Castle Black

"I don't see how you're planning to convince Tarly out of this. You've had this whole ride up from Winterfell, but he seems determined as ever."

In their guest chambers at Castle Black, Smalljon Umber threw back his tankard of beer and gave Jon and Theon a bushy, skeptical look from his chair. Theon, who was pacing before the fire, said nothing while Jon glowered.

"No thanks to you either way," he muttered. "All I asked was you tell him how terrifying the wildling are, and you wouldn't even do that."

Umber gave him a shrug.

"And I told you, I've never seen one. The last raid was thirty years ago when they carried off my cousin. All the stories they tell us at home are about the women having rotten teeth and the men crooked cocks."

Theon snickered, but continued his ponderous pacing. Ghost raised his head, sniffed the air, then went back to watching a spider weave its web in the corner.

"You couldn't make something up? He'd listen to an Umber about wildings."

"Sorry, Snow. Never was much of a bard. Uncle Mors always said they're just like any other fighting men."

Jon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He and Theon had ridden up to the Wall with Sam and the recruiting party, determined to convince him out of joining the Night's Watch. So far, they had been an utter failure and hadn't even managed to whittle his real reason out of him.

All Sam said was that he'd realised he was unfit for lordly rule, but Jon knew there was more to the tale. Randyll Tarly must have said something crushing indeed.

When they had stopped at Last Hearth, the Smalljon had decided to join their party.

"I've always wanted to see the Wall, but I doubt they'd be happy if I just rode up for a visit. If I'm with Lord Stark's son though…"

He'd flashed that easy smile of his through his new beard, and Jon had been glad for the additional company, even if the Smalljon hadn't been any help with Sam.

Some years ago, the Smalljon had come to Winterfell to stay and train for some months, just as many heirs to Northern and Vale houses had done over the years. He was good company—affable and boisterous and blithe—and Jon had not minded too much that he called him Snow for clarity's sake. Amma had ensured that none of the boys who came to stay had ever been openly hostile about Jon's bastardy, but he had seen the disdain in some of their eyes.

Smalljon Umber had never shown any hint of disdain.

"Well, it's not too late yet," Jon said now, sipping at his own ale. The brew wasn't terrible, but it was certainly not enjoyable either. No, he was not going to let Sam spend the rest of his life surrounded by growling men in black and drinking inferior ale.

"I say we try again tonight. Maybe once he's seen the lodgings and realises how cold it gets there, he'll be more inclined to change his mind."

Theon stopped pacing.

"And if not? I doubt it'll make any difference."

"Do you have any better ideas?" Jon snapped. "All you do is pace about."

"I'm thinking!"

"Not doing a very good job at it!"

"No worse than your useless attempts!"

"Oi!" The Smalljon's booming voice filled the chamber. "You two yipping at each other isn't doing anything either."

After a tense moment of glaring, Jon gave Theon half an apologetic shrug that was perhaps returned. He sighed and rose from his seat.

"Well, I'm going to go try again. And if it doesn't work, maybe we'll have better luck once he gets a couple days training in. They say you don't take vows until they make sure you know the basics of sword fighting."

000

In the end, Theon and the Smalljon had joined him, and along with Ghost they had made their way to the common hall. There, they were told that Sam had returned early to the barracks. Jon had an idea as to why. The young recruits they spoke to had sneered at Sam's name and snickered when they'd thought he and his companions out of earshot.

Following the directions they'd been given to the recruits' barracks, Jon was half glad that Sam had decided to retire now. They'd likely find him alone—all the better to make their case when he couldn't ride away.

"I wish Uncle Ben were here," Jon muttered under his breath. They'd learned that Benjen had left on a ranging party weeks ago—something about missing men beyond the Wall—and it felt as if all luck was against them. Uncle Benjen could convince Sam out of his mad notion, Jon was sure of it. Hopefully, he returned before Sam had to take his vows.

They were halfway down the covered walkway of the wooden building when suddenly Ghost's ears pricked up, the fur on his neck standing like ice shards in the light of their lamps. Jon frowned.

"What is it, boy?"

But he had not needed to ask. A few more steps and they all heard it, too: muffled grunts and the sound of bodies slamming on wood coming from within.

