Castle Black
The rookery at Castle Black was filled to the brim with the rough brushing of wings and the squawking cries of ravens. Jon dug his hand into the bucket of chopped meat he held, trying to ignore the slick squish of the mince between his fingers. He threw a bloody handful into a cage, then hurried to throw another so the ravens would not fight over the food.
"I was still young when I joined the Night's Watch," said Maester Aemon, who, despite his unseeing eyes and ancient gait, was somehow making quicker work of his own bucket than Jon was. He laughed the wheezing laugh that was quickly becoming so familiar.
"Well, not nearly so young as you are now, Jon Snow, but young enough."
"Why did you?" Jon asked. "Come here, I mean."
He already knew that the maester had refused the crown for himself when the council had asked him in secret, yet surely a life serving as Grand Maester in King's Landing was more comfortable than feeding the ravens raw meat in this wretched cold. He had said he was happy to help Maester Aemon, but it was rather hard to mean it, feeling his hand make contact with the cold meat slops yet again.
"Ah, just because I had refused the crown does not mean all the lords accepted my choice. My brother had travelled long with a hedge knight, you see, and many lords considered him half a peasant." Jon had heard of Ser Duncan the Tall. Perhaps Old Nan had told of him in her stories. Had he come to Winterfell before? That was another question to ask Maester Aemon later.
"You were concerned that scheming lords would rise against your bother in your name?" he asked.
"Smart lad." Jon felt his face flush, glad that Maester Aemon could not see. "They could not stand for a man so sympathetic to the small folk on the Iron Throne, these lords, and the whispers at court were so loud that it was an open secret. And so I petitioned my brother and convinced him this was the only way. He emptied the dungeons and sent them with me so that I would not say my vows alone. And it was not only prisoners who accompanied me, sailing with pomp and ceremony to Eastwatch."
He turned to fix his milky eyes just above Jon's eyebrow. Jon looked back, his eyes having gone wide, and did not realise until a raven screeched particularly loudly that he had stopped tossing in the meat. He resumed his work.
"Have you learned, in your lessons, of a Bryden Rivers, Jon Snow?"
"He was the one they called Bloodraven? It's been said that he stopped two Blackfyre rebellions, and he had a thousand eyes and one," Jon said, squinting to remember his history lessons.
"Yes. Yes, that was Lord Bloodraven. He was in the dungeons then, too. He came to the Wall with me, and his archers all joined him out of loyalty. He became Lord Commander later. That is another story."
"Why was he in the dungeons?" Had there been something about the council that had chosen Aegon V as king? Why hadn't he paid more attention to Maester Luwin?
"Kinslaying. Oathbreaking," said Maester Aemon. "He promised the Blackfyre heir safe passage, then beheaded him when he arrived in King's Landing. Egg did not know what to do with him. He knew why Lord Brynden had done what he did, and yet he could not leave him unpunished. And so…the Wall."
"That was smart of King Aegon then," Jon said. Maester Aemon wheezed another laugh.
"Oh yes. Egg could be impossibly smart at times."
Jon couldn't help smiling at that. He liked these stories, he was finding. And if he could forget the stains of pain the knowledge of his true parentage left behind, he found he rather liked the knowledge that Maester Aemon and Egg were his family.
He and Smalljon Umber had been at the Wall for a fortnight, and in the past days since his recovery from blood loss, Jon had made it a habit to come help Maester Aemon feed his ravens, using it as a thinly veiled excuse to talk with the man who shared his hidden blood.
The maester did not know it, of course. When Jon had asked that first day, under cover of the cacophony in the rookery, who Maester Aemon's namesake had been, the old man had raised his surprised eyebrows so high that Jon wondered if they would soon fly off his wrinkled head.
"I did not think a forgotten old man would interest a young lad like you," he'd said, his wrinkles deepening with thought.
"Since my name is of so much interest to you, I can only imagine you have guessed who I am."
"I…yes," Jon had replied, for in the days of bedrest he had racked his mind for his history lessons. "If I am right…if I am right, your brother was King Aegon V Targaryen."
