. . .

(4) Jon

. . .

The Halfhand was clearly not going to make this easy, for all that the outcome of their duel had been decided beforehand. The lightly falling snow circled the pair of Nights Watch rangers as they exchanged another set of blows, Jon's eye more on striking his opponent's sword in a suitably impressive way than actually moving in to lethally do damage. For a moment, in the brief exchange of blows, it reminded Jon of the earliest days of play-fighting with Robb back in Winterfell, before they learned better…

That fond memory lasted up until Qhorin's blade nicked Jon's cheek. The young ranger winced and understood the message: stop fucking around and fight for real; they're wildlings but they can tell when someone is putting on a mummer's farce. Jon suspected that if the fight had been for real, that blow would've opened his cheek and half his face instead of gracefully leaving a little line of blood. The Halfhand could've probably killed him three or four times already since they began.

But did the man think it would be that easy to kill a sworn brother, despite what they had talked about before? It was one thing to plan to "do whatever was necessary" to infiltrate the Wildling ranks, and there was no denying that the situation was dire, but actually killing an honorable man, a brother of the Watch… would the others at Castle Black ever forgive it? Could he forgive himself for it? How could you uphold your vows by breaking them?

What would Ned Stark have done?

Between the jeers and the japes, the wildlings were watching them carefully, especially their leader, the one called the "Lord of Bones." The sight of the two crows trying to kill one another must've been just the spectacle that Qhorin had hoped for and gambled on. Pressed to fight, feeling the hostile eyes of the wildlings on him, Jon parried a blow and took a serious lunge at the other ranger. Qhorin nimbly pivoted out of the way of it, but he smiled, recognizing that at last Jon appeared to be taking his responsibility to the Watch seriously. In his eyes, Jon saw the old ranger egging him on, encouraging him to try again. One or two more, perhaps, and then he would let the blow connect and it would be over.

Or so Jon thought, as Qhorin pulled back to deliver another potentially deadly blow. He would hold back just enough, Jon knew… and hoped. Yet the blow never came, even in mummer's form. Instead, the Halfhand stumbled backwards with a ring of steel-on-steel.

In his right hand, trembling like the wind, his sword had been sheared of the top half, the castle-forged steel now ending not in a tapering tip but in an abrupt blunt end.

"Excuse me, but I'm going to have to ask you to stop."

The tone was undeniably foreign, but the words were Westerosi, without the hint of a Free Folk inflection or accent. Jon turned, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, another part of rangers had found them. Though even if they had, that wouldn't begin to explain what happened to the Halfhand's sword.

Instead of a party of rangers, however, there was just a single man.

He stood in the slowly falling snow, a dusting of white on his shoulders as if he had been standing around and watching for a brief time. With dark hair, neatly combed and cut, higher at the top than the sides, grey eyes and a clean-shaven chin, he seemed entirely unremarkable and utterly out of place in the Lands Beyond the Wall. He was neither very tall nor particularly short, neither stout nor thin, entirely unthreatening. Jon reckoned the man the sort he might pass in Wintertown and never recall later in the day. His dress was more remarkable: he wore a thick fur coat, all in black, like a man of the Watch… except the coat itself was of high quality and superb craftsmanship with fine brass buttons and clean stitching. Even the fur was of an entirely uniform color, almost unnaturally so. He seemed to barely feel the wind or the cold or the snow as he stood there, a few paces away, his hands at his sides.

"Who the fuck is this?" the Lord of Bones summed up the thoughts of Free Folk and Nights Watch alike.

"Get out of here! Run!" Jon yelled, reacting to the unexpected appearance of the man faster than the others. With a step, he tried to better position himself between the hapless newcomer and the wildling band.

"I can't leave without a few things," the man said, simply. He didn't sound worried. "Jon Snow. This isn't where you die."

'No, it isn't!' Jon felt the urge to yell. But this was where Qhorin Halfhand and the honor of a man called Jon Snow would die and be left to rot in the snow.

But then a question rose up, as his mind processed what the stranger had said.

"Me?" Jon asked, risking only a moment's glance back at the man.

"Would you like to live, Jon Snow? Then come with me." There was a pause. "The wolf, too. Ghost. My associates want you both out of the North for the time being."

