Tyrion was picking me up at ten. I had gotten up early and packed my bags, still feeling pretty sick. I don't think it was the curry, perhaps it was just my nerves. I had kept waking up all through the night, staring at the ceiling, worrying. Mum cooked me eggs and bacon, but I didn't have much of an appetite. I forced it down just to please her and washed it down with a mug of strong tea. When Tyrion arrived, Mum did her best not to make a scene and so did I; she told him to look after me, or he'd have her to answer to. Tyrion promised he would, then we both kissed her goodbye and left. I had said goodbye to Arya, Rickon and Bran. Said I was gonna 'start working' which made Tyrion stifle a laugh. Sansa, well… just a nod from her and I to her. There was a sly smile on her face though, probably she was just glad she may not see me as much. But I digress. I could care less about how she feels.

The rush hour was pretty much over, but New Cross was still clogged up with traffic as we cut down into Deptford. The cars were mostly scruffy vans on local business, or shiny Beemers with blokes flexing their muscles and their stereos. I couldn't help but noting faces, wondering what sort of work other people were doing, and got steely stares in return.

I took note to myself that I would have to be more subtle in the future, I thought.

Our driver turned down towards the river, humming along to a terrible tune on the radio that was beginning to get on my nerves. He pulled up outside a block of flats along the riverfront: a new development, faced in steel, glass and wood. To one side there was a scrapyard piled high with the rusting wrecks of old cars. On the other side, a second new block, shiny and metallic, that stretched upwards, with a neat line of glossy, prestige motors lined up outside. It was like a new world colliding with the old, and it wasn't clear which was winning: whether the shiny and new was taking over the scrapyard or whether the scrapyard was rotting the new stuff with rust and corrosion, dragging it down to its level.

"Welcome to your new home." Tyrion presented the block to me with a wave of his hand.

"You what?" I said dumbfoundedly.

"Your flat." He laughed. "But you won't have much company I'm afraid – the block's half-empty. It was built for all the yuppies and City boys and girls who were supposed to be flooding this area."

"So where did they go?"

"They either didn't exist in the first place, or they've gone skint in the meantime…" He grinned. "Merchant bankers," he added with a gesture of his wrist.

Tyrion punched in a code on the heavy steel and glass door. There were no numbers on the buttons, but they made different tones.

"No numbers?" I asked.

"No. It's more secure without. You'll have to remember the tone sequence, but don't worry just yet. Early days." The doors clicked open and we walked across a cool, marble-floored hallways towards a steel lift door. It hissed open.

"This is your safehouse," Tyrion explained, pressing the button for the fifth floor. "The people who buy this kind of gaff like their security, so you'll be safe as houses, so to speak. It's quiet down here. Just be discreet and don't get too chummy with your neighbours. You probably won't see much of them anyway. They tend to go to work early and come back late, and none of them are families."

He passed me a piece of paper with the PIN tone sequence for the outside door and another number combination for the flat. The lift stopped at the top floor.

"Memorize the numbers, then eat that," Tyrion said.

The look on my face made him laugh.

"Only joking, mate." He slapped my leg. "Just don't leave it anywhere that's obvious."

I pressed in the code to open Flat 501 and walked through the door. The trapped air hit me in the face and everything smelt new. Tyrion flicked on the lights and I felt a tingle of excitement as I took in the big, open space. There was a comfy-looking sofa and a couple of leather armchairs. A thick, modern rug covered the floor between them, and there was a glass coffee table with a snack of books and a fruit bowl. There was a large, framed film poster on the wall: James Bond – Casino Royale. Tyrion saw my reaction and chuckled.

"My house-warming present," he said. "A bit of a joke."

Underneath the poster was a desk with a silver Apple laptop on it. Tyrion lifted the lid and booted it up. In the toolbar at the top, my new name was already entered: Jon SNOW. The screen saver was the same as the view from the window that ran the width of the flat; the Docklands skyline, Canary Wharf towering in the middle. Tyrion clicked on my name then Guest Account and the whole screen swivelled around, revealing a second desktop. Tyrion typed in another password: 26dec86.

I frowned. How was I going to remember all these codes and numbers?

"26dec86, Snow… get it?" Tyrion asked.

I nodded.

"It'll be your password for all the work you do for us, OK?"

I nodded again.

"This desktop is for all the confidential stuff. It has a separate email, web browser, everything." He clicked on my name again and the Canary Wharf skyline spun back into view. "This desktop you can do with what you like. Just please make sure it looks like the desktop of an average seventeen-year-old bloke."

"Sure." I was pretty chuffed with the laptop. I'd only had shared use of the clunky old Dell at home and this was state of the art, thin as a wafer and sleek as a Ferrari.

"You can fill it up with rap music and porn, if you like, but just remember, both sets of emails and web histories will be under surveillance, I'm afraid.

I must have blushed a little because Tyrion looked out of the window and coughed, sorry that he had embarrassed me.

"Anyway, don't get comfortable just yet. Dump your stuff and bring your overnight bag."