And you are my great uncle many times over, Jon had thought distantly, the realisation surprisingly frosty cool.
The maester had levelled Jon an unseeing stare, his face mild and loose.
"And right you would be, Jon Snow. But now you must answer my question in return. Why do you ask after a past and a family that have dissipated like so much smoke in the night?"
There was a soft sorrow in his voice, and yet it cut sharper than blizzard winds. The words had hurt more than was reasonable, and Jon recalled again the image that had taken up root in his mind of late: a small girl and an infant, bloodied beyond recognition, lying limp as rag-dolls upon a crimson cloak. He might not have seen it with his own eyes, but his—but Lord Stark had described the carnage well enough.
The death of a dynasty. The death of a family.
Jon wished to tell him right then that he had the old maester's name. That Lyanna Stark had given it to him, that perhaps it came from the maester's own. That his blood had not run dry. Yet the thought of admitting such a thing to anyone—the very idea of forming the words on his tongue—made Jon feel like he faced an armed enemy with only a shirt on his back.
Instead, he had forced a smile on his face, hoping his desperate nosiness did not put off the maester.
"I had a toy soldier I loved as a boy. I named him Lord Dragonknight, for I admired Aemon the Dragonknight above all others. I'd only like to hear your stories is all. If you're willing to tell them."
Perhaps later, sometime much later, he could tell him the truth.
The maester had considered Jon for what seemed many like hours. Then his wrinkled mouth had curled in a smile that was almost amused.
"Lord Starks' natural son, eh? Interested in the stories I might tell. And how old are you, boy?" Jon had felt his stomach flip, but he bit his tongue and kept his voice steady. He was only being curious.
"Seven and ten."
More consideration. Then, finally,
"Very well, Jon Snow. You might come again tomorrow, if you wish."
Jon had complied most eagerly, though he was reluctant for that eagerness. If he and the Smalljon were forced to awkwardly overstay their welcome at Castle Black in their ongoing efforts to pull Sam from his madness, he told himself, he should try to make the most of his time at the Wall. This was his blood now. There was no changing that. The idea of hearing Maester Aemon speak filled a little of the ugly hole that had so recently opened in him.
When all had settled with the Tarly assassins, Jon, Theon and the Smalljon had tried yet again to convince Sam of the folly of his decision. Theon had even paid a visit to the Lord Commander, intent on convincing him to eject Sam from the recruits because of his near coercive circumstances.
That encounter had been like walking into a stone wall. Sam trained with the recruits of his own free will, the Lord Commander had growled, and he would say his vows unthreatened. While it was unfortunate that the struggles of family and realm had been brought to a bloody end at the Wall, the Night's Watch took no part. They buried the two guards with the rest of the unmarked dead and pretended as if none of it mattered.
"Gods, this is ridiculous," Theon had said, rubbing his nose, face still twisted in annoyance. "Can't we just knock Tarly out and carry him back in a sack? Enough of this nonsense."
The Smalljon laughed while Jon shot Theon an impatient look.
"And then what, back at Winterfell? We lock him in a tower?"
"Well, until Lord Stark strikes some fear of the gods into Sam's wart of a father, aye, I say that doesn't sound so bad."
Jon rolled his eyes.
Theon glared. "Again, not hearing any better ideas from you."
Jon glared back. The Smalljon cleared his throat. It was rather a strange situation, having Smalljon Umber playing peacekeeper between then, but strange situations had rained unyielding down upon them of late.
"Well, I'd say the thing to do now is get news to Lord Stark," said the Smalljon. "There's got to be, oh, some sort of law Randyll Tarly is breaking with this. Your father's Hand of the king now. Can't he just detach Tarly's head from his body for trying to commit murder?"
Jon shook his head and exchanged a frustrated look with Theon. They both knew it would not be so easy. It was not the way things worked down south. Lord Stark might be Hand, but Randyll Tarly was a bannerman of Lord Tyrell, and no matter what the laws said, the Lord of Highgarden would not look kindly upon an intrusion in his jurisdiction. By the time evidence could be gathered and the right people placed before judges, Sam would have long sworn his vows.