John didn't have eyes on the stranger, but he could see the Wildlings tensing and starting to spread out. This was bad. Before, they had been willing to watch and enjoy the spectacle as the two crows went at one another. Now the amusement was turning into anger and confusion. John saw movement behind the giant's skull worn by the so-called Lord of Bones as the man blinked against the cold and started to speak.

"Enough'a this! Kill this fool!" he roared. "An' kill t'ese crows!"

John cursed inwardly, his body moving to stand alongside the Halfhand and protect this foolish new stranger. How he knew who Jon was didn't matter if they were all killed-

What happened next, happened in a blur. The only one of the wildlings with a bow was Ygritte and she didn't hesitate to nock an arrow and loose it at the stranger. Yet no sooner had it left her bow than another loud crack split the air. Just like before, when Qhorin's sword had been broken.

This time, it broke Ygritte's hand instead.

For just a split second, Jon could see a reddish-white light appear over her left hand, the one holding her bow. Her arrow, just loosed, was already tumbling away as if it had been misfired terribly, except broken in two pieces. Her hand, though… her hand simply exploded, like Old Nan's tales of wildfire. Fingers and bits of bloody bone flew through the air; one hit Jon square in the cheek hard enough to hurt, smearing her blood over half his face.

Jon staggered backwards, almost losing his balance in shock.

Qhorin, too, seemed at a loss, for all his age and experience.

The Wildlings, on the verge of charging them, abruptly froze. Jon could see the confusion in their faces at war with their anger and indignation. They would not, could not, just let them go. Qhorin's plan had required a sacrifice to save one of them. Blood would need to be exchanged for more blood. Such was the way of the North Beyond the Wall.

"None of you are skinchangers, are you?" the Stranger asked, the soft crunch of his feet almost thundering as he casually walked between Jon and the Free Folk that had captured him. On the ground, Ygritte was clutching her hand, only just realizing what had happened to her, and screaming in pain.

"If not, then I have no reason not to kill you," the man continued, hands still at his sides. "Take the wounded woman and go."

Jon turned to Qhorin for direction and saw the old man nod. It seemed he planned to play along, for now. If this man was here to help, maybe it was best to let him help. Whatever trick he had used put the fear of the Old Gods into the wildlings… and into Jon, too, if he were being honest. Was it some sort of hidden crossbow? Yet it had struck down Ygritte even as she loosed an arrow, perhaps even knocked down her own shaft mid-flight. Jon tried not to dwell on the sight of her, writhing on the ground and curled into a bloody ball.

Finally, Rattleshirt seemed to take the measure of the situation, seeing his men looking to him for guidance and courage… or the excuse to run. The wildling raider denied them the latter.

"You think some fancy crow with a fancy trick is goin'ta stop all o' us?" Rattleshirt sneered, gesturing to the men at his right. They began to fan out, to try and encircle the three men in black. Ghost, too, had ended up caught in the circle, a growl on his curled lips.

The Stranger all but ignored them.

"Jon Snow," he said, and glanced back at him, "If I assist you here and return Ser Qhorin to the Watch, will you come with me without protest? You can consider yourself a representative for the Night's Watch if you like. I'm afraid that after intervening like this, my associates will need to detain you for a few months."

Jon bristled slightly at what sounded like his own consent to capture. First the wildlings, and now this?

"You can meet up with Arya Stark," the Stranger added, his eyes drifting back to Rattleshirt and the wildlings. "We have taken her into our protection already. She still has that sword you gave her. Needle."

He knew about that? How?

For a moment, hope burned in Jon's chest, not only that he could escape the North with his life and honor intact, but that his half-sisters were also safe in the South. The last he had heard, they had been prisoners at King's Landing, at the mercy of King Joffrey. Maybe it was naïve, but if this man and his mysterious associates had rescued Arya and learned of Needle – such a trivial thing, but something Arya would only share with those she trusted – then maybe…

Rattleshirt lunged and the wildlings encircling them followed his lead.

The Stranger grumbled, but then suddenly moved as a shrill screech filled the air. The eagle!