He helped me take my cases into the bedroom, just off the main living area. The bed was vast and white, more than twice the size of my bunk at home. It looked like a cool hotel room, with bedside lights fixed to the wall either side and another picture over the bed. This was a piece of abstract art, the poster for an exhibition that had been on the Tate Modern a couple of years before. There was a sliding door that led out onto a balcony that faced directly over the river. I slid it open and stepped outside. The midday sun was bouncing off the futuristic city opposite, and upriver I could see the outline of the Gherkin and the dome of St Paul's. Below me, the river ran by, slow and murky, making pools and eddies around the slippery green legs of the small jetties that stuck out from the riverbank. Despite the unfamiliarity of my new place, I felt a feeling of warmth spread through me and wanted to do nothing more than throw myself back on the big white mattress, switch on the widescreen TV at the end of the bed and chill out for the rest of the day.

Tyrion, however, had different ideas for me. He looked at his watch and made noises about getting going, so I put my stuff in the overnight bag while he packed up the laptop and, five minutes later, we shut the door of my new flat behind us.

We past through Greenwich, past the park and the National Maritime Museum then through the Blackwall Tunnel. The industrial landscape north of the river was pretty foreign to me. I'd had no reason to go there before. Eventually, the driver swung off left into a slip road and we drove into a run-down residential area, the streets lined with Indian groceries, kebab shops and Mediterranean delis.

"Where are we, Tyrion?" I asked. I looked out at the mix of people spotted around the streets.

"Dalston," he said.

Although it could have been no more than a few miles from where I lived, I'd never heard of Dalston before. It felt different from south of the river. Don't know why. Just not my territory perhaps.

"Rough as arseholes round here," said Tyrion. "Not like the leafy avenues and boulevards of New Cross and Peckham," he added.

We drove on through Hackney and Islington, then up the Holloway Road until sings began to signal the North Circular. "So where's this place we're going?"

"Out towards Beaconsfield," Tyrion raplied. "But the less you know about it, the better. Should have blindfolded you."

Tyrion seemed to be enjoying himself today with his lame jokes. I suppose he was trying to make light of my nervousness. We sat in silence for the remainder of the drive. The building looked like a school. It stood at the end of a long drive with modern blocks dotted around it. We were checked by security then waved up to the main building where the driver parked in a bay marked Staff. At a reception desk we signed in and a woman in a uniform gave me a badge in a plastic sleeve.

It didn't feel exciting or glamorous, it was more like signing on the dole or getting a tetanus jab. The walls were covered with government posters and health-and-safety warnings. My shoes squeaked as we walked down a corridor with a polished lino floor. No one acknowledged us, or gave any sign that they knew Tyrion as we walked out of the main building and across a yard into one of the modern blocks. Sitting behind a desk, surrounded by computers and piles of files and papers, was Ramsay Bolton. He didn't look particularly pleased to see me. Nor was I.

"All right, Bolton?" Tyrion asked cheerily. Ramsay gave his sly smile and looked at me.

"Better get started," he said. "We haven't got all that long."

"I'm going to leave you in Ramsay's capable hands," Tyrion told me, and I suddenly felt the urge to grab hold of him, to keep him there, as if I were a kid on his first day at school. Tyrion patted me on the back. "I'll check up on you in a few days."

"Few days?" I asked. "How long will I be here?" I was shocked; here I was thinking it was just overnight.

"A week," Ramsay said. "Just about long enough to knock you into shape."

For the rest of the day, Ramsay had me in front of a computer, doing IQ tests and tests of initiative. He checked my results and timed my responses, but it was hard to tell how well I was doing. One test was to remember a cover story and the details of a new identity, not my own. Ramsay gave me exactly two minutes to read the cover, then ten seconds to answer each question. I clicked the mouse and turned the page on the computer:

YOUR COVER STORY:

You're stationed in Transeuratania. You're a vegetarian and the food isn't especially good in Metropoligrad – unlike the coffee, which costs less than a shilling for a pot at the best hotel. Your name is Victor Belmore. You were born on 14 December 1973 in Skegness. At A level, you gained an A in Geography, an A in French and a B in Economics. You have two sisters and a brother.

You studied Geology at university and now work as a management consultant for a company called British Coal Associates.

I read the cover story again and again, and tried to put pictures to the words – like visualizing a carrot for the vegetarianism. I knew Skegness because we'd stayed at Butlins there, so I formed a picture of the holiday camp in my mind. I did have two sisters but had three brothers, now two… I tried to remember the exam grades… A for Geography… A in French… Time up.

The page disappeared and a map of the imaginary country of Transeuratania popped up. Numbers were pinned to the map and I could answer the questions in any order… I clicked on number one.

1. What is you name?

A: Bill Velmore

B: Victor Belmore

C: Viktor Biltmore

Easy one. I chose B as the clock ticked down from ten. Three seconds passed. Question 2…

2. What is the currency of Transeuratania?

A: Transeuratanian rouble

B: Transeuratanian dram

C: Transeuratanian shilling

I remembered the coffee. Pressed C. Next question…

3. What is your favourite meal?

A: Mushroom Risotto

B: Duck à L'Orange

C: Roasted vegetables with Lamb

Got to be risotto – I remembered the carrot image and clicked on A. Next question…

4: What were your grades at A level?