"First order of business is to send a messenger post-haste," sighed Jon. The son and the ward of Lord Stark could not send a letter accusing a Reacher lord of murder by a simple, interceptable raven.
Theon stood then.
"Well, nothing for it but I'll have to ride back to Winterfell. Robb will send a messenger right away, and we can only hope news gets to Lord Stark in time."
In the end, Theon rode out alone the next morn. Jon was still largely bedridden, and Theon had informed an eye-rolling Smalljon that he would only slow him down. For a few days after, Jon used his weakness as an excuse to wheedle Sam away from his training and work, and he and the Smalljon tried various methods of persuasion and coercion, all to no effect. Even Sam's obvious hardships in the training yard would not deter him
Luckily for them, the Lord Commander, likely for the sake of their fathers, had not yet asked them to leave, and so every evening they paid Sam a visit, trying their best. Nonetheless, more and more often now, they heard various officers complaining under their breaths.
"First the Lannister dwarf with his silks and wine, and now two green boys intent on disturbing our recruits. What'd they think this place is, a town fair or an inn?"
When it became clear that they could no longer use Jon's injury as an excuse to stay, they had taken to sparring with the officers in the mornings, while in the afternoons the Smalljon talked weapons and battle stories with officers and Jon helped Maester Aemon with the ravens. They were waiting—hoping—for news to arrive from Winterfell or King's Landing, and both felt it necessary to somehow justify their extended stay.
Jon could simply not leave Sam here to swear away his life, especially given the way Thorne was already poised to treat him once they were gone. At least the Smalljon, it seemed, had become just as invested in their task. Jon had that, if little else. Smalljon Umber was a good friend.
"Do you enjoy your lessons, then," Maester Aemon asked Jon now. "You seem to recall a great many things about the Targaryen kings."
He shrugged before remembering that the maester could not see. Maester Aemon had just as many questions for Jon as Jon did for him, but Jon didn't mind. There was something soothing—like a mint poultice on a burn—about speaking of his life to someone who had been so little involved. Someone who knew him not at all, yet felt so close nonetheless. It didn't feel like he was lying through his teeth with every word he spoke.
"Sometimes," Jon said. "If the stories are good, or if there are heroes. True heroes. Not always the ones they sing songs about, but the ones who did the honourable thing, even when it was hard. Like when Aemon the Dragonknight carried his poisoned cousin through leagues of dessert with the enemy laughing at their backs."
Maester Aemon turned to him, setting down his empty bucket.
"That is when honour matters most—when things are hard. Though, often, not hard for the body, really. Hard for the heart. Any man can make the honourable choice when it's also the easy one."
"Uh…right."
"Honour means a great deal to you then, Jon Snow? Hmm…Ned Stark's son through and through, eh?"
Jon's stomach heaved and lurched and plummeted into his gut, and suddenly he couldn't bear to look at the bucket of chopped meat.
"Of course it means a great deal to me," he protested, stumbling over his words. "Doesn't…doesn't it mean a great deal to you? Shouldn't it…to everyone?"
The maester laughed again.
"Peace, Jon, I did not mean to say otherwise." His voice was creaky with amusement. "But as you've seen in your lessons, it is the rare man in thousands that always places honour above love and duty above the weakness of our human hearts. Most men are not strong enough."
"Well, my father is." The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think, but as soon as he said them he felt his face heat from the untruth of it all. Not my father. But even worse, had Lord Stark not lied all his life? To Jon and to the realm. Where was the honour in that?
But…what was the alternative? It had all been to protect Jon, had it not? The only stain on Lord Stark's honour. Protecting Jon.
Frustration swelled in his chest, and Jon tossed down his empty bucket, scowling.
Maester Aemon turned to him, and though his eyes were shuttered, Jon thought he could see right into his mind. He turned away.
"Hmmm. Then Lord Stark is a rare man indeed."
"Yes." His voice was very quiet, and Jon hated that.
