AN: Finished with great help of Silirt. Thanks again
The room was bitterly cold despite the fire burning in the hearth. Thick candles burned brightly, surrounded by a motley pile of ancient scrolls and pieces of parchment with messages not a fortnight old. A richly carved table under them was burned on one side, its missing leg replaced by a crudely cut piece of timber. In the adjoining bedchamber, the old lord's great bed stood still whole; the once feathered mattresses long replaced by straw stuffed in rags. The lord's chambers. As scratched, scarred, and burned as the lord himself, Jon Snow had thought more than once.
He had been lord of this cursed castle for the three turns of the moon, and resided here for a third of that time. In truth, he was growing more accustomed to it than to any other place in the world. The ghostly sounds did not disturb him, and the closest he came upon encouraging any specter was while looking at his own reflection. But not many men were similarly inflicted. He could only hope that he would find a suitable castellan among his guests before he needed to return north. None of his own men would serve. They lacked either the ability, or the will to risk Harrenhal's ill repute. And with some, he could not even leave strong walls between them, or he might need to storm the walls upon his return.
The hesitant knocking was not unexpected. "Enter."
His steward came in with a plate of food; a big bowl of onion soup, salted fish, and bread not older than two days. "Your dinner, my lord."
"Leave it here." Jon watched without word as the man struggled to find a place for the plate on his cluttered desk. Finally, he put it on Grand Maester Steffron's absurdly large tome: The Brave and Curious Travels through the Savage and Strange Lands of the North.
Their eyes almost met, but Tybolt forcefully avoided his gaze. Very few men felt comfortable in Jon's presence. Some seemed only uncertain on how to approach him. Some, like Tybolt, barely managed to speak to him-frozen by fear, yet the man was as good of a steward as he could come by.
"Has anyone arrived, my lord?" the man managed to ask, looking past Jon's head.
"The Tyrells. Lady Olenna, Lord Willas, thirty-two knights, about two hundred men in arms, a few lesser lords, serving men, and women." Fools, the night is not safe. The South still did not understand what this winter meant, but Jon only nodded quietly and kept his rage to himself.
Tybolt swallowed nervously, opened his mouth for a moment, and then swallowed again. Finally the man spoke: "Were there any new reports of wights?"
"Not in the messages I've read so far."
"And of wolves?"
"No," Jon lied.
The man gathered the courage to look at him expectantly, probably waiting for further tidings, but Jon gave him none. "You may leave."
Even after the oak door closed, Jon could hear the quickening footsteps, and Tybolt's breaths that seemed to come more freely once he was outside his lord's chamber.
There was something unnatural about his senses, Jon Snow had come to know. He could not tell if it was because of what happened to him on the Wall, or the great white direwolf who shadowed his steps. He had no comparison. His only memories from before belonged to Ghost. They were full of grief and longing. Once they were five, and he who stood apart. The tame sister had died first while barely more than a pup. Next came the oldest of the brothers. He perished with Robb Stark, not far from here, Jon had been told. The sea took the youngest; the angry black one with fire in his eyes, while Jon's body lay cold in the ice cells. The brother who smelled of Summer was the last to die, even if not to leave. Jon could still hear their whispers sometimes, wolf and boy alike. The little sister though...
She lived and thrived, and she was threatening to rob him of whatever was left of his sanity. When Jon had awoken he had no sense of himself. He and Ghost has been one, and the wolf had remained his most loyal companion, his anchor, the strongest part of his being. Now, three years later, the two fought for control day and night.
Sounds of approaching footsteps interrupted his musings. He knew it was Tybolt returning from the loudness of it, and the way every odd step was just a fraction shorter. Still he waited for the knocking. The first one quick, a long pause and then three quick knocks as always. Jon allowed the man to enter. Tybolt seemed as nervous as ever. "My lord, Lady Olenna Tyrell requests a meeting."
"I will not grant it." Jon had been the one to call the Great Council, and had vowed to himself that no matter the outcome, it would follow his rules. "Send her my greatest apologies, my health is still ailing. Old wounds never heal entirely. I will break my fast with her and Lord Willas on the morrow."
"With the Baratheons and Lannisters?" Tybolt seemed bewildered. Jon wondered if his steward would ever grow tired of it. He had sounded just as bewildered when Jon had invited Massey and Marbrand to the same table.
"Of course. How else?"
"Yes, my lord."
Only when Tybolt was gone did Jon unfold the next letter.
My lord,
I searched the books as you required of me but I found no useful information about the Others. Though, by each passing day, more maesters are joining the effort. Fewer and fewer men believe the Others are just a children' tale. Especially after archmaester Merhaut held a speech about length of day. The measurements from all over the kingdom tell the same: the first day of the three hundred-and-third year had been shorter than any day in recorded history. And the days keep growing shorter still. The new Long Night may have very well arrived.
The city is holding well. There was no sight of greyscale for more than a moon's turn and some parts burned by Euron Greyjoy and Daenerys Targaryen are being rebuilt. Today, I counted twenty ships anchoring in the main harbor.
I am not able to leave the Oldtown at the moment, much less to travel North just yet, but I believe we may meet upon my return to the Watch.
With best wishes, Samwell Tarly
In truth, Jon did not look forward to the reunion. It was frustrating to be a man with a memory no longer than three years, and meeting men who had once known him was hard. By habit, his gaze lingered on his burned hand. It was the way it had been when he woke; a constant reminder of the part of himself he had lost forever. Until today, no one had told him how he came to it.
Outside, wolves started to howl. They were many miles away from Harrenhal. It was not the man's ears that heard them.
He was running across a snowed forest. The night was moonless and cold. Though the pack was close now, they posed him no danger. He was bigger than they, quicker and stronger. The smell of ice, fire and death clung to him like a second skin. They may count hundreds, yet none of them would dare closer. None of them save her. She was a sister of the same litter, but she did not seek him for family bonds. The time of mating had come, and she was determined to claim him.
Jon restrained Ghost, as he had countless times before. A wolf's instinct against a man's mind. She howled loudly when Ghost refused to follow her scent. Jon could feel her fury with his whole being. And he could feel something else. Determination and a flicker of almost human thought he had never sensed before. She was up to something.
