Jon Snow

He moved through the room slowly, slowly feeling his way across the furniture and trying to will his eyes into making out more than shapes in the near complete darkness. This process would take a lot less time if he just lit a lamp but he didn't want to draw any more attention to his night time exodus than he had to. He was the Lord Commander, and he could respond to an official summons if he damn well pleased, but he'd just as soon not hear Allister Thorne's opinion on it. He and the First Ranger had come to something of a grudging peace in the two years since he was appointed Lord Commander. While Jon would like to think this was because of his superb leadership, he knew it was due, more than anything, to necessity.

Stannis Baratheon had stayed at the wall for six months after the Battle of Castle Black. True to his intentions, he'd given the Wildlings a choice – join him or die. He had been ready to carry out his threat, and kill the Wildlings who declined his offer. What he hadn't been ready for was the possibility that the Wildlings would take their deaths into their own hands. The night before Stannis' threat expired 1,237 Wildlings took their own lives. To this day Jon wasn't sure if they'd meant to raise again in death or if they had simply meant to escape the death by fire that the Red Woman was sure to subject them to. Either way, Jon had awoken to the screams of Wildlings and Westerosi voices alike, as the wights attacked in the night.

The onslaught cost them dearly, but it convinced Stannis to take Jon seriously in his refusal to leave the wall. He'd left off his insistence that Jon leave the Night's Watch and in the eighteen months since he'd left he had corresponded with Jon only to inquire about the needs of the Watch, encounters with more of the wights, and any sign of the White Walkers. In his letters Stannis always kept Jon appraised of the situation in the North, which he supposed was his punishment for his refusal to join Stannis as the warden of the north as a legitimized son of Ned Stark. His summaries, which told of the atrocious acts of the Boltons always made Jon's blood boil and threw him into a temper. But the letter that had come four months ago had nearly killed him. Stannis had only penned five sentences on the subject but the brief message had been enough to rob him of sleep every night since then.

A week past we captured a bannerman of Bolton's. Before he was executed for his treason, the man informed me that Ramsay Bolton has taken a wife. The Bolton's claim she is a daughter of Ned Stark. He reports she is fair and well built, with dark hair. He tells me that Ramsay treats her poorly, though less so of late as she is with child.

Arya had been a child when he'd last seen her but it had been five years since then. Was it possible that she could now be described as fair and well built? She would be nearing seven and ten now. It was impossible to mistake Sansa for a brunette, and enough people in the North knew the Stark children that Ramsay could hardly pass an imposter off as the heir to Winterfell for long. But god, Arya pregnant. And by Ramsay Bolton. It had been enough to make him physically ill, as nothing since the news of his father's execution had. Seven help him he'd even managed the news of Robb's death better.

And so since that day he'd poured his attention into finding a way into the Bolton's stronghold at the Dreadfort. Stannis had chased them from Winterfell a year hence, but he was having a hard time taking the fort. Winter had descended on the North, and food stuffs were scarce. Stannis had never been one to inspire loyalty in his men, and was holding his army together with lectures on duty, threats, and the occasional sacrifice to the Lord of Light curtesy of the Lady Melisandre. Still, men slipped away in the night in droves, and eventually Stannis had been forced to withdraw to Winterfell to gather men and supplies. As such, an uneasy state of truce had fallen over the North, and the Night's Watch had been able to begin recruiting again, albeit with little result.

Still Jon had sent a Raven to the Boltons, asking for an audience with the Warden of the North, though he found himself grinding his teeth with frustration the entire time he was drafting the missive. To his shock, Roose Bolton had accepted, and invited him to plead his case for more men in person at the Dreadfort. He had not yet left the Wall as Lord Commander except for a handful of missions on the other side of the wall and a few trips to Moletown. He'd told Sam he was going, and had chosen two loyal brothers to accompany him. Still, he knew there was a decent chance he was walking into a trap, and that the Boltons would kill him the moment he arrived, and so he preferred to leave the conversations about the stupidity of his decision until after he was gone. If he came back, it wouldn't matter because he would have survived and that would be the end of it. If he didn't come back… well then anyway in which they undermined his legacy would be irrelevant because he'd be dead anyway.