The maester shuffled over to the water bucket, and Jon rushed to retrieve it for him, letting the maester wash his hands before doing so himself.
"I should think so. Most men would not bring their natural-born sons home to raise alongside their legitimate children."
Jon flinched back as if from a burning stove. It was a long moment before he remembered to say 'yes' once more, and Maester Aemon narrowed his eyes, nodding slowly.
"And Lady Stark? Is she as generous as they say?"
"My mother?" It took Maester Aemon's chuckle for Jon to realise what he meant. It was easy to forget, at times, that to an outsider Jon's very existence was seen as an act of generosity. Before, the thought would have rankled. Now, Jon could only feel numb, for what would he not give to return to those days when he was merely Ned Stark's bastard son?
"That does answer my question," he said as Jon helped him down the plank steps. Jon looked over to see him raise a shrivelled eyebrow. "Though...I suppose that is the Dornish way, regardless."
Before Jon could reply, they had emerged into the snow-white light of the doorway. Pounding footsteps greeted them, and Jon squinted at the two approaching Nights Watchmen. They seemed frantic as they called Maester Aemon's name.
"What's the matter?"
"Maester Aemon, come quick! Three of Ser Jaremy's men just stumbled through the tunnel with half their guts hanging out!"
000
"No. As I say, I have made up my mind, and the answer is an unequivocal no."
Jon felt his frustration rise. Beside him, Ghost's fur rose too, and Jon set a hand on his neck. Commander Mormont shot Ghost a steady look but did not seem at all bothered by the change in the air.
Jon was sitting before the desk in the Lord Commander's chambers while the old bear glowered and shook his hoary head. He was being stubbornly unreasonable, and Jon was nearly out of patience in his quest to change his mind.
"But Lord Commander, I'm perfectly cap—"
"No! You and the Umber boy have stayed at the Wall as my guests, disruptive even as the queen's own brother was not. I have made no protest, but it is unthinkable that you should come with us on this ranging."
He turned his hard eyes on Jon.
"Your father would not thank me for it, and you haven't the right besides. Only rangers of the Night's Watch have the privilege. You are but a green boy with no intention of joining the Watch. I have no reason to allow you anything, let alone beyond the Wall on such a dangerous endeavour."
When it had become clear that Uncle Benjen was very late in returning to the Wall from his ranging, the Lord Commander had sent various parties out to search for him. Ser Jaremy Rykker had been one of these leaders, setting out with two groups of six rangers. The three injured men who had come back through the tunnels had been the only ones to survive. That was all they managed to relate. They had been able to speak little more than jumbled nonsense before they too had perished from their wounds.
Their abdomens and chests had been ripped open, the edges of the wounds raw and jagged, as if it had not been steel but teeth and claws that had attacked. The wildings truly were savages, to butcher these men so. They must have frightened the wits from them too, for they spoke madness before they died, stuttering on and on about dead men and terrible blue eyes. About bony, unrelenting fingers clawing at their flesh.
Mormont seemed most convinced that there was something occult and dark beyond the Wall—something beyond just the wildlings. But surely not. Surely this was the work of that wildling army Father had mentioned to Robb in passing one day. If they were planning for an attack on the Wall, it would be most prudent to take out as many individual rangers as possible, to whittle down the force of the Night's Watch.
The Lord Commander was now preparing for a great ranging, determined to find out what precisely happened to all these men. Jon was determined to join them and find Uncle Ben alive. He could not bear the thought that his uncle had met a fate similar to those men awaiting burial. No. He was out there, and Jon would find him.
"Benjen is my uncle, Lord Commander," Jon said now. "Stark blood. If this ranging party is partly to look for him, it is natural that I should come."
Commander Mormon glared, his jaw tightening beneath his shaggy beard.
"You insult the Watch with your words, Jon Snow," he snarled. "The day Benjen Stark joined the Night's Watch, he became our brother, and no longer that of your lord father. We are his family now. You have no business speaking so, not beneath my roof."