A shared look, then all four broke into a run towards the door. It was shut firm and barred, but the Smalljon jostled Theon out of the way and slammed his shoulder into the door. Once, twice…

The bar broke on his third hit, and at once light and heat and the sounds of a struggling fight exploded from within. For a second, Jon only looked at the three grappling forms and the flashes of icy steel, not truly seeing, but before any of them could react a blur of white had darted into the fray. A scream, more grunts and curses, and now Jon could see a big, muscled man struggling with another body on the floor, trying his hardest to plunge his blade into his throat. Sam's throat.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Jon had the man by the scruff and elbow, twisting and pulling with all his might. The Smalljon's great form appeared to his side, and at once Jon's burden became light—then impossibly heavy. He grunted with effort, but his knees buckled, and now he was the one on the ground, his head buzzing.

Just in time he saw the white flash of a blade by his chin and floundered away like a gasping fish, his free hand searching desperately in his doublet for his dagger before remembering that he'd left it in his chambers. He thought he felt something sharp on his arm. He shoved and kicked, and when he turned now a face with yellowing teeth and bloodshot eyes snarled at him.

Jon grunted again, but this time brought his knee up, hoping to hit soft tissue. He struck tough muscle instead and felt his face flush as the taste of iron spread in his mouth, but only an instant later, his assailant let out a half-scream, pungent with foul garlicky breath. A suspended heartbeat, then two, and he collapsed atop Jon, reeking and sticky with sweat.

The weight was lifted from him in an instant, and Theon's face appeared above him, frowning with concern. A moment later, a hairy hand appeared to his right, and absently Jon took it. The Smalljon pulled him up.

"You alright Jon?"

Jon thought he nodded and collapsed on one of the bunks, his heart still racing, his breath tearing in his chest. White fur nuzzled up to him, and he felt Ghost's hot tongue on his face.

"What…the fucking hells…"

It was then that his vision cleared enough to take in the room. Two men lay sprawled on the floor—the one who'd been on him with a bloody bloom on his chest, the other with a mess of savaged red flesh where his shoulder and neck had once been. Belatedly, he looked over at Ghost. His white muzzle was bright with fresh scarlet blood. Jon thought he felt his arm stinging, but he ignored it.

Theon stood over the first man, wiping down the dagger he always wore around his waist.

"Let's see if you mock me again for always keeping my dagger on," he said, trying for a joke. From the corner came a choked laugh, and Jon turned to see Sam slumped against the wall, whispers of red on his face and neck.

In the far corner, the Smalljon was crouching next to the savaged man.

"Isn't this one of the guards who came up with the party from the Reach?" he asked. Jon made to examine the man who had been atop him. Sam interrupted.

"Yes," he said, his voice small. "They…they both were."

"What the hell happened, Sam?"

Sam's skin was pale and wrong, the sickly colour of a dead fish's belly, and as he tried to speak his lip began to tremble.

"Sam?"

All three turned to look at him. For some awful moments, Sam's mouth and brows twisted into a wretched, pained grimace.

"They said…they said my father sent them. To kill me."

Theon's dagger clattered to the hard floor.

The story came stumbling out then, and as Sam spoke, Jon felt his head swim with horror and his blood turn to ice.

Sam had been a sennight at Horn Hill before his father directly spoke a single word to him. That was nothing new, really, especially given his father's silence all these years.

He had not minded. His mother had arranged dinners overflowing with all of Sam's favourite foods—earthy artichoke and dancing-mushroom pies; honey-glazed pigeon with skin so crisp it crackled under the teeth; blueberry plum cakes that melted like sweet butter on the tongue, bursting with the fragrant abundance of late summer.

At the end of the evenings, Talla would play her harp as Maude and Melly took turns dancing with him and Dickon, and then Sam would show them Northern tunes he'd learned from Sansa. It had been seven years since he'd lain eyes on his family, but so very little had changed, and for some days Sam had floated on a cloud of tender warmth.

Yet, it was not long before that comforting dream had dissipated like so much mist. Sam was required in the practice yard. Feeling his father's eyes boring into him, Sam had tried his best to remember Ser Roderick's lessons, but his arms shook and his palms were slick with sweat. In four strokes the master-at-arms had held his sword point to Sam's throat. Even Dickon, only thirteen, had managed to best Sam with his blunted blade.