He finished stuffing things into his sack, feeling self-consciously like a thief in the night and bucked his sword Longclaw around his waist. He made his way to the door groping in the darkness and opened it with barely a sound. He stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped as the floor beneath his foot shifted and groaned. Instinctively he drew his sword, thinking that a wight had once again made its way into Castle Black. At the sound of the sword he saw to pale orbs pop out of the darkness a yard away. Ghost was there, though he hadn't bothered to charge the moving figure in the dark.

"Wait! Its me sir Lord Commander! I'm sorry Jon!" The young steward's voice rang out, cracking in its nervousness.

"Damn it Olly, you scared me half to death. Why in the name of the Seven are you sleeping out here?" He'd forgotten that his Steward had taken to falling asleep near his quarters instead of sleeping in the shared rooms downstairs. He'd meant to find out why, even asked the boy about it a number of times, but each time his clever steward had managed to avoid the question. He'd thought something suspicious might be going on, and had meant to sit him down in earnest, but it had slipped his mind when Bolton's response came in. Now he cursed himself for not simply ordering the boy to stay in the dormitories.

"Where are you going?" Olly asked, ignoring his question. The boy was eager but impertinent as ever. Still, Jon liked him well. He hadn't neglected to tell the lad he was leaving on accident. He was embarrassed to say it, but he'd avoided telling him, knowing that he'd beg to go with him. Jon couldn't allow his young steward to walk into danger with him no matter how much the boy would insist that he wanted to come along. Still, under the circumstances Jon figured Olly at least deserved to know where he was headed.

"I'm going on a recruitment mission, to meet the Warden of the North. I'll be back as soon as I can." Jon said in an undertone, striding down the corridor as he spoke. Undeterred Olly followed in his wake, with Ghost not far behind.

He heard the boy suck in a breath at his pronouncement, but he could almost see him nod in the darkness. "Right you are sir. Give me one second let me grab my cloak and I'll be straight down."

"Olly, I can't take you with me it's not safe."

"If it's not safe sir, then why are you going?" They'd reached the bottom of the stairs and the light from the dying fire in the big hearth lit up the boy's face, the flickering light exaggerating the lines of concerned etched there.

He sighed. He trusted Olly beyond any of the other men of the Watch save Sam, and he knew he owed him a real explanation. Still he hesitated, feeling almost as if saying his mission out loud would in some way make it more real.

"Sir," Olly said, his voice cautious but determined. "I know what the Boltons are capable of. I know what they've done I've heard of the flayings… sir if you don't feel right sending someone else, if you need someone to volunteer to go request more men, I can go sir. You needn't trouble yourself. There's no sense in you puttin' yourself in danger an' someone else can go and do the same thing."

In spite of himself Jon smiled. Brave lad. Though he was no more than four and ten, he'd take a fleet of Olly's over any men Bolton had to offer. The boy was too good for the likes of the Watch. Jon knew Olly trusted him completely, and had frequently felt underserving of his faith, though never more than now.

"I appreciate that brother truly I do, but I must go myself. If you promise not to say, I'll tell you why." Olly nodded, his eyes fixed on Jon's face, solemn with the responsibility of keeping the Lord Commander's secrets.

"Bolton's heir, Ramsay, you'll have heard what they say about him? Aye, that's what I thought. Well Ramsay is rumored to have married one of the Stark daughters. My sisters. They've both been rumored to be dead these past few years, Arya for nigh on half a decade now. But still. I must know. You understand, don't you lad?"

Olly nodded his eyes wide.

"Sam knows, and the mission is official business nothing out of order. Still, I suppose you'll hear grumblings about me taking unnecessary risks. Pay them no heed, it'll take more than a few muttered criticisms to do me in. I'll be back in less than a fortnight. Take care of yourself."