"You can't change blood," Jon said stubbornly. "He'll always be my uncle. Besides, I'll be useful to your party. I've beaten Uncle Ben in our sparring sessions at times, and I'm clearly a better fighter than many of your rangers. I know how to track and make camp and all sorts of things about surviving in the wild, too. I can be helpful to you, and Ghost even more so."
Ghost tilted his head then and lazily bared his teeth before padding a circle around them.
The Lord Commander's face continued to darken at Jon's words, but this time, he could not refute him. When Maester Aemon had first deemed Jon well enough to move about, he and the Smalljon had joined the officers in their training, sparring and exchanging technique. There were seasoned knights among the officers, to be sure, but Jon was quicker than most men. Both Uncle Blackfish and Ser Roderick said so. He'd recently sparred with Jamie Lannister and held his own for quite some time, after all, and with Wildfire in hand, he managed to best most of them.
He and the Smalljon had another reason to be in the yard, of course. Sam was with the new recruits, training under the sour-faced Alliser Thorne, and it had been clear from the first day that he was determined to single out Sam for torment. Thankfully, Sam did have more sword training than all the other men who'd come to join the Watch, so for now, he managed to avoid too much injury despite his shrinking hesitation.
And so, day after day the insults and names Thorne would shout at Sam ran clear across the whole yard. The blighter thought himself so clever, as if it were the height of wit to call Sam 'Ser Piggy'. Yet, Sam had given Jon a half-pleading look that first day, and Jon knew that if he said anything at all, Thorne would only double down on his efforts.
It had been something Jon had considered doing, though the idea shamed him. If he could make Sam's training as impossibly miserable as he could, maybe he could have a better chance at convincing him that this whole Night's Watch endeavour was madness. But in the end, Jon could not bring himself to make Thorne's abuse any worse, and so he'd had gritted his teeth and ignored the insults to his friend as best he could.
One day, however, Jon had just finished a sparring session when he'd looked over at the recruits to see three men charging at Sam with their blunted blades raised, Alliser Thorne looking grimly satisfied from the side. Sam had managed to meet one of the swords, but the others had laid their blades into his shoulder and arm, drawing grunts of pain.
Before Jon could think, he had been in the frey of the attack. In one motion he'd pushed Sam out of the way, then nearly cut off one man's arm, for it had been a long while indeed since he'd sparred with such an unpracticed opponent.
Once he'd adjusted himself, however, the three men, still barely comfortable holding swords and half-paralysed with shock at his appearance, had been easy enough to disarm. Once he'd done so, Jon had marched right over to a sneering Alliser Thorne with Wildfire's sword tip pointed right at his nose.
"What, does the bastard boy wish to commit murder now, after disrupting my training? You really think we ought to be bowin' and scrapin' just because you're Stark's by-blow, don't you?"
Before that terrible day, Jon would have lost half his mind in anger at such words. Now, the pain of the insults on his bastardly only felt cold and hopeless. Jon snarled and sheathed his sword before bending to pick up two of the blunted blades.
"You're right. Wouldn't want to put some holes in you by mistake," Jon said, tossing one of the swords at Thorne's face. Hard. To his credit, he caught it, but just barely before it hit his nose. Thorne sneered again.
"If you think you can just march up and demand—"
"Surely," Jon interrupted, stalking ever closer, "you're not afraid to spar with a mere boy, Ser Alliser, being a knight and all. Surely you'd want to show these men you're training just how qualified you are to be master-at-arms here."
Jon thought he heard Sam's voice behind him, and maybe also the Smalljon's, but all he felt then was an icy, lethal purpose. It filled his ears and pinned his eyes to Alliser Thorne's man was forced to accept.
The training swords were single-handed longswords, and for years now Jon had trained with his bastard blade, so it took him several rounds of exchanges and a hard hit on his injured arm to recover his stride with a one-handed sword. Thorne had laughed an ugly laugh when he'd gotten the blow in, but the next round, Jon had returned the favour on his left shoulder. Their swords clashed and parried twice more, Jon faked low, then, fast and hard, he brought his blade down on Thorne's exposed wrist. Hard.