Sam had not dared look up at his father's face.

His father had sent him to Winterfell in hopes that the harsh North would make a man out of him, Sam knew. That was what Lord Tarly had told him when he'd informed Sam at ten that he would foster with Lord Stark. Sam knew, too, that his father was disappointed with what he saw now. That was nothing new for Sam, either. He'd never been much of anything else in his father's eyes.

Some days after watching Sam's best efforts in the practice yard, one morning, Sam had been awakened before dawn and informed that Lord Tarly had planned a hunt. Sam joined his father in the bailey, and they had ridden out into the dense woods around Horn Hill, trailing ahead of their few accompanying men.

"At least you can sit a horse without sliding off." Those were the first words his father had said to him. "The horse's heart might give out any minute with you for a rider, though."

"Yes," Sam had said, ignoring the barb. After a long moment, he added, "All the Stark children sit a horse well, even the girls."

That had not been the right thing to say. His father gave a derisive grunt.

"I hear Stark lets his daughter in the training yard. Is that how all the Northmen fight? Like women? It's no wonder you're still useless as you are."

Sam had felt the indignation swell, but his father's cruel glare had been branded into his mind and gilded with fear since childhood. He bit back his retort that Arya was one of the best fighters he'd seen and Jon could likely hold his own against Lord Tarly himself.

They rode on then, his father occasionally asking Sam questions that inevitably turned into sneering insults and growls of disappointed fury. It had been this way for as long as Sam could remember, and now it was as if seven years had not passed since the time last saw his father. He did not know why he had imagined things might be different.

Finally, they had spotted deer in the distance. His father motioned for Sam to shoot, but in his trembling haste, Sam's sweaty hand slipped, and the arrow had flown into a tree.

His father had given him a glare as cold as a steel blade then, shot his own arrow right between the deer's eyes, and left Sam in the clearing to chase after his prey. Sam had lingered, not wanting to see the gory eruption of deer brain and gore, and instead dismounted to find a nice rock where he could rest and take a drink from his water skin.

Just as he was climbing back onto his horse, however, the air tore with the sound of spiralling arrows. Before he knew it, his leg had been afire with pain, and then all had gone sickeningly black.

He had come to in a stone cave, and before he could fully return to himself, Talla's face had appeared above him, her eyes red and her face scrunched in concern. When he'd tried to sit up, white-hot pain chewed like a demon at his leg, and Talla had pressed him back down onto the makeshift nest of blankets.

"Don't move, please," she hissed. "I had a terrible time stitching up your leg and getting it to stop bleeding. If you open your stitches, I don't think I can repair it anymore."

Talla told him all then. She had secretly followed them on this "hunt." When their father had gone after the deer, Talla had seen two of the Tarly men-at-arms fire back-hooked arrows into Sam's leg, then approach their unconscious victim and pull out their arrows so that Sam's blood welled freely from his mangled flesh.

"They left you there, intending that you bleed out, so I rushed over and did my best sewing you up. Slippery job, that." She held up her blood-stained hands.

"Then I rolled you atop that quilt I brought and had our horses drag you here." She reached over and brushed at his hair. "Sorry. That's why you're filthy."

Sam's head had swam, and he had wondered if this was truly reality and not some hellish dream.

"Why did they…why?"

Talla had recounted then the hushed conversations she'd heard outside their father's solar the night before. Lord Tarly had instructed two of his best archers to follow them on the hunt the next day. When he gave the signal, they were to shoot Sam, pull out the arrows, and leave him to bleed out his life onto the mossy forest floor.

And they would have succeeded, too. Arrow wounds into the leg bled like a gushing spring, especially if they were pulled out without any blunts on their back prongs. Sam would have been dead within the hour had Talla not rushed to sew him up. He'd studied all sorts of crossbow designs over the years. He knew such things.

Lord Tarly had intended to "find" Sam's body the following day. He would tell his family a simple lie: that Sam had met with some forest beast when he became separated from the party, and it had savaged him before they'd had a chance to save him. It would all be so very easy, and Randyll Tarly would no longer despair of having a soft, useless craven for an heir. He would have no smear on the family name.

