"Gᴏᴏᴅ." Hᴇ ᴡᴀs a mask tribulation inside, but the frozen emotionless setting of his facial structure remained solid per usual despite the storm of old emotion mixed with a newer sense of duty. Many men die on the wall, especially the inexperienced, and with the undead threat looming ahead there are very few ventures beyond the damaged gates at this point. Numbers are still thinning and there's no arguing against the dwindling food supply either -- courtesy of the large Wildling host hunkered down in old Mole town. He's plans to solve the issue of surviving the winter in partial, at the very least the men under his command will remain fed long enough to die with blades in their hands. That much he can almost guarantee now. Talks with a strange traveler have gone well and while he was loathe to part with such a massive sum of currency, both parties came to the agreement that it was entirely necessary should the Night's Watch seek to hold the wall through the onset of winter. In the back of his mind it nags at him, the fact that he's essentially sold his soul, but Jon would do it all over again if it meant protecting the realm. That's his duty, his entire self-made honor hangs heavily from his shoulders and the wizened youth cares not for anything else.
The one other thing he did care about is now dead and while there's been no public grieving for her the ghost of a fiery soul haunts his dreams from time to time -- that is when he gets a break from the other specters of the past. Sometimes it's Eddard Stark appearing to him in a dreamstate, but it's nothing but malice held for him by the deceased. When it's not his father it's the others, the real Stark children that come to him and look straight through the vessel inhabited by the Commander. Now dreaming is the only time he feels like Jon Snow, as far as concern amongst the living goes he's Lord Snow, or Lord Commander, and there's no need for anything beyond that here in the frigid North.
Arya has shed blood, lied, stole, and done other things that would have never been thought of for a princess of Winterfell. He sees it in her eyes, those cold pits where a myriad of twisted young innocence and emotion used to shimmer through. Now it's darkness he sees in the girl, an almost unnerving amount of black tints the back of her gaze and yet fright doesn't grip him. To him, now, the once-beloved younger sister is another body to hold the gates. It may be a death sentence to station her within swords reach of live combat -- they both know the risks. Jon puts himself in way of the very same dangers daily and while he would have once upon a time wished to spare the girl it's apparent that she's already ruined by the warring of men.
"You will be given blacks and there will be armor for you when training as well as a blunted sword. Castle Black will outfit you with everything needed to survive out here." In reference both to the yard and the wilderness he refers, knowing how dangerous the recruits could be -- more or less just as vehement as the very dangers the wall exists to keep out. That's necessary to an extent, he knows, otherwise there would be a host of boys pissing themselves the first time a giant or a wight appears before them. They must be tempered in steel, bathed in blood, and forged in fire to live long here.
Even then the wall broke many, the constant cold alone was enough to rattle some. The mettle of every man is challenged by the icy reach of the North. A slow breath escapes as one arm extends outward, gesturing toward the few scattered buildings in the distance. "Pick an empty room for yourself." He speaks dutifully, a monotone voice fully drained of any emotion as the Lord Commander should. "Stay away from the guarded tower, it wouldn't be the first execution I've preformed." Added almost as an afterthought, he speaks and that morbid threat hangs heavy in the air. It would do no good to be forced to behead his younger sister, not for getting restless and seeking to explore the grounds as many of the newcomers often did. The same warning they all get, not a soul bothers with the guards who are hand chosen and rotated daily at odd intervals by Jon himself.
The wall must be ruled by one with a strong constitution, one with the stones to do what is necessary, ( even to his own men ) and one who can most importantly lead efficiently. A tall task it is to rile the blood of half-frozen men, but a task entrusted to him just the same.
"If you wish to accompany me to the Hall, you can eat and warm yourself. I was headed for a meal when you arrived at the gates." Busy as always, but at the Stewards urging he had come to the gate to welcome the wanderer who turned out to be Arya. Instead of going back to his quarters and returning to the heaping amounts of paperwork necessary of one of his rank the young Lord would grab food and pace the Castle Grounds. Over-watching was a restless habit of his, sometimes sitting alone in his room with nothing more than the crackle of fire to keep him company was maddening and while Dolorous Edd was just a call away his company proved no better than solitude a majority of the time.
Instead he passed the time pacing around and observing the daily routines of his men, it was the only way to stay sane for one with so much on his plate.
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