Thorne had yelped like a slaughtered pig, dropping his own blade and doubling over to cradle the injured wrist. Jon had planted a foot in his shoulder, and when he fell on his arse, had not been able to resist thrusting the point of his blade at Thorne's face and asking, very loudly, if he yielded. If he'd had another blade, Jon did not doubt Thorne would have tried to shove it in his eye.
Perhaps Jon should not have humiliated Thorne thus in front of the men he was training. Both Sam and the Smalljon had told him as much, but Jon did not see how he could have done any differently. Thorne had been ignoring Sam since that day, and was that not the best course of action for all involved? Besides. Any sane man could see that Thorne would benefit from being brought down a peg or ten.
The Lord Commander was glaring at him again, and Jon felt Ghost's silent snarl rumble under his hand. He could not understand why he should refuse him. Lord Stark wouldn't be angry, and though Amma might worry, she knew that Jon was good with a sword. She knew that Jon could protect himself and survive just fine in the wild. Had she not told him that Jamie Lannister thought Jon reminded him of Ser Arthur Dayne? That conversation was a sparkling gem Jon had revisited countless times these past moons.
It was not as if they were going to war. Not really. No doubt fighting wildlings without any formal training would be child's play for a large-enough band of Night's Watchmen if they did not let the savages surprise and outnumber them.
Jon rather thought they would both be proud of him for going to find Uncle Ben. What was more important than family, after all?
"Your family comes first," Amma had always taught him and Robb. "Before ideals. Before glory. Your sisters and brother—they always come first."
Surely that extended to Uncle Ben. Jon might not be Lord Stark's son, but Uncle Ben was undoubtedly his uncle, and what was the point of being good with a sword if he must stay behind while strangers went to rescue his family?
Jon tried to speak again, but the Lord Commander cut him off.
"You really think you can take on the world, don't you Jon Snow?" His voice was low but hard as steel. Jon frowned.
"What? No, that's not—"
"You're what, boy, sixteen?"
Jon bristled.
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen. Brash and arrogant and so sure of yourself, aren't you? You think that just because you've got a wolf and some talent with a blade that you've got a right to come here, demanding to come on rangings and undermining the authority of my master-at-arms?"
Now Jon was glaring.
"Ghost isn't just any wolf. You know that perfectly well. And perhaps you ought to have a new master-at-arms. One that won't be bested by a mere boy. My lord."
"Careful, boy. You forget that you are a guest under my roof."
"And Sam is set to be a brother to you, isn't he? Everyone saw that Thorne set three men on him! You're telling me that was meant to be training? That was meant to hurt him!"
Mormont waved his hand as if swatting a fly.
"The Tarly lad is a recruit like any other, and I have given over training to Thorne. I will not have him given special treatment or see my men humiliated by you, do you understand me? Your father might be Lord of Winterfell, but I am lord here, and not yet too old. I will not hesitate to throw you out should you overstay your welcome."
Jon's teeth were grinding so hard his jaw ached. He drew himself up to his full height and glared down at Mormont. Beside him, Ghost bared his teeth and prowled forward one step, then to. Jon did nothing to rein him in this time.
"So, you will not allow me to join your ranging because I've upset your hierarchy, even though you know I will be useful to you."
The Lord Commander stood too, and though Jon was taller, his glare made Jon feel small. Ghost moved another step forward, but the Lord Commander ignored him.
"And now you accuse me of pride. You have much to learn, Jon Snow. Much you do not know. You can't even fathom the dangers that lie beyond the Wall—the savagery of the wildlings, treachery that lurks behind every tree, the darker things that creep upon one's bedroll at night. You think those are only stories? You know nothing of the world, and here you are, so sure you can conquer all because you've been trained by a couple good knights."
"I only know that Benjen Stark is my uncle. I have every right to search for him. It's my duty and my right. My—my father would think it the right thing to do. He'd join you himself if he could." Jon was sure of it.
