When the Sun Rises in the East
A/N: So yeah...fell off my posting schedule, hard, hopefully this will kick start my writing habits...
Chapter 5: Jon
Jon flipped through the ancient and decaying pages of yet another tome that had been brought up from Sam's library. Though he no longer thought of himself as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, everyone else was still treating him the same, most especially Satin. The boy had come to him, attentive as ever, to ask Jon what he needed. The only orders Jon gave were to find any books Sam had left strewn about regarding the history of the Watch or Nightfort in general. The curly haired youth had returned with a stack of volumes so high that Jon scarce wondered how he had found his way back, since they reached past his eyes. After depositing his collection on a low table near Jon, the steward dismissed himself immediately. Jon had little doubt of where he went.
"Probably off to get more salve." He grumbled to himself.
"The boy cares for you." A low, melodic voice answered. "Is that such hardship?"
"No," Jon had given up fighting with her, "I suppose not."
The red woman had been spending more and more time in his presence lately, and he could not say that he minded. After the stabbing, Ghost had gone completely wild. It was only the thick, iron banded wood of Donal Noye's chambers that had kept him from breaking loose and ripping out the throats of every man of the Watch. Even that barricade had almost failed as Jon had returned to his quarters, seeing flashes of slavering teeth and feral red eyes through splintered wood. A few moments longer and the wolf would have been out amongst his Brothers like a fox among hens.
Before retiring to his bed and both Satin and Melisandre's ministrations, Jon had asked for one of the builders to reinforce the door. At first the man was reluctant, but fulfilling the wish of his deceased and recently risen Lord Commander by putting the direwolf behind another few inches of hardwood seemed to be a better option than having the deadly creature out and prowling around Castle Black while he slept.
Ghost had proven to be an excellent sentry, keeping out all enemies, real or imagined, with the strange exceptions of Satin and Melisandre. Jon was glad for it. The men who weren't convinced that he was a risen Other seemed to think that he was now some sort of invincible juggernaut, able to flaunt even death itself. The truth of the matter was that the pyre had burned him, all of him, save his sword arm, which was miraculously free of damage, and the burned skin pained him horribly. Satin had brought him dreamwine and potions from Clydas, who was functioning as their healer in Maester Aemon's absence. Jon had shunned them all, save for a skin of sour Dornish red. He used the foul drink to dull the pain in place of the stupefying effects brought on by dreamwine and milk of the poppy. He was running out of time, and he needed to learn everything there was to know about the Nightfort.
Jon let out a sigh as he slammed the crumbling cover to the book he had been reading shut. Lord Commanders and their Histories. It was a most thrilling volume, full of dry, detailed accounts of each Commander, what they spent on food, arms and clothing, and how many men they had sworn into the Watch. Very few records were kept about the personal lives of the Commanders before they joined the Brotherhood. Many men that were listed even lacked family names and house affiliations.
What better way to hide their crimes or bastardy, Jon thought.
He didn't know why he was looking at the histories. The heinous crimes of Night's King, along with his true name, had been stricken from all the Watch's written records. He just knew that he needed to find out everything there was to know about the castle of Nighfort before he left, because when he finally started his journey, there would be no turning back. Once he left the confines of his room at Castle Black, he would be dubbed at best a deserter, and at worst a traitor, plotting the downfall of mankind and selling secrets to the Others. There would be no library while he was on the run, no breadcrumbs and marked chapters from Sam or Maester Aemon to guide him, just his wits and Longclaw, which was currently propped in a corner of the room that was all bare stone. The sword had burned through three different scabbards since the transformation, and Jon had given up hope about doing anything except letting it sit while he was convalescing.
A rustling by the hearth broke Jon from his musings as he found himself looking up into identical pairs of watchful red eyes. Ever since his revival, the woman had stuck by him close as a burr on a wool jerkin. He had been suspicious at first, but her counsel was sound, so long as they weren't discussing other godly entities besides her precious R'hllor, and he was beginning to rely on her uncanny insight into the goings on around the castle. She also seemed to know much and more about what was happening regarding the current occupants of the Nightfort.
Queen Selyse and her veritable army of Queen's men had left the night of the pyre, and already the red priestess was reporting of disturbing visions given to her by the sacred flames. Jon had instructed Satin to keep a brazier lit in his room at all times. He was worried that the damage from the fire might have weakened him and made him susceptible to chill. Once the fire was lit, however, the chill seemed not to matter. Day after day, the soft youth brought Jon healing salves and dutifully coated him head to toe. Each day, Jon had hoped that his skin had recovered enough to feel hot or cold, but he was disappointed each time. He did not feel it now any more than he had when he had journeyed to the godswood. He had not felt the chill of the snow through his bare soles or naked body, and the fiery brazier that Satin kept stoked all day and night was as real to him as the painted flames of a mummer's backdrop. He found the knowledge slightly jarring, but no more so than any of the other fantastic revelations he had been experiencing. After the Others, giants, deathbound visions of lady dragon riders and wildlings crossing the Wall to join the Watch, his inability seemed a mere afterthought.