Talla had all but forced milk of the poppy down Sam's throat, then left him in the cave with promises to return the next day. When she did, she'd had an old rucksack stuffed to bursting with clothes and coin and food.

"I've thought it all through. You can hide here for a couple more days. The men searching for you won't find it. Once you can walk again, ride as fast as you can to Highgarden." Sam had given her a befuddled look.

"Well, Father will know you've escaped somehow, and any logical person would go to Old Town, wouldn't they? That's where he'd send men. But I just got a letter from Lady Margaery three days ago about the Night's Watch recruiters they were hosting in town. Go to Highgarden and join the Night's Watch, Sam." Her voice had broken then, and she turned away, hands shaking.

"I don't know how else to save your life."

He'd done exactly as Talla instructed. What other choice was there? He'd penned a goodbye letter for his sister to hide under his pillow—so that the rest of the family would truly think he'd found his true calling and left his birthright by choice—then kissed Talla hard on the forehead and ridden off along the Rose Rode, pain tearing up his leg with every rise of his horse.

Sam's voice died as his tale came to a close. After a silence as long as death, Theon cursed under his breath.

"Bugger me bloody," the Smalljon finally said, half-dazed. "Seems like Lord Tarly still found you, though, even up at the Wall."

"They're Horn Hill men-at-arms," Sam said, looking resolutely away from the bodies. "They said my father sent them to join the recruiting party and find a chance to kill me. I'd just always been around people until now."

His forehead came to rest on his knees.

"My father doesn't believe I'll truly take the Night's Watch vows, one told me. He wanted to…to play it safe."

Leaden quiet once more. Finally, when Sam's words had sunk in, Jon felt molten anger flash in his belly.

"So...what?" He asked, staring incredulously at this friend who was truly more of a brother. "You were just going to join the Night's Watch and never tell us the truth behind it, is that it?"

"I...well, yes. Safest way for all of us. My father is...persistent."

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Jon was on his feet, hot blood slamming up into his temples. His voice cracked, though it still seemed to echo in the wooden rooms.

"Why didn't you tell us? Who do you take us for, Sam? Me and Robb and Theon. Who do you take my father for? You should have told us. We'd have protected you! We'll still protect you! You don't have to join the fucking Night's Watch and throw—"

"No!"

Jon shrank back, stung, his feet stumbling from the shock. He'd never heard Sam bellow in his life.

"No," he said again, scrambling to his feet.

"I…I might not be good with swords like you, but I'm no craven! I'm no snivelling child! I'm not going to huddle behind Winterfell's walls all my life. What would I do then? What good would I be?"

"And what good would you be dead?!" Why was Sam being so thick? Didn't he see? This was madness, and it made Jon's head spin.

"These men followed you up here," Theon cut in, voicing Jon's thoughts. "Tarly, your father will send men again—"

"Then I die up here! Better that than hiding in fear and waiting for the other shoe to drop1 He'd send men to Winterfell too, don't think he won't, and if something were to happen to one of you…Besides…I'll write my father when I take the vows. He'll know I meant it then."

"You have gone fucking mad!" Jon felt the words tearing from his dry throat. His head throbbed from the anger, and he could feel each heartbeat painful in his limbs.

"If you think…if you think we'll let…let…"

Black spots were appearing before his eyes, blooming like ink drops in water. His arm stung, Jon remembered, and now it felt like a line of fire along his skin, pulsing with each beat of his heart.

"We won't…let you…"

"Jon?"

"What's wrong?"

Voices dilated around him, wading in the air that had suddenly turned to soup. He brought his hand to his arm. Sticky. He hadn't noticed that before. Sticky between his fingers.

"Snow! What—Others take you, all this blood—"

The ground rocked and groaned and turned over above his head, and Jon fell into the aimless dark.

000

All was white around him. It blew in sharp swirls around his face, cutting, stinging on his cheeks and chapped mouth, prickling his eyes. The tears that welled seemed to freeze upon his skin.