More than just a wild animal, it timed the attack with the closing circle of wildlings, swooping down at Jon specifically. Throwing up his left arm to protect his face, he saw the Stranger move even more quickly, grabbing the huge bird out of midair. The eagle screamed and clawed at the man's arm with hooked talons even as his hand clamped around its chest and throat like a vice. Yet the talons could not puncture the man's strange black sleeves, instead snagging and pulling and finally ripping out of the bird's feet.

"A skinchanger!?" the Stranger finally sounded excited, focusing more on the bird than the attacking wildlings. Yet his magic did not seem to mind his distraction.

One of Rattleshirt's men, faster than the others, closed in on them and drew the Stranger's ire first. The crack split the air again, Jon saw the white light appear briefly over the howling man's forehead… and then it exploded, just like Ygritte's hand. The force of the blow twisted the man's head around even as his legs kept pumping, running, driving him forward while his brains tumbled out of the massive hole in his forehead in a bright red arc.

Not seeing it, or not wanting to see it, the other wildlings kept charging. The one to Rattleshirt's right died next. It was just like before. His forehead burned for a split second and then erupted. There was no projectile Jon could see, nor was the Stranger even looking in that direction. He seemed entirely occupied subduing the enraged eagle that had come out of nowhere to attack them.

Another crack, and another man died.

One more, and a man perhaps a yard away died before he could finish his warcry.

Within instants, there were just two, as Rattleshirt himself – the Lord of Bones – was treated no differently than his men. His giant's skull helm proved only a minor impediment. It exploded at the Stranger's magical command, but that did nothing to protect the man beneath it. Rattleshirt alone had time to yelp as the force of the blow send him stumbling backwards as if struck by King Robert's famous warhammer.

The last two wildlings, already growing to realize their party had just been annihilated, hesitated. Jon and Qhorin Halfhand did not. Longclaw cut through air and leather and fur and hide with equal ease. Jon lunged and buried it in the chest of a man with a huge stone club. Pulling the sword back, he saw that Qhorin had also dispatched a man with a stolen steel sword; he was already cleaning the edge of his blade with part of his black cloak. Jon followed suit a moment later. Valyrian steel was famously resistant, even to rust and blood, but it could still ruin a scabbard. Fastidiousness was a good habit to have when using a sword, Rodrick Cassel had drilled that into them years ago.

Just like that, then, it was over.

"Damnit all."

It was the Stranger. He still held the eagle in his right hand, but now it was limp. Dead. The loss of it seemed to upset the strange man. Slowly, he turned to face the two rangers. While initially frowning in disappointment, he soon smiled in an amiable fashion. His eyes darted from the Halfhand, to Jon, and then to Ghost, who still seemed to be alert and watching the woods nearby, his ears perked up.

"Unfortunate business, but probably inevitable," the Stranger said, his smile never wavering. Jon felt his cheek burn, remembering where that piece of Ygritte's hand had hit him. In that moment, it was clearer than ever: this man was as good as the Stranger himself. If he wanted them dead, even this close, they would be dead. "Now, with that done-"

Stranger in the flesh he may be, he was wrong. They weren't done.

Ygritte choose that moment to pull herself together enough to realize her entire band was gone. The first man to be killed was not far from her, the gaping hole in his head steaming in the frigid air. She screamed. First in horror, perhaps at the sight of it, and then in panic as her situation became more and more obvious.

The Stranger tensed, and Jon could imagine that momentary glow appearing on her forehead.

"Wait!" he blurted out. "You mentioned Arya?"

"I did," the stranger answered, ignoring the terrified Ygritte for a conversation he felt more worth his time. He reached into his cloak and, after a moment, pulled out what appeared to be a strange transparent bag of some sort. It didn't seem to be any material Jon had ever seen before. Kneeling down, the Stranger pulled it open and slipped the eagle inside the curious nearly-invisible bag.

"We picked up Arya outside King's Landing," he explained while he bagged the skinchanger's animal. "For the time being, my associates prefer to remain clandestine. This is why I followed you from a distance and only stepped in to intervene when it appeared you were going to die."