The red woman seemed to enjoy the flames, if Jon did not. She spent many an hour staring into them, looking for her portents of things to come. No longer would she spend time rallying the men of the Watch and the Free Folk to Stannis' lost cause, instead she sequestered herself in Jon's quarters, repeating the advice she'd given him before. Not about daggers in the dark, that prophecy had already come to pass, but about the fool Patchface, who trailed after Queen Selyse's daughter like a lost puppy. Always, the sight of him was accompanied by skulls and blood dripping from the mouth. After the third time, Jon had agreed to extreme caution when dealing with the queen, the princess or her fool, as it seemed to be the only way to get the priestess to stop warning him.
Though he felt foolish for doing so, Jon found himself resorting to the stories he remembered from his childhood. Old Nan had told him unbelievable tales of the sacrifices made by Night's King to his cold, blue eyed love. Those stories had also included such far-fetched characters as Mad Axe and the Rat Cook, with his famous Prince and Bacon Pie.
While some of them regarding the Nightfort had been too fantastic to believe, Jon remembered the reports Sam had given him regarding the gifts from the Children of the Forest to the Watch. Three hundred dragonglass arrowheads every year couldn't have just been for show.
Jon wondered if the tales that used to keep his brother Bran riveted had the same kernel of truth at their center. Many of the stories, particularly Mad Axe, involved mysterious creatures arising from the depths of the castle. This common thread couldn't have come from nowhere. Many builders added secret rooms and escape passages to the huge fortresses they built, and he believed the Nightfort was no exception.
"Now if only I could find it." Jon muttered to himself, grabbing another volume from the stack and wrenching it open. The sudden flurry of motion attracted the other two occupants of the room. Ghost padded over and sat next to the bed, staring up at him expectantly, as if he were waiting for a command. The red woman also rose from her place near the hearth. She did not approach, but instead spoke his fears aloud.
"Why do you hesitate?" She asked Jon. "You chose to trust in faith earlier, why abandon it now?" Melisandre cocked her head, her crimson eyes boring holes through him. "You felt their power out in the grove. When you leave your fate to god, there is no middle ground. Trust or do not, but you cannot waver."
"Then we leave in the morning." Jon decided impulsively. "My injuries be damned."
The woman looked him over critically. "Those are no mortal wounds." She told him. "Lesser men have perished from such flames, yet you survive, have you thought about the reason for this yet, Lord Snow?"
"I'm no lord." He shot back irritably. "The pyre and my sworn brothers made sure of that."
"Do not be so quick to cast off the trappings of power." Melisandre warned him. "Title or no, men believe what they will, as must you. I ask you again, have you thought about the reason for your survival."
Jon cast his eyes down to the worn black bedspread. He had thought about it briefly, in fits and starts, but once ideas started to form, he cast them off as insanity. He could not be an Other, the cleansing power of fire saw to that. Had he been a servant of Winter, he would have burnt up as quickly as that wight in Commander Mormont's chambers. There was something in her questing stare that he misliked. Suspicion grew in Jon, but he continued to play out the farce she seemed to want.
"Something brought me back, be it your god or mine own, but I cannot continue as a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." Some plans had been brewing in the back of Jon's mind. Most of them included a journey North of the Wall via the Nightfort, if the weirwood was to be trusted. A few he dismissed as folly, a Southern journey would most definitely mark him as a deserter, and the Southron lords would either send him away as a madman or kill him outright after he told them his unbelievable truths. "The places I must travel welcome no Crows, deserter or otherwise."
"You are cleverer than you know, Jon Snow."
Jon looked at her, wondering if he was ready to hear the secrets she kept swirling behind those unsettling eyes. What was the riddle wrapped within his resurrection? He was certain she knew.
Jon opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by the slam of his newly reinforced door.
"M'lord!" Satin called cheerfully, "I've returned with more salve."
"Pack it." Jon ordered, gruffly, stopping the boy in his tracks. "Along with my weapons and all of my warm travelling clothes."
"And your sword?" Satin paused in his preparations, staring at the glowing steel propped neatly in the corner.
"Never mind the sword." Jon assured him, waving his steward away from the wall. "I'll take care of it."
"Ah, anything else?" Satin asked, carefully setting his tin of salve on a nearby table.
"Food, from the kitchens," Jon requested, "enough for a month. Load all this onto a couple of garrons from the stables, hearty ones."
"At once, m'lord." He scratched his mop of curls, suddenly thoughtful. "If someone should ask, what is all this for, m'lord?"
"The Lady Melisandre has given me a change of heart." Jon smiled widely, "Tell them I wish to join the Queen's men at the Nightfort to swear my allegiance to R'hllor, the one true god."
Satin hurried to obey, and Melisandre looked to Jon, startled.
He stared back steadily, holding her gaze. Now both of us have secrets.