Once more the clock ticked down from ten at the side of the window. The letters began to swim in front of my eyes.

A: ABB

B: CAB

C: AAB

I nearly pressed A. No, it was C. I was beginning to sweat a bit…

5. What company are you working for?

Oh shit. An acronym. More letters. I know it was something to do with Britain and coal, but which one…?

A: CBA

B: ABC

C: BCA

I'm sure it was B. Or was it C? Time was running out. I pause too long and press C. I was certain I was right… Moving on.

6. What was your degree on?

A: Geology

B: Geography

C: Management

Simple one: A. Next…

7. What's your brother's name?

Easy.

A: John Belmore

B: John Velmore

C: Bill Biltmore

I click on A. If my surname was Belmore, then my brother's surname had to be the same, obviously. I could here Ramsay chuckle. This question was probably meant to be a easy trap.

8. What's your date of birth?

A: 13 December 1974

B: 14 December 1973

C: 27 December 1972

I clicked on B.

"Well done," came Ramsay's voice from the other side of the office, where he had been noting my answers and timings on his own computer. I looked up in time to see him mime an imaginary pistol with his index finger and thumb, aiming at my head. He made metallic clicking sound as if his gun was empty. "You survive," he said. "You got all eight. Simple wasn't it? Most usually get five or six out of eight. You were quite slow in some; even one slip you could have blown your cover so keep that in mind."

"Sorry," I murmured, but quite relieved it was over. "Just a bit nervous at times."

"You don't have to apologize to me, you little twat," said Ramsay, jokingly. Then he went quite stern. "I'm not the one who'll be getting the bullet in the head or who's being filmed while he's carved up by ISIS and posted on the Internet. This was just one part of the process. You still have a long way to go."

Ramsay Bolton was true to his word. I may not have taken a liking to him in the beginning, but I was starting to. Probably due to the way he was coaching me. All the memory games, tests, random questions, going over my cover story again and again:

"What's your name?"

"Jon Snow."

"Date of birth?"

"28 January."

"Born?"

"Lewisham Hospital, London."

"Both dead. Dad cancer, mum too."

"What sort of cancer did she have?"

"Breast."

"Any brothers and sisters?"

"None."

"School?"

"St George's, New Cross."

"Middle name?"

"None."

"Brother's name?"

"I…" Damn, fell for the trick question again. Jon SNOW had no brother or sister. Idiot. I had a feeling that Robb was here in the room, telling me he did this before and struggled. Who was I kidding, he probably didn't struggle at all.

"You hesitated." Ramsay said quietly but reassuringly after, "Let's try again."

And on he would go, asking questions about my childhood; about pets I never had and holidays I never even went on. He kept going until I began to believe all the stories myself. I could even picture my imaginary childhood and house that I never lived in.

They had created a new me.

There were other tests as well, physical ones, on the treadmill and in the gym. Pulse rate, blood pressure, recovery time. There was often a woman hovering around – Ramsay just called her Myranda. Said that I would be seeing her around. She just seemed to be in the background, observing. Not me though; she had her blue eyes all fixated on the Ramsay. I was quite glad about that, because I had no interest in her whatsoever.

On the evening of day four, Ramsay took me out to the pub, somewhere in the country near wherever we were. He brought me a pint and we sat there, sipping Guinness and crunching handfuls of nuts. He didn't say much at first, but then he seemed to relax a little. After a while he looked at me and babbled on about Myranda flirting with him constantly and how he had tried to say no to her numerous times before giving into her at one point. He then went on to say how I was 'going to be a great inclusion to the group.' Since this was coming from him, I took it as a compliment. Then he asked if I played pool. I said I did, so we played best of five and he absolutely thrashed me.

"All you need to do is improve tactics," he explained. "Think about the game a bit more instead of just knocking balls all over the table. Set up traps. Make things a bit awkward for your opponent."

I took that in mind. The following morning, Ramsay introduced me to the martial arts instructor, who happened to be the same guy with the Jack Daniels T-Shirt from the music store, Tormund, who said much the same. I had done a bit of judo and boxing as a kid, but this guy, I'm telling you, had told me I couldn't fight my way out of a wet paper bag and that his wife could do better. That aside, his advice was never to start a fight. To walk away if at all possible but, if I had to engage, make sure I got the upper hand quickly – and by whatever means. He showed me me stuff that would never go down in judo or the boxing ring. Streetfighting tactics, like how to punch and ram your thumbs onto the other bloke's eye, how to bring the heel of your hand under someone's nose. How to hit with your fist going forward, and again with a slashing motion on the backstroke. To stun with an elbow in the solar plexus or the temple; a knee to the heart. To stab someone in the windpipe with a ballpoint, to garrote them with pen and a shoelace.

In his hands, he said, a ballpoint pen was all he would need to survive in the department of dirty tricks. He went into some detail about how much pain the sharp end of a pen would cause if rammed into someone's ear, how fatal it would be if you hammered it home with the heel of a shoe. Equally, if you pushed the pen or even a sharp pencil into the eye hard enough, it would burst through the orbit and penetrate the brain.