If true, it was ironic, in a way. This man hadn't truly saved the life of Jon Snow, but Qhorin Halfhand. Thank the Gods, though, Old and New! He had been saved from having to kill a brother of the Watch! More than that, Jon was still not even all that confident that he could convincingly pull off the Halfhand's deception and pretend to turn cloaks for Mance Rayder and his wildlings. Jon Snow was many things, a bastard included, but skilled in the arts of deception was not one of them, and he knew it. More likely the King Beyond the Wall would have caught him in his first poorly told lie and had him killed in some suitably terrible fashion. Then poor Ghost would've been turned into some wildling's cloak, like the Lord of Bones had joked about doing time and again.

Still, this man, this Stranger…

He could've intervened before, when more of his sworn brothers had been alive. On thinking of it, Jon reckoned this man would've probably done nothing to step in if Qhorin had looked like he was losing instead of winning their little fight. Would he have truly shadowed him even after that, all the way to the camp of the wildling army? Or would he have been more discrete and tried to secret Jon away in the night while Rattleshirt and his ilk were asleep?

Considering all this, Jon found himself truthfully grateful for the Stranger's intervention… but still quite terrified of him as a man, if he was even a man. Either way, he couldn't be entirely trusted. Not until Jon saw Arya safe and sound. Only then.

And then there was the Night's Watch itself.

"What about Sansa?" Jon asked softly; the Stranger had mentioned preferring to act clandestinely, but maybe with this sort of power…

"We are aware of Lady Sansa's situation," the Stranger answered, pressing something on the bag that caused it to contract and seal up around the eagle inside. It then stiffened, and the man picked up the oddly frozen bird by the bag's handle. "You may also want to know that there had been an altercation at Winterfell rather recently. The castle was attacked and burned by a raiding party under Theon Greyjoy."

Gods! Greyjoy?!

"Given the situation, we took your brothers there into our care, along with their wolves."

Jon Snow let out a ragged breath that turned to ice in the frozen air. So that was how it was?

Maybe the Gods were looking out for them! In a way. But why only save his brothers and their wolves? Jon was grateful, certainly, if the tale was true, but with the power this Stranger had, surely, they could have saved the whole castle? All the people? Such a feat would have been within the power of men like the Stranger. Why prioritize direwolves over women and children?

A sudden metallic clang broke Jon's train of thought, along with the sound of splintering wood.

"Annoying woman," the Stranger muttered, looking back over his shoulder. Near where she had first fallen, Ygritte had managed to get back on her feet. From the way she stood, wide-eyed, her arm still extended, Jon could guess that she had picked up the fallen man's spear and thrown it at the Stranger's back. To no avail. It had been deflected just like the arrow, intercepted mid-air.

"Ygritte," Jon yelled. "Get out of here! There's nothing you can do!"

With a bloody smile, crooked but determined, so much like he remembered from their talks before, Jon knew her mind was already made up, and like before, she didn't plan to take his advice. "You," she said breathily, pulling out a knife from her leggings. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

"Hm." The Stranger barely seemed to pay her any mind. "We were having an important conversation, here."

"Why are you helping these crows?" Ygritte snarled, stumbling forward and clutching her blasted stump of a hand to her chest. "Who are you?!"

"Jon Snow's life was endangered because of your group," The Stranger explained with a sigh. "It is as simple as that. As for who we are… there's no reason to share that information with any of you at the moment."

"That's enough, Ygritte," Jon said, stepping towards her. "Return to Mance and let him know what happened here. Let him know this whole invasion of his is a mistake…"

Ygritte stopped, a few yards from them, and shook her head. Her bright red hair fell in tangled sheets around her shoulders, matted with sweat and tears and blood. She barely seemed able to stand.

"You really do know nothing," she said with less warmth and amusement and more contempt.

"He's young, yet," Qhorin agreed, drawing his sword. "Our new friend here doesn't want witnesses."

"Not particularly, no," the Stranger confirmed. "I really am here for Jon Snow and his wolf, though I don't object to making an arrangement with the Night's Watch using Ser Qhorin as an intermediary. I have no business with the Free Folk."

"But why?" Ygritte insisted, seeing the Halfhand's sword, and then looking down at her own knife before letting it fall from the trembling fingers of her remaining hand.

"Our sociologists have studied your people for several years," the Stranger answered in a conversational tone. "Their analysis is that you aren't particularly trustworthy. Agreements among or between tribes are rarely honored; agreements with outsiders routinely abrogated; you have no stable leadership structure, nor do you desire one. My associates are interested in building the foundations for long-term relationships. We don't see how that is possible with the Free Folk, barring a few exceptions."