Jon had never been so cold in his life. This was beyond cold, beyond pain—this was white-hot and terrible, for nothing burned like snow. He was lost in it, yet he knew he must push on. The voice was calling for him—human yet demonic, meaty yet light—and it urged him forward, luring him, beguiling. What was the burning cold of his body when he could hear the siren song?

The crisp closing of wings broke through the hollow swirls, and Jon looked up to see dark wings circling ahead.

"Snow…Snow…" A pockmarked voice was calling, and Jon did not know if it called for him.

On he walked, though he could no longer see his feet below him, for all was engulfed in whipping, burning white. Yet, at once, there flashed before him a gemstone of the deepest garnet red. An eye, he realised, and his mind turned to his direwolf.

"Ghost?" His voice was a parched croak.

But no, it was not Ghost, for Ghost had two eyes, while the spectre before him stared with only one. Closer it came, or perhaps Jon walked forward, until suddenly its eyelid shuttered, and a surge of hot red was painted across the white, white sky. Closer he drew, closer still, and now Jon could see that the raven from above was dark not with black feathers, but with blood.

"Snow…Snow…" The sound grated his ears raw, yet still it was like that seductive siren song. On Jon fought, until at last the red bird swooped before him, and Jon saw that it did not have feathers at all, but scales as white as the storm.

"Jon…Snow…"

Was it still the blood-red bird who called?

"Jon…Lord Jon…"

No, this voice was rough as well, but not nearly so ugly as the pitted squawking.

"Jon Snow? Lord Jon? Can you hear me, child?"

Warm. Glowing. Through a crack in his eyelids Jon could see shadows flickering against an orange wall.

"What?" His tongue was dry and scaly, and his throat burned. As if by magic, a wooden cup was held to his lips, and gratefully Jon drank.

"Are you…are you back to normal now?" Sam's tentative voice sounded somewhere over Jon's head, his hand on Jon's shoulder. On instinct, Jon shot a weak smile up at him, though the movement made his head heavy, and he closed his eyes. Sam was unconvinced.

"He is alright, isn't he, Maester?"

"Yes, yes, though that was quite a bit of blood you lost, Jon Snow. You must drink beef tea for many days yet," said the old maester with the rough, wheezing voice. Jon rubbed his eyes with the arm that did not feel like lead. He remembered that sting on his arm as he'd grappled with the Horn Hill guard. He must have been cut then and simply did not notice the pain in all the upheaval around Sam's revelations.

At his bedside was a pale raison of a man, bald and wrinkled and bony, yet when he pushed Jon back into the pillows and drew the covers over him, his hands were quiet and gentle. His eyes were clouded and lifeless, and Jon realised with a jolt that he must be blind.

"What a pansy, fainting dead like that," said Theon, who had risen from his chair. He tried for a grin, though Jon could see the lines between his brows. Still, he shot Theon a glare.

"I'm not the one who gets ill looking at a nick on my thumb."

Theon scoffed, unconcerned.

"Just my own blood. I don't mind someone else's, including yours. A little gratitude for catching you as you swooned would be nice."

Before Jon could huff with indignation, the Smalljon's voice boomed from outside as the door swung open.

"Oi, Greyjoy! Taking all my credit, are you? Need I remind you that I caught you both?"

The giant ducked into the chamber, filling up half the space, and in his hand he held a steaming tankard.

"Here's the blood brew, Maester Aemon," he said, setting the tankard down on the table beside Jon.

"Drink up, Snow. What kind of a disappointment would you be if you died at the hand of some Southron guard? We don't even know his name."

Yet Jon barely heard him, for now he stared again at the frail old maester with the milk-blind eyes and could not form words.

'Maester Aemon,' the Smalljon had called him, the sounds easy on his tongue.

She named you Aemon, Lord Stark had told Jon in the library turret. A lifetime ago.

Aemon. Aemon. A Valyrian name. A Targaryen name.

My name, thought Jon. A family name.

Just Randyll Tarly shenanigans.

In relation to the destination you all surely know I have in mind for Jon, I can't recommend "The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb" by La Reine Noire enough. (On AO3). It's a look at Shiera Seastar's life and...hobby? I'm obsessed with her and Bloodraven, and honestly, I've read this one-shot like 8 times since I foudn it a few days ago.