1. A Wish in Winter, Chapter 2


Jon rode alongside his father as they neared the crossroads. The boy knew that this would be the last they saw of each other for quite a while, perhaps years. The rest of the host trudged on ahead, even Ghost, who was currently in the care of Tyrion Lannister. Well, at least the wolf followed after Tyrion's mare without much complaint, which was more than either Jon or the dwarf could've hoped for.

"Jon."

He turned to his father, who looked stony as ever. Jon often wondered what thoughts turned in the man's head, but this time he figured they were similar to his own at the moment: all the problems they'd left behind, and what was to come next. What with Bran's fall and the clamor that arose form it, Jon felt as if they'd gone and abandoned Winterfell, like walking out of a burning house and not bothering to come back with water. Now Robb alone stayed to fight the fire, with only his mother and Theon of all people to help him do it.

"When you get there, they'll expect many things from you," Ned said. "Small things, trivial things. You might think them beneath you, as anyone would."

Jon shook his head. "I'll not complain. It was my decision, after all."

Ned gave him a smile at that, and not for the first time Jon felt his chest warm at his father's pride. That smile soured soon after, turning back to its old, stern-jawed grimace.

"I… didn't particularly want this for you. Benjen didn't either."

"I know."

"You'd have been welcome in Winterfell. Your brother would be thrilled to see you return still."

"And your lady wife?" Jon said, some venom in his voice. Ned flinched at that, and the boy looked away. It had been unfair of him to say, he knew, but despite the guilt he didn't regret saying it. When else would Jon see his father again, talk to him? If not now, when could he say these things?

"Not happily, no," Ned admitted. "But still…Winterfell is your home. It always will be." He reached over the gap between their horses, grabbing the boy's shoulder. "Jon, I know it's not been the easiest for you. But you have Stark blood in you. We're family, as you are with all your siblings. Never forget that."

Jon nodded, and his father let go with a pat. They'd reached the split. On his left, north to the Wall, his own small band of travelers already a ways onto the road. Benjen led two walking prisoners along from his horse, with Tyrion and two Lannister guards just behind. A surprise guest, to be sure, but the dwarf had justified it by pointing out the rarity of such an opportunity. When else would he be this far north again? Might as well visit the largest manmade structure in the kingdoms. On Jon's right, south down the Kingsroad, the royal escort waited for Ned to join it.

"Next I see you, you'll be in black," Ned said.

"I suppose so." Jon breathed out from his nose, looking at the distance, where the wall hid behind rows of endless trees. A chill had grown in the air, and his breath came out in vague hints of smoke. "Father," he said, low. "Did I choose right?"

Ned stared at him, face hard. "I can't say," he said. "Your life is yours to live. All I ever hoped for you was your happiness." He held out his hand, open and waiting. "But you've grown well, son. I trust your judgement."

Jon took the hand. They held each other a while, and Jon felt then the finality of the moment. In his heart, perhaps he'd expected to go back to Winterfell after all, to continue his stint as resident bastard and lord's brother. Perhaps he'd expected things to stay the same even as he knew they could not. Now, in his heart, Jon knew this goodbye to be the last they'd share.

If not now, when?

"My mother," Jon said, pulling on his father's hand. "Tell me who she was. Please."

Ned's face tightened, then sagged, all in seconds. The man closed his eyes, silent for some time. He pulled his hand away.

"Next time we see each other, Jon," he said. "Once you're sworn and weathered. I'll tell you then. We'll talk all about your mother. I promise."

Jon looked at him, quiet. He nodded once, a gesture his father returned, and then the man was gone, horse turned around and cantering towards the king's group. Jon watched him go, then turned around himself. As he went to join his own party, the boy felt that same damnable hope that had carried him through all those years resurfacing. Next time.

Perhaps there'd be a next time.


"Oh come off it, Snow," Tyrion said, sitting next to Jon on the softest patch of grass they'd been able to find. "You can't tell me you're already homesick not a day out of Winterfell's walls!"

It was nighttime. They'd made camp along the road, their horses hitched to the trees nearby, the fire dwindling in a deep orange light that cast their faces half in shadow. On their left the tree line hid what Jon knew to be several thousands of acres of forest, and on their right were wide empty plains, all tinted with a certain grey that spoke of the chill that had already reached them so soon before winter.

"I'm not homesick," Jon said.

"Then what's all this gloom about?"

"What gloom?"

"Your face," Tyrion said, returning Jon's deadpan stare. "Always a horrid sight, of course, but the constipated look doesn't do you any favors."

Despite himself, Jon smirked at that. The quip reminded him of something Robb would say, and thinking of this, the smirk disappeared once more.

They'd ambled on up the Kingsroad, trotting alongside each other. The two prisoners had tired after a few hours, though this was to be expected, and so the trip went slower than it might've. Jon figured this would be enough reason to have them at least share a horse, but according to Benjen even this would be excuse enough for an attempted escape with so little men watching over them. The boredom of hours on the road didn't take long to manifest, and added with the rising cold, the trip hadn't exactly been pleasant.