"The answer, as I've said, is no. Out of respect for your father, you may stay here until, I assume, your friend swears his vows. But don't try me, Jon Snow, and do not try to subvert the ways of the Watch again. We have carried on this order for millennia before you and will carry on long after you are dust in the ground."
ooo
He dreamed the white dream again, the dream of impossible cold and swirling snow that cut like daggers. This time, though, he could feel Ghost's warmth radiating against his leg, and his eyes when he looked up at Jon burned like precious embers. Jon pulled closer to him as they struggled through the storm.
He hadn't a clue where they were heading or why they fought on, but something was up ahead, Jon knew. They had to keep going.
The storm seemed to die just a shade, and the murky white thinned enough for Jon to make out the formation of trees around him. There was only one path forward, and he followed it until there rose in the distance two outcroppings of rock that looked absurdly like slices of the cinnamon cake Wylla liked to make.
He had to approach. They called to him from inside his skull, but the harder Jon pushed forward, the further away the rocks seemed, until the storm once again picked up around him, blinding him with piercing light. Ghost trotted before him. He knew that. But now he was too far away for Jon to feel his warmth, and his fur made him all but disappear into the snow.
"Ghost?" he called, but his voice was swallowed by the savage wind, a sharp gust of it cutting past his stinging lips and shutting down his throat as he spoke.
"Ghost?" he tried again. This time, to his vast relief, he saw red eyes appear in the distance, and Jon ran to Ghost, ignoring the cutting snow.
"I thought I—what've you got there?"
For now he saw that Ghost had found a black lump on the ground. That was why he had run off ahead. His direwolf sniffed at the lump, pawing at it before looking up at Jon. Jon approached and froze.
It was a man, surely, though there was nothing human about it any longer, for the limbs seemed like those of a stringless puppet, and the cloak was frozen stiff with ice. He could make out the black head covered with hair clumped together in icicles. Very slowly, Jon bent to turn body over.
He saw the red first, the frosty red of exposed flesh and rusty chunks of blood. The exposed layer of fat on the abdomen had crystallised, shot through with frozen veins, and beneath, Jon could see the sickening pink of intestines, somehow so stark against the snow.
Unable to help himself, his eyes travelled from the ungodly gash, up past the torn-up chest, and finally settled on the man's face. He recognised the face. It was Uncle Benjen's face.
His rooms were chilled and damp when Jon shot up from his bed. His nose and fingers felt as if they belonged to a corpse, and for many moments he could not hear his own breath over the pounding of his blood. In a smooth motion, Ghost left up on his bed, his head tilted in question, his eyes shiny as they caught a sliver of light from the window.
The breath escaped Jon all at once, and he buried his face in Ghost's hot fur. Just a dream. Just another stupid dream.
Yet it had been Uncle Ben's face on that frozen body, no doubt about it. Uncle Ben, savaged like those men who'd stumbled in from the tunnel. Uncle Ben, still missing beyond the Wall.
"I have to go find him," Jon whispered into the darkness. "I have to."
Damn Mormon and the Night's Watch rules to all seven hells. By the time he was prepared to depart with his ranging party of hundreds, Uncle Benjen would already be a frozen lump of black and blood, Jon was sure of it. He was out there, and Jon was going to find him alive. No matter what. Before it was too late.
He owed it to Benjen. He owed it to Lord Stark. And most of all he owed it to the mother who had given her life to bring him into this world. Amma had said they were close, had she not? And unbidden came the realisation that Lyanna Stark would have gone to find Benjen herself had she still been alive. It was Jon's fault that she was not. Jon owed it to her to find her brother.
Peep Ashara majorly compensating for her own childhood trauma by making sure her sons never do what her brothers did with her. Idk if this is entirely healthy, but isn't that the way all parents are, to some extent?
And Jon's logic is…something, no? Is he on the brink of making horrible no good reckless teenage decisions? Yes. And considering he only has Smalljon Umber to stop him…no one's going go stop him. Will return to the North soon, I promise.
But oh guys, I don't know. This chapter was so hard for me to write for some reason, so I apologise if it feels a bit flat or rushed or disjointed. I have no idea how to make it better, so, here it is. Moving the plot forward, I suppose.