"Because we're not kneelers!" Ygritte spat, having followed the man's explanation rather quickly. Faster than Jon had, honestly. What was a sociologist? Some sort of maester?

"No, you're not kneelers," the Stranger agreed. "Is that all, then?"

"You can't condemn us for being who we are! We are Free Folk!"

"That isn't a question."

Tears began to well up on Ygritte's eyes at the hopelessness of her situation. Jon hated to see it. Maybe there was still a way to save her. The Stranger had said he wanted Jon and Ghost. Perhaps he could be talked into taking Ygritte with them? Killing her now, like this, after all this, it seemed… wrong.

"Close your eyes, girl." Qhorin was only a step or two from striking range, and both Jon and Ygritte knew it. She seemed resigned and lowered her head, letting the killing stroke take her without further protest.

"Wait."

The Stranger glanced down at Jon's hand, where he had grabbed hold of the man's cloak. It was the first time anyone had actually laid hands on the deadly newcomer. Jon didn't waver, though, and met the Stranger's eyes with a glare.

"Take her with me," Jon demanded.

"I'd rather not," the Stranger answered with a level stare. "She's a liability."

"Jon," Qhorin began, and the young ranger could sense the beginnings of a lecture on duty. He recognized the tone; it was not far removed from the last few words Ned Stark had shared with him the day they parted, what felt like years ago.

"I promised I would cooperate, but not Ghost. If you want me to keep him calm and under control, you'll take her with us."

The stranger blinked, as if in disbelief. "Is this because she's a woman?"

"He is just a boy," the Halfhand added, but as if sensing the change in the winds, the master ranger sheathed his broken sword and sighed.

"It – it isn't-" Jon stammered. They were right, of course. But still.

"Next time she attacks anyone, she dies," the Stranger conceded, after a long pause. "Now, I'd very much like to get going, if you please."

"There is still the matter of the Night's Watch," Qhorin Halfhand said, already seeing to his priorities. Jon took the opportunity to move over to Ygritte and prop her up against his shoulder. For a moment, she glared at him and seemed to seriously consider attacking him. Holding her up, he could feel her whole-body tense… but then she looked around at the bodies and the fire in her waned. The maiming of her hand had left her all but physically defeated, but it was the blanket dismissal of her people that Jon could guess weighed down her spirit now, when she had at least enough strength to die on her feet, like he knew she wanted.

Ghost also ignored her as he padded by, near Jon's left side. At the least, he didn't consider her a threat at the moment, so she probably wouldn't suddenly knife him in the groin. Probably.

Up ahead, Qhorin and the Stranger were still talking.

"Take this." Something exchanged hands, what it was, Jon could not see. "When you return to the Watch, we will ask you for certain favors. You can accept or decline. If you accept, then my associates will grant you a boon of your choosing. Where the relationship goes from there is up to you and Lord Commander Mormont."

"And Snow? He is still one of our sworn brothers."

"I understand that it is not uncommon for men of the Watch to go South for aid? Think of this as similar to that, except we are not headed south."

"Where are you headed with him, then?"

The Stranger pointed up, at the sky.

The Halfhand stumbled for a step. "You… can't be serious." He glanced back at Jon and Ygritte. "You can't be."

"I am not known for jokes," the Stranger answered, plainly. "But don't concern yourself with that. The truth of it will come out in a year or so. In the meantime, my associates are willing to compensate you for the loss of Jon Snow and his wolf in gold and steel. Fair?"

"The Watch is in dire need of both, this is true…"

"What are they saying?" Jon heard Ygritte whisper. She limped along now, and probably needed little of the support he was giving her. The ruin of her hand still drippled blood onto the snow at their feet, leaving a speckled crimson trail in their wake.

"There is not but death in this direction; where is that man taking us?" she asked, in a sotto voice.

Jon answered her truthfully. "I cannot begin to guess."

She frowned at him.

"And don't say it," he warned.

She didn't. But she did hang her head. "This wasn't how it was supposed to happen."

"What?"

"Nothing," she muttered, under hear breath so low he could barely hear. "Nothing, now."