With that he turned and strode towards the door. Not to his surprise, he was only a few feet out the door when he heard it burst open for a second time.

"Lord Commander, Wait!"

Oblivious to the cold Olly trotted through the snow to catch up with him.

"I understand why you must go sir, but still if I could go with—"

"No. Like I said it's too dangerous. I could not live with myself if harm came to you on my account. You'll stay here and—"

"I'll tell you."

"Tell me what?" Jon was nonplused at this unsure of what the boy could be about.

"Tell you why I won't sleep in the dorms. Just say you'll take me with you if you respect my reasons to choose it, danger an' all, over staying here without you around."

Jon nodded, his blood going cold as dark suspicions began to swim in his mind.

"Well you know that there was a good deal of turn over with the men about six months ago? With some of our men leaving to rebuild the Eastwatch, and us taking on the new men sent up from King's Landing by the Sparrows?"

Jon nodded. For the first time since the death of Robert Baratheon the Watch had actually begun to get men from the capital, thanks to the religious zealots who had taken over for the Head Septor. Activities which had once been commonplace in Kings landing, whoring, gambling, even drinking, were now enough to land men with a choice between maiming and the wall. Jon was uncomfortable with the extremism, but happy for the manpower. Still, with the White Walkers coming, it was not enough, so his trip to the Bolton's could still be justified.

"Well there's a group of them see, who've taken something of a liking to me. Say I have the lashes an' skin of a lass. I told them to piss off, but they cornered me one night. I think… I think they were trying to bugger me sir."

Jon stiffened, seeing red.

"Anyway, I figured it'd be better if I just slept on the floor outside your room for a time, you know until I grew, or maybe until I started sprouting whiskers. But if you leave sir, I'm not sure I'll be able to stay. I don't mean any disrespect sir, but I cannot stay here just waiting for an attack. I'm just not sure I can take it."

Jon nodded. As much as he hated to bring Olly along, he believed the boy, and his reasons were fair enough. Jon felt guilty for not paying closer attention to the new men and the potential threat they posed, but he didn't base his decision to let the boy come along off that. Though he was being targeted for his youth, Olly's understanding and of the situation was that of a man, not a child. If he wanted to risk the trip with Jon rather than the indecent advances of the men from Kings Landing then Jon would respect that. Though may the Mother protect the men if and when Jon got back to the Wall.

"Very well. But your to do what I say when I say it no questions asked. Now grab your bow and your cloak and meet me in the stables as quick as you can."

The two other men Jon had picked to go with him were already in the sables saddling the horses for the ride.

"We'll be needing one more as well. The spotted Gelding I think, next to Bjorn."

Bjorn, a huge charcoal colored destrier sired by Greatjon Umber's acclaimed war horse, stood saddled and ready for Jon. Like his sword, he had inherited Bjorn from Lord Commander Mormont and could scarcely come near the creature without thinking of the Old Bear. He pushed the thought of his Commander and mentor aside though, and through his pack across the horse's haunches just as Olly ran into the stables, his cheeks bright pink from the cold. In minutes they were mounted, leading the horses quietly out into the keep. One of the horses shifted nervously and Jon turned to see Ghost, silent as ever standing behind the small party.

Jon rolled his eyes exasperated.

"I told you to stay!" he said. The direwolf merely cocked his giant head at him, then continued to pad along behind them.

Ever since Grey Wolf had been killed in the ambush on Robb at the Red Wedding Jon had been loath to take Ghost into situations where he knew there was a possibility of treachery. Foolish though it may be, he found comfort in knowing that even if he died in some scheme, his wolf would live on.

Ghost was having none of it this night though. After stopping three times to tell the wolf to go back Jon finally gave up; squaring his shoulders into the oncoming wind and pressing forward down the Great North Road, wondering what the bloody hell the point was to being an authority figure if no one he cared about ever did as he said.