Tyrion took to whistling until Benjen insisted on his silence, the sound having annoyed the rest. After that, he satisfied himself with taking in the sights, what little of them there were. The North, as it turned out, offered little for its tourists; and except for the occasional wild animal scared off by Ghost, there wasn't much to keep one's attention. Still, Tyrion seemed to make the most of it, and was now eating his salted jerky in comfortable silence. The several wineskins he'd brought for the trip didn't seem to hurt his cheer either.

"Where's the wolf?" Tyrion said between bites. "He's some fun, at the very least."

Jon looked into the darkened forest. He could barely make anything out save the occasional rustle. "Don't know. Out finding himself a meal, I'd imagine."

"Little furball like him out there all on his own?"

"Around as big as you," Jon said, and Tyrion rolled his eyes. "He can take care of himself."

Tyrion looked around him at the others, and Jon followed his gaze. Benjen had already gone to sleep along with one of Tyrion's guard—a rather lewd man named Jyck. Morrec, Tyrion's other guard—though he acted more as a manservant, from Jon's observations—leaned miserably against a large rock nearby, having drawn the first shift. The prisoners didn't fare much better; their hands bound to each other, hitched to a tree much the same way the horses were. They valiantly attempted to sleep, and seeing them fidget and roll on the hard ground, their clothes torn and caked with dirt, Jon felt a hint of pity.

Tyrion hummed at the sight. "Poor devils," he said. With a final bite, he finished off his meal, then licked his fingers clean. "But oh, I suppose it's better than the alternative."

"What did they do, anyway?" Jon asked, poking the campfire cinders with a nearby twig. "Kill someone?"

"If your uncle's right, they got caught stealing horses. Part of the reason they weren't given one for this wonderful journey; they'd ride too well to keep a handle on."

"Horses?" Jon looked at the two men, noting their shivering bodies. "I didn't think stealing horses to be so bad as to be offered the black. They wouldn't have gotten the headman's axe, would they?"

"Oh, probably not." Tyrion shrugged. "I'd say a hand off, plus a few whippings."

"So severe?"

Tyrion glanced at him, his mangled lip quirking up. "You don't seem to put much stock in horses, Snow. Granted, they don't seem all that special to us, but imagine someone who wasn't raised in a castle? A farm without a working plow, a merchant without any way to carry his goods… For your average Westerosi, I'd say the theft of a horse could be enough to send whole families into poverty. Well," he leaned back on his hands, yawning into his hand, "into more poverty, that is. If such crimes aren't punished so heavily, you'd likely see a rash of starvation deeper than any famine could bring."

Jon's yes drifted towards their own horses. The beasts had been tired by the end of the day, but nowhere near as much as he had been, and all he'd done was ride one of them. He tried to imagine his life without the black palfrey he'd been given some years before. Steelfoot didn't draw as many eyes as Ghost, but upon further consideration, Jon figured the trip would've been just as hard on him as it had been for the prisoners without the mount.

"I guess they deserve what they get, then."

"Do they? I wonder…"

Jon gave Tyrion a strange look. "You're the one who said stealing horses could ruin whole families."

"And it could. Actually, chances are it will. But it's not like these sorry saps didn't know the consequences of getting caught." Tyrion stood up, stretching his back with his hands high in the air, or as high as he could get them. "Clearly, their being here means that, whatever their circumstances, things must've been hard enough to risk the full brunt of the law."

"They're not the only ones with a bad lot," Jon muttered. "Yet you don't see us all turning into thieves."

"I'd not be so quick to judge, Snow, seeing as you'll be joining them soon enough, along with the rest of your merry band of brothers black." At Jon's glare, Tyrion chuckled, holding his hands out in peace. "Well, it's true, isn't it? You and I were born a dwarf and a bastard, and that's too bad in its own way, but by that same token you were born into the house of Stark and I into the house of Lannister. We've got it far better than those sods, born to whores or farm girls or tavern wenches if they're lucky, and that was as much a choice on their part as our fathers were a choice on ours. Yet here we are, you and I, free and wealthy and cloaked, while there they are, bound and poor and freezing. If things were different, it might be us tied to that tree." The dwarf walked away, towards the bedroll he'd prepared beside the rest of the sleeping men. "As for me, you can bet your sweet arse I'm glad not to be that bad off. A dwarf's life is hard enough."

Jon didn't know how to respond, and either way the Lannister had lied down for the night. He looked at the fire, his eyelids growing heavy. With one last look to Morrec, who himself seemed more than ready for sleep, Jon lied back, hands behind his head, looking up at the stars. He yawned, and with a final hum, closed his eyes.


A rabbit hid in the underbrush. He knew it was there, had followed after it for some time. He knew the rabbit knew he was there too. It's why the rabbit was hiding. But hidden or not, he knew it was there, and even now he could smell its fear.

He prepared to pounce.

Something rattled behind him, and before he could refocus, the rabbit had run away. He considered chasing after it, but the rattling turned to footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

He hid, low against the tall grass. A man came out from the trees, gasping for breath. It was a familiar smell. The man turned about, eventually looked in his direction. Their eyes met, and Jon was suddenly looking at one of the prisoners, up and about in the middle of the night, hands unbound, escaping, escaping—

"—escaping! Jon!"

He bolted up. Jon patted himself down