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One Lord to Another: An Open Letter To Jon Snow

By Lord Castleton | Game of Thrones | June 3, 2016 |

By Lord Castleton | Game of Thrones | June 3, 2016 |

Dear Lord Snow,

Before I start I just want to say how happy we are to have you back. It was a long, cold winter with you as a dead guy and while most of us weren’t that worried, when it happened — when you actually got rezzed and came back to us — whoa that was a relief. Like whew! (I don’t know how many more scenes of Daenerys burning herself we could take, you know?)

So, cool. You’re back. You got to come back and execute your own murderers. That’s pretty much unheard of, because when people come back from the dead, they’re basically religious figures and they don’t want to harm anyone. But you? You got to wake up and end some fools. That was amazing for you. And I won’t lie, it was good for me too, because I don’t handle death all that well. I’m still not over the death of Cedric Diggory after the TriWizard Tournament. Peter Pettigrew, that sniveling motherfucker!

But I digress. The important thing is that you were gone and now you’re back.

You’re back.


So, let’s pretend we’re giving ourselves a little impromptu sort of quarterly review, shall we? Since you’ve been back, since you were raised from the dead and returned to inflict a righteous justice on the perpetrators of your untimely demise, what would you say your proudest achievement was? Outside of brooding and quitting your job and hanging some people, what would you draw our attention to? Is there some super-secret slow game you’re playing behind the scenes? Possibly?

Because rather than kind of moping around and thinking ‘me broothers stubbed me in the stoomach” all the time, you might come at it differently. You might say “holy crap! I was a goner and now I’m alive again! That’s pretty freaking awesome! Maybe I’m supposed to accomplish something with my life before death is ready to take me,” y’know?

The key word here being “accomplish.”

Which requires doing something. Anything.

Now look, anyone would be a little jarred by having their heart pierced and bleeding out on a mattress of death-cold snow under a handpainted sign that says ‘TRAITOR” in comic sans. I get that. That would freak out the best of us. But that was like a year ago! You’ve been fully back alive for like three weeks and you haven’t really done anything. You’re just kind of sitting around, eating fucking stew with Sansa and saying “I’m not the Lord Commander” even though you’re still eating in his dining area and opening his mail. Okay fine, whatever. Maybe you needed a couple of weeks to pull yourself back together. Fine. That’s something you’ve earned.

But you didn’t even show up for work last week! I mean, WTF, amigo? Where were you? We basically spent all last week at a Downton Abbey comedy of manners dinner at fucking Sam’s house. THAT WAS YOUR PRECIOUS SCREEN TIME, BUB! Do you get that? That’s Stark time! That’s Snowtime!


You say yeah, but I’m not sure you really get it.

I’m not usually one for tough love, but you remember how you died saving wildlings North of the wall, because you didn’t want them to join the army of the undead? Remember? Well, when do you think that unholy host of ice-cold dbags is going to rain down on you? Hmm? Soon-ish, maybe?

You think maybe getting on your horse and starting to train men and scavenge supplies might help? And not more than a few days ride south of you, the biggest psycho in the universe is holding your little brother hostage! You think you might want to get on down there and give that feller what for? He peels people, dude! He PEELS PEOPLE. Humans. He degloves them. And you’re bummin’ around Castle Black with your thumb up your ass? Do you understand the situation you’re in?


I don’t want to put too fine a point on it, but Game of Thrones is ending. I thought every season had ten episodes but thanks to Joanna’s interview with Jack Bender in VF, I’m reading that there’s only seven episodes next season and the loss of three GOT hours of my life is giving me rickets. Insta-rickets. And probably scurvy.

Do you even understand that we have four more hours this season and seven next season. Out of that, how many could be devoted to you? An hour, total? An hour and a half? Two, tops? Do you realize this? Do you understand the words that are coming out of my mouth?


Because by my reckoning, you have to raise an army of god knows who with all of these twisty, douche-led Northern families (they said the North Remembers, but it seems like they all forgot) and you have to re-take Winterfell from an army that is still coming off the meth high of routing Stannis Baratheon. Then you have to punish Walder Frey for murdering your family. And while you’re that far south you may as well take King’s Landing and the Iron Throne for good measure. But, even as we say that, you STILL DON’T KNOW WHO YOUR MOTHER IS and WE STILL DON’T KNOW WHAT THE ASSHOLE ARMY OF LITTLEFINGER WILL DO and we don’t exactly know where the Stabby Sandbitches of Dorne might pop up. Doesn’t that seem like a lot of stuff to do?


And I haven’t even mentioned any fallout that may be caused by DRAGONS or THE NIGHT KING’S ARMY OF THE UNDEAD.



DON’T! Don’t say indubitably one more time or so help me I’ll get the Red Woman to rez Olly. Where’s your passion? Where’s that Jon Snoo Fire? Where’s THIS Jon Snoo?


Or this bloody Jon Snoo?


Or even this goddamn Jon Snoo?


Where’s the boy who would be king? Where’s the motherfucking Prince who was Promised? Because there’s a ton of shit to do, and you need to git while the gittin’s good, son! The Lannisters are in disarray. Kings Landing is being controlled by a legion of be-robed monks wielding only Captain Caveman clubs. The Ironborn have splintered. The Baratheons are basically gone. Petyr Baelish is trying to pick out the right Hello Kitty ‘I’m Sorry’ flower bouquet package for your sister, and anyone else with half a brain is across the Narrow Sea.

This is your time, Jon Snow. This is your moment. Time to stand up and be the man Ned wanted you to be. Go out there this week and make them all rue the day they ever crossed a Stark. Make them rue the day they ever stepped out of line in The North. Make them rue the day they didn’t kill you twice for good measure, because the storm is coming and you are the cleansing wind. You are the rod and the staff. You are the sword and the shield. You are the Alpha and the Omega. Like it or not, you and you alone, are the answer.

No one is going to give you The North, Lord Snow. You have to go take it.

Now get the fuck up and go get ‘em.

Yours respectfully,

Lord Castleton

Apologies in advance for the raven who carried this note. He’s a wicked shitter.


Lord Castleton is a staff contributor. You can follow him on Twitter.