Welcome back to Your Imaginary Boyfriend/Girlfriend, Jezebel's series in which we explore the wild and entirely fabricated world of dating a famous person. As is the risk with most fan fiction, things might get weird and things might get creepy, but the important thing is that we all have a good time.
Today's Imaginary Boyfriend is Game of Thrones' Jon Snow.
"Well that was — well — that was something," you say, leaning back into your headboard, trying to make yourself comfortable as if a pillow or two could ease the gnawing worry in your gut that maybe it was all too soon for this.
There's no response from beneath the pile of pelts that sits next to you and you want to assume that Jon Snow, bastard son of Ned Stark and former Brother of the Night's Watch, has drifted off into a blissful sleep, but you know otherwise. His silence soars across the bed like an arrow and sinks itself into your heart with a message. I am a changed man now. I am a ruined man and you are the one who ruined me.
"Jon?" you reach over to gently shake the furs and suddenly wonder where they even came from. The rest of your bedroom furnishings come from CB2 and the Ikea MALM line. He must have brought them himself. "Jon."
No words, but you do hear a sniffle.
"I know you're awake," you coax. "Did we move to fast for you? I told you, I would have been okay with waiting — "
He jerks up suddenly, pelts falling away to reveal a wild head of messy black curls and a stare so hard and sharp that it could pierce its way through stone.
"I broke my oath," he says, voice hoarse. His mouth, framed by several days' growth of facial hair, crumbles into a tortured frown.
Jon Snow childishly flips onto his side so that once again he isn't facing you. You angle around to get a better look at his face to see that he's pouting. You want to feel annoyed at his tempestuousness, but, old gods, what a pout it is.
"Come on," you say gently. "It's okay. You're not in Westeros anymore. You're here in the now with me. Look — " you gesture towards your television. "We can even watch Maddow."
"I don't deserve to watch Maddow. Why can't you understand what I've done?"
You rest your chin on his muscular arm and try to think of how you can better ease his conscience.
"Oaths don't matter that much here. We don't even have a Night's Watch. Besides," a thought suddenly occurs to you. "Didn't you already break your oath when you went off with the Wildlings?"
This was clearly the wrong thing to say.
"You throw that in my face at a moment like this?"
He stands up suddenly to glare down at you and — despite the pout, despite the stare and beautiful hair — your patience begins to wane.
"You're being manipulative," you tell him. "You asked to come home with me. I was taking my cues from you."
His chocolate cow eyes immediately soften as he mutters barely above a whisper, "Don't you understand?"
"Try to understand."
"That was your first time."
"Yes," he says, blushing. "But that's not it."
"So explain it to me."
You know you sound harsh, but you're tired, frustrated and starting to feel hurt yourself.
"I'm a bastard."
He turns away from you to stare out the window and you don't have the heart to tell him that it's far less dramatic when he's staring out into an air duct than when he's taking in the vast and expansive tundra that's north of the wall.
"That's it?" You don't mean to be dismissive, but you can't believe that Jon Snow is choosing this moment to be so broken up over his parentage.
"That is everything."
"You know," you start after a few moments of intense (for him) and awkward (for you) silence. "That's not a big deal here. Lots of people were born out of wedlock or grew up without fathers. Barack Obama, for example —"
"Um, yeah. Sort of."
This seems to calm him and he returns to sit next to you on the bed.
"Still, I should have taken you as my wife first."
He settles his head into your lap and unsure of what else to do, you begin playing with his hair.
"Oh." Oh. "That's not something you're ever going to have to do."
"Of course it is," he says. "And I am sorry for how I acted before. I know now that it was all worth it."
"We'll talk about it more in the morning" is what you say, but what you think is entirely different: You know nothing Jon Snow. You really know nothing.
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