this:

There was a man who dreamed he was a butterfly. His life was so cruel, but the butterfly was beautiful, so he spent more and more of his time dreaming to get away from reality. Soon, the man began to forget what he was. Was he a butterfly who had nightmares, or a man who had dreams? Eventually he lost himself.

This tale was obviously a metaphor for the opium war. However every time I think of it I think of Joseph Kavinsky.

There is this weird misconception from certain people that Jon has a type and that it's redheads. But you guys are wrong, so so wrong. Jon was not attracted to Ygritte because she was a redhead, in truth he was attracted because of something else, her age. Ygritte was a few years older than Jon, thus we know for sure that Jon likes women that are older than him. But I have other proof than that.

Remember this conversation between Jon and Arya?

'”Girls don't shave', Arya said. 'Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa's legs?”

Uhm excuse me, but how does Jon know what the septas legs look like? Well the answer is obvious, Jon has the hots for older women so he was checking her out and one day he got a glimpse of dem legs.

Another woman Jon is attracted to is Val who is blonde so once again the Jon likes redheads statement is debunked. Val is very likely older than Jon too, so again we have the older women type. But that’s not it, Val is a three letter name.

You know who else has a three letter name? Exactly, old Nan. Not only that, both the name Val and Nan have the letter a in the middle, coincidence? I think not!

Jon describes Val as lonely, lovely and lethal. Nan is probably very lonely right now, like do we even know who is with her? I mean the lovely part I don’t even need to explain. Old Nan is so old she could die any time, thus making her lethal.

To conclude: Jon and old Nan are the one true pairing of Asoiaf , George carefully layed out all the foreshadowing for it and Jon’s type is not redheads.

#Jonan #yes I'm sick in bed and didn't feel like doing anything #till I had an eye opening moment #Jon Snow x Old Nan

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow #old nan #jonan #my art #fanart #doodles #merry christmas #I swear this is a joke #unless...?

And Old Nan... he missed her even more than Robb, wrinkly little thing that she was... He would give anything to be with her now, to hear her finish a story again...

#jonan #jon x old nan #the ship of dreams #asoiaf #game of thrones #jonan rights #i'm so sorry #mine