Nice. Dangerous things, pens.

Tormund was quite large, but he could move quick, and very tough. He shouted at me as I punched the heavy bag and threw hooks into pads that he held up. He bawled at me as I worked the speedball and insulted me as he dropped medicine balls on my tensed stomach. He never called me by my name, let alone my fake surname either. The only name he called me was a four-letter one I would never have used in front of my mum or any woman at all.

I held a temper as he chased me around a muddy assault course, screaming at me as I skinned my knees and elbows crawling across corrugated iron sheets. I didn't flinch as I cut my legs on brambles and broken glass, scraped my back to ribbons crawling under barbed wire fences. And I didn't complain when he loaded me up with a backpack full of rocks and told me to run round the whole circuit a second time, twice as fast.

I went round again, his voice roaring in my ears the whole time. In fact the more he shouted and screamed, the stronger I began to feel. The pain dissolved as my determination not to break increased. I threw myself across ditches and up rope walls, the rocks digging into my back and making me yell with angry resolve. My hands burned down to the raw flesh as I swung up on a rope across a ditch crammed with shopping trolleys, shit and sump oil. At the other end, I smashed my face into a wall, making my nose bleed and my eyebrow swell instantly.

When I made it back to the start – in double-quick time – my breath was hot and rasping in my dry throat, and blood, sweat and drool poured down my face. So when Tormund called me a wuss who wasn't fit to lick his boots, let alone kiss his arsehole, I finally lost it.

I shrugged off the backpack and launched myself at him, letting off an explosive punch that I dearly hoped would spread what was left of his nose across his face. He caught my fist in a huge hand and sidestepped my blow, twisting me, causing me to lose my balance and fall back in the mud. I jumped straight back up and went for him again, this time anticipating his move and landing a smacking right-hander into his mouth, surprisingly splitting his lips. This seemed to anger him a little and I was suddenly on the receiving end of a right backhand that caught me on the neck. It felt like being whacked with a tree trunk and I went down again. I was on my feet in an instant and at him with both fists when I saw his face. Through the blood trickling from his split lip, he was grinning from ear to ear.

Not taunting, but warm and friendly like he was in the music shop.

"Nice one, boy," he said. "You got balls of steel."

He put his hands up defensively to catch my punches I was about to throw, but the burning flames I had all went out of me. I dropped my fists and rested my hands on my knees, panting heavily, half laughing, half crying with pain, exhaustion and relief that it was over. Tormund patted my back and I spat dryly into the wet mud, a smear of blood mixed in the spit. From the corner of my eye I saw Ramsay approaching. His lover, as I liked to put it, Myranda was with him.

"How's he getting on, Giantsbane?" Ramsay asked.

"By God, I think he's got it!" He said in a mocking voice. Then, serious, "He's as hard as fucking nails, I tell ya. I think he'd have killed me if I'd given him half a chance."

Myranda checked her stopwatch, raised her eyebrows and showed it to her boyfriend. Her face looked surprised. And so did Ramsay's.

"Never seen anyone do the course that quick second time around," Ramsay said, allowing himself a glimmer of a smile. "Well done, Snow. Let's get you to a hot shower and some dinner. We'll make a man of you yet."

I woke up the next day stiff with the pain in my bones. Every muscle and sinew in my body seemed to be screaming for help. I tried to roll over and make myself comfortable on the lumpy mattress, but whenever I moved, something else hurt. The sun was streaming through the thin curtain, so I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep. I swung my legs out of the bed, feeling my hips crack, and put my feet on the cold hard floor. Where I had been lying, the sheet was speckled with spots of blood. I looked down at the broken toenails and blisters on my feet, at the scratches that criss-crossed my legs, and suddenly felt proud that I had survived this for. Some inner strength had made me go the extra mile. I got to my feet and staggered across to the washbasin, found a couple of ibuprofen in my wash bag and swigged them down with cold water. I splashed my face and looked in the mirror. In just a few days I thought I appeared leaner and fitter. OK, my face was scratched and cut, and I had a black eye, but – perhaps it was just my imagination – there was definitely a new look of determination in my eyes. Hard as nails, Tormund had said. Balls of steel. I could handle whatever they threw at me.

The fifth day was different from the rest. Ramsay eased off a bit, only throwing the odd question here and there to make sure I was still quick off the mark. If he called me Snow, I jumped to it. I'd almost forgotten that Stark was my surname. It was like someone learning a foreign language in another country, I even almost began to dream as Jon Snow, and not as Jon Stark. Different dreams. Different places.

They gave me a crash course in driving. I knew the basics because I'd had a few lessons, but they me my test anyway and I was pretty chuffed when I passed.

The day after, Ramsay took me to a new part of the building. A quite stocky and young man called Samwell Tarly talked me through some of the technology I would need. Most of it was pretty basic: two mobiles, one an iPhone for personal use, the other a small Nokia, a hotline to Ramsay and his operatives. The iPhone had all the usual apps, but plenty of other extras like navigation stuff and an encoded keyboard I could use to send encrypted messages. This was top-notch gear, quite a few steps up from my T-Mobile pay-as-you-go.

I panicked, thinking I wouldn't know how to work it all after being away from it for a while, but Sam assured me I would pick it all up again in due course. He also instructed me to take out the SIM cards every night to cut down the likelihood of being tracked by anyone else. He gave me some shoes that had been adapted for me, so that if you lifted up the insole, there was a little hollow in the heel with specially cut slots for strong SIM cards and memory chips. There was also a USB stick that Sam said had the memory capacity of half a dozen laptops, so I could copy the whole contents of someone else's computer if I needed to. It slotted neatly into the back of the other heel and could be easily pulled without anyone noticing. He even stressed the importance of removing the SIMs every night.

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon explaining how to install spyware into someone else's computer, giving me a web address where I could download a bit of software that would track incoming and outgoing mall on someone else's account. He showed me how to install the download and activate it where the computer's user would never find it. He also backed up the software on my memory stick, so I had the spyware with me if I couldn't get an internet connection. Nice.

There was lots of other stuff I would have to learn in due course, Sam told me: code-breaking, surveillance techniques, lock-picking and the rest. After we'd finally been through the IT business, Sam hauled a briefcase up on to the desk.

"Time for a bit of fun," he said. "I know it all looks a bit Secret Squirrel, but some of it might be useful."

"A bit what?" I asked, laughing. "Secret Squirrel?"

"Secret Squirrel," Sam repeated, smiling. "He was a sixties cartoon squirrel who was a spy. It's a show my father made me watch."

I smile, "Do you still watch it? If you don't mind me asking?"

He laughed, "I still watch with my wife actually. He's got tricks up his sleeve…" Sam began to sing the theme tune. "Most bad guys won't believe, a bulletproof coat, a cannon hat, a common hat, a machine-gun cane with a rat-tat-tat-tat!"

He mimed the machine-gun cane, tapping his foot to make a rat-a-tat sound. I looked at him, fully amused. He even said his wife sings it with him. Suddenly there was a cough behind us.

"Glad to see you're having fun, chaps," Jaime Lannister said.

Sam spun round quick.

"Commander Lannister," he gulped, his mouth opening and shutting like a decked fish. "Yes, er, I was just showing Jon some of our surveillance gear, sir."

Jaime grinned and tapped the glass of his diver's watch. "Well, get on with it, man, we're running out of time. We've got to get Jon Snow over here kitted out yet, and I'm gasping for a drink. You'll be joining us later, of course, Jon?"

"Yeah, I mean, yes, sir." I didn't have a clue what I was to call of him. Of everyone I'd met so far, Jaime, for some odd reason, was the one who scared me the most. "Thanks," I added, and he left.

"Remember this; if in doubt, always call him sir," Sam offered helpfully. He rested the briefcase on the bench and opened it. The box of tricks included an ordinary-looking digital watch that could record up to eight hours of conversation in a five-metre radius. It had a push button that operated the stopwatch and also set off the voice recorder. There were also several magnetic tags that would fit inside the petrol cap or under the exhaust of a car to track it on a phone or a laptop. He showed me some small magnetic microphones that I could use to bug room. Said I'd be needing them pretty much from the off. I nodded, impressed. Sam snapped the case shut. "Boys' toys," he said, then tapped his nose with his index finger, "I think you have an appointment with the lady next."

Lady?

"Sorry I'm late, Jon Snow." Her hair was red and rugged, tied back to a ponytail, and she was wearing no makeup at all than when I'd last seen her. She wore jeans and a crisp, fitted white over a vest. My God, she was stunning.

"Ygritte," she said, holding out her hand. I remembered the firmness of her handshake and the direct look in her eyes. The beauty when she smiled.

"Yeah, hi. I remember," I replied. "From the model agency."

She smiled and raised an eyebrow as if she wasn't sure whether or not I was telling her a joke.

"Looks like you've been through the mill." She touched my cheek in a matter-of-fact way. I flinched instinctively, and she drew away. I cursed inwardly, wishing that she'd put her hand back and touch my face again. Hell, touch anything she wanted really. "I remember induction week well," she said. "I think that bloody sadist Tormund Giantsbane enjoyed putting me through it even more than usual, being the pervert that he is."

"So, you mean…?" The penny was beginning to drop. "You work as…"

"Yep, me too. You didn't really think I worked for that cheapo modelling outfit, did you?"

"Well I just…" I started to make excuses.

"Lannister's Model Agency," Ygritte squeaked in a sing-song voice, mimicking a receptionist answering the phone. "Can I help you?" She looked at me, questioning.

"Of course I didn't," I lied. "I knew it was a front."

Ygritte gave me the benefit of the doubt. "Help me in with these things, will you?"

I went to the door of the office and helped her carry a dozen stuffed carrier bags and a clothes rail full of trousers, shirts and suits.

"It's taken me all day, two parking tickets and a near lamping to put this lot together for you," she said, groaning in a way.

"How did you avoid the clamp?"

Ygritte then put her hands on her hips and looked at me, doing a pose while she was at it. "How do you think?"

"Feminine charm?" I tried.

"Yeah, right." She grinned. God, I was loving her grin. "Actually, I broke the traffic warden's neck with a single blow." She laughed, mimed a karate chop across my own neck, then started unpacking the bags. She pulled out T-shirts, socks, pants and sweaters, and stacked them on the table.

"These all for me?" I asked incredulously as the pile grew.

"We'll see what looks right on you and ditch the rest," she replied. She then considered me for a moment. "Hm, Gap's alright," she said, feeling the edge of the black hoodie I was wearing. "Nice and anonymous. But I think we want to go upmarket a bit and lose the skateboard labels."

"I like this Vans shirt," I said to her defensively. "I've had it for the longest of times.

"Well… it looks like you haven't taken it off for years," Ygritte fired back playfully. "C'mon, try some of these on."

She first handed me a navy-blue Lacoste polo shirt and a pair of jeans. I looked around for somewhere to change, but there was nowhere to hide and Ygritte didn't bat an eyelid as I stripped down to my pants and put on the clothes.

"Better," she said, looking me up and down. "Pretty good."

She threw me more shirts: Paul Smith, Ralph Lauren, some soft knitwear, then deck shoes, Nike trainers and a pair of suede desert boots. I tried on other combinations and became less embarrassed at standing half naked in front of this hot-looking Scottish woman.

"I think it's all working, Snow," she said. "You wear clothes well. But I'll take back the Calvin Klein stuff because it makes you look… a bit gay."

"Cheers," I chuckled, rolling my eyes.

"No, gay in a good way." She laughed. "It's just that I want you looking a bit rougher and tougher for this gig, a bit more casual. Queeny's not going to go down all that well."

"So how do I look now?" I asked. I had a pair of washed-out vintage Levi's, deck shoes, a short-sleeved Ralph Lauren shirt and a black Aquascutum windcheater.

"Cool," she said, handing me some aviator sunglasses. "Yeah, cool and a bit preppy. Possibly a bit indie band-ish. Like a South London boy who spends all his wages on clobber should look. You look like Jon Snow. Plus, I just feel like Jon Snow's favourite colour would be black."

"I'll take that as a compliment." And she was right. Black was my favourite. It didn't matter whether I was Jon Stark or Jon Snow, though.

"I chose them, you cheeky bugger," she said. She paused for a moment. "But your hair's still a bit too curly."

"Curly?" Defensive, my hand went to my fringe.

"It is though," the look I gave her after that comment made her laugh. "Sorry, I meant it looks a bit messy and quite long. We'll sort that out next."

To be honest, she was quite right. My hair was pretty long. Perhaps a haircut wouldn't hurt. A minute later she was pushing me down into an office chair with a scarf around my neck, snipping away at my hair with small scissors. After ten minutes, she rolled my chair in front of a mirror and tousled my hair with fingers.

"Gives it a bit more texture," Ygritte explained, admiring her work. She put her hands on my shoulder and squeezed hard. She then asked, "Like it?"

I looked in the mirror at my battered face and at the new, shorter hair. It was the same style as I already had, just down to my neck this time. And I had to admit, it did look good.

Rouger. Tougher. Definitely sexier. If I was sexually attracted to myself, I would. 100%.

"Yeah," I answered, chuckling at my new look. "I like it."

"Good. I like it too," she smirked. "Okay, let's pack this lot away." Ygritte ruffled the top of my head again. "The boss wants to see us for a drink."

Jaime Lannister gathered everyone to the library: Ramsay, Myranda, Tormund, Sam and Ygritte and one or two other faces I had seen during the past few days. Everyone was drinking red or white wine except Jaime and Ramsay, who both drank whiskey.

I chose white and regretted it afterwards; it wasn't very cold and tasted of old wood. After the first glass I switched to red, which wasn't much better either, but I drank it anyway. I stuck by Ygritte who insisted I just stick to her and we chatted for a bit. Not only was she good-looking and had a sense of humour but, stupidly, I felt protected by her. I had no idea as to why, she was hardly maternal to say the least. Maybe it was just her strong feminine vibe I got from her after living in a violent, sweaty world of older blokes for a bloody week.

Maybe it was just that I fancied her to bits and would have crawled over thin ice, fire or broken glass just to drink her bathwater.

Of course, all the others tried it on with her in a multitude of ways. Ramsay came over and made what he thought were smart remarks, but it just made him look like a sexist wanker. His head wobbled a bit when he talked at her. Here I was surprised as to what in the world Myranda saw in him. Tormund flexed his muscles and reminded her of how bendy she had been when she did her assault course. He looked like he might be about to drop and do some push-ups to try and impress her. Wasn't he married, though? Sam took a different approach and made silly jokes at the level of his Secret Squirrel song on the assumption that making a girl laugh was half the battle. He mostly chuckled at the jokes himself, snorting when he laughed. Wasn't he married, too?

Ygritte rolled her eyes as she focused all her attention on me as we conversed. Maybe she fancied me too? Only a boy, like me, can dream.

Only Jaime stood back. He acted as if talking to girlies was a bit shallow. Or maybe they weren't his thing. Given the options available to Ygritte, I started to reckon I wasn't a bad choice to begin with. I think the wine was getting to me. Just as I was fantasizing about my chances, Jaime tapped his glass with a pen and called for silence.

"Thank you all for coming, everyone," he announced. "I'm not going to say much. As most of you know, I never do. I just wanted to give a few words of welcome to our new recruit, Jon Snow. Mr Snow is the youngest operative we have ever taken on – indeed, I have bent the rules backwards to make it possible. It was a risk, and I am glad to say that my gamble shows early signs of paying off."

I glanced over at Ramsay, who looked determinedly straight ahead, nodding me as a true sign of respect. Ygritte smiled and winked at me. Jaime continued.

"In terms of our organization, I would like to remind you all that Jon does not become strictly legal for a while, so for most purposes he doesn't actually exist. Given that, I hope you will all give Jon Snow here what you can in terms of support and protection. That is all. I'm sure you'll join me in wishing him all the best."

He raised his glass."

"Jon Snow."

That's rich, I thought. I'm putting my cock in the like and, like Robb, I don't actually exist.

"Jon Snow," they chanted.

Once Jaime had gone back to London, Ramsay rallied all of us together to go to the nearest pub in the area. We piled into a couple of official Jaguars and raced down the country lanes the mile or so to the village. Ramsay and Tormund were driving, and no one seemed too concerned about the amount they had already drunk. I guess they both had a Get Out of Jail Free card.

I sat in the back and engineered it so that I was next to Ygritte. I had already felt flushed with the wine, and the pressure of her body against mine on the back seat made me breathless. I opened the window for the fresh air.

In the pub they bought round after round an, although I was a bit slower than the rest, I must have had four pints of lager. On top of the wine, I was feeling quite pissed. There was lots of laughing and bantering, but I kept pretty quiet. I didn't want make a twit of myself and, in particular, did not want to behave like a twit in front of Ygritte.

"You're quiet," she noticed, sipping a pint of lager with the best of them and with no apparent effect.

"It's been a busy week," I replied.

She smiled and patted my leg. I noticed the unevenness of her white teeth that made her lip curl sexily when she smiled.

Then it was all off for a curry in one of those Indian restaurants you find in villages all over the country. More beer and a chicken jalfrezi. I don't remember much about it, except that it was probably the worse curry I have ever eaten.

On the way back, I sat next to Ygritte again. She was wedged between me and Sam, and as the car swerved round the country lanes, gravity had pushed her against me, so close that her beautiful red hair flew across my face and I could smell her faint perfume above the aroma of beer and fags in the car. As the car banked violently again, she steadied herself and her hand slipped accidentally across my leg into my crotch.

"Sorry, Jon," she said, pulling away quickly.

"Don't worry about it." I swallowed hard. She leant forwards and shouted at Tormund in the driving seat.

"Oi! Will you stop driving like a complete see-you-on-the-other-side-of-life? Some of us have the rest of our lives to look forward to, you know!"

"Sorry, girl," he laughed. "Bit fast for the girls in the back is it?"

"Put a sock in it, Tormund, you beast-shagger," I shouted, half hoking and cocky with the booze, "or I'll have to give you another slap!"

He laughed. No offence taken. Ygritte laughed too, which pleased me a lot, and Tormund slowed down a little.

I don't remember much going to bed. It was dark back at base and there were few slaps on the back and drunken goodbyes and a kiss on the cheek from Ygritte. I remember crunching back across the gravel, hitting my bunk and closing my eyes. The room spun around for a bit, but I managed to hold on to the contents of my guts – which might have been a bad idea because as soon as I drifted off, I started to dream…

I was in park somewhere. Greenwich? It was hot and sunny. My mum was there too, the siblings and Robb, drinking cans of Stella Artois. We were having a picnic and Ygritte was somehow there with us, lying in the sun in a bikini, looking very pretty and hot. I was feeling embarrassed because I was wearing these stupid swimming trunks and I had trouble keeping my wedding tackle contained.

The sky seemed to darken over, as if there was a thunderstorm coming, and dogs from all over the park began to circle our picnic. Robb was drunk and angry as he started trying it on with Ygritte and she was doing her best to push him away from her, and the more she did, the more persistent Robb got. He pulled at her at her bikini top until it came off and she shouted at him. He wouldn't leave her alone, so I threw myself on him, rolled him over and began to smash my fist into his face again and again, blood spraying everywhere.

Then I noticed that he wasn't resisting and that my fist seemed to sink into his head. Like I was punching an overripe melon. I pulled my fist away and saw that his face was completely pushed in, dead and grey, filled with maggots, and his body swollen and bloated as if it had been in the water for weeks.

I could hear my mum and siblings screaming and I looked around to where she was sitting, surrounded by dogs. Alsatians, Mastiffs, Pitbulls and Dobermanns, all growling, and eating whatever they could find. Then Bran screamed louder as a big big dog bit the sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt and tore at it. I jumped up and tried to pull the dogs away, but they snapped and snarled, gnashing and baring their teeth, biting at his face, biting my hands, biting mum and the others.

Two dogs had broken away and were doing something to Robb's body. As I got closer I could see that they had torn his bloated stomach open and were eating his entrails, dragging out lengths of intestine on to the grass, their teeth and gums covered in his blood.

Then I saw Ygritte raise her head from Robb's body. She was on all fours and her mouth covered in blood, as if she was a dog and eating him too, the blood dripping down from her chin all over her naked–

For a split second I didn't know if I was still dreaming. The door smashed in and I was dragged from my bed in the darkness. A hand slapped gaffer tape across my mouth and someone blindfolded me. I was dragged away down the corridor. I could feel the shiny lino under my feet, and then the graved as I was manhandled out of the building. There were no voices. Just grunts of effort as various hands lifted and pulled me this way and that, tying me up. The night air was damp and I could hear an engine running. I felt cold metal. I was bundled into the boot of the car. The smell of petrol. It became darker, the sounds muffled as the door of the boot was slammed and the car roared off.

What the–?

How could they have let this happen to me? My heart was pounding and the adrenalin seemed to clear my head a little. I tried to think rationally. This place was supposed to be high security, yet someone – several people – had just dragged me out of my bed. Unless it was someone on the inside? What the hell was this? A hostage-taking? A kneecapping?

A warning not to get involved?

I bumped up and down in the boot, wrestling against the ropes around my wrists as the car sped along the lanes and round corners. Finally it stopped, and the momentum threw me against the back of the boot. I hit my head on something sharp. If I hadn't been fully awake before, I was now.

I heard voices, muffled, and then the boot opened. I was pulled out again. My feet were bare and I was only wearing a black T-shirt and grey sleeping pants. The night air felt chilly and I could smell woodland. I heard a wooden door creak open and I was led into some kind of building.

It smelt of hut: damp canvas, sawdust, wood preserver.

I was pushed down into a chair, and a light punch in the guts helped me sit down. I thought I was going to chuck up. The gaffer tape was ripped off and the nausea thankfully subsided.

"What's your name?" a voice came from the darkness. A voice I didn't recognize.

"Jon Snow."

"What's your brother's name, Jon?"

"I… I don't have a brother."

"You sure?" the voice asked. "You don't seem too sure."

"I am sure, 100%."

"Tell me again, about your brother."

"I'm telling you, I don't have a brother," I insisted, getting a bit aggressive now.

"What about Robb?" The voice questioned gloatingly.

"I don't know anyone named Robb," I replied.

"What's your middle name?" The voice came closer, hoarser. And i could smell alcohol on his breath.

"I don't have one either." I desperately tried to remember the details of my cover.

"So what's the first name of your brother?"

"Robb." Shit, no. "I haven't got a brother, dammit!"

The voice jeered and another voice joined in. Suddenly the chair was icked from under me and I felt cold metal against my neck.

This is it, I thought. I've blown it and now I'm dead meat.

Terrified, I felt a tug at the waistband of my boxers. My mind reeled at the possibilities of the torture that might follow. Then I felt something wet splash on my face, heard the gurgle of an aerosol and smelt something perfumed, soapy and unmistakable.

I was being drenched in beer and covered in shaving foam.

Moments later, with much teasing and beery laughter, I was bundled back into the boot of the car and driven a short way down the lane. Then I was pulled from the boot, dumped on a grass verge and left as the car sped off.

"YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!" I screamed after the car.

It took only a few seconds to wriggle my hands free and pull of the blindfold thanks to my training. I untied my feet, which were filthy. I was half naked, and my underwear was torn. Soaked in beer, ketchup, aftershave and shaving foam. Alone in a country lane in the middle of the fucking night. The victim of some stupid initiation ritual.

"FUCKING PERVERTS!" I screamed again, for good measure, though they were long gone.

I began to walk. Twenty minutes later the lights of the building appeared between the trees. The guard on the gate let me through with a nod. He'd clearly been expecting me. I could've sworn he was laughing his arse off internally as I walked passed him. The clock on the wall of his hut made it nearly three-thirty.

I found my way to my room and went straight into the bathroom. As well as my already bashed-up face I had a fresh cut on my forehead, and not only did I stink like a dead ferret, but my face had been blackened with boot polish. I looked like I had been camouflaged to go on some mad night manoeuvre up the Amazon, smelling of aftershave, shaving foam, ketchup and beer to attract the natives and the flies.

I got into the shower and turned it up as hot as I could stand. As the needles of scalding water stabbed my shoulders I scrubbed at my face and body, trying to remove all the boot polish and the lingering smells. Trying to wash away the stains of my shame.

The horror of having been so comprehensively done over would be hard to live down. My cover had cracked under pressure. I stepped into the bedroom, naked. Shaken still, but at least I was now clean.

"What kept you?" Another voice came from the half-light. From my bed.

"Ygritte?"

She sat up and pulled the covers back, making room for me beside her.

"Come on, Snow," she said in a soft, nurturing voice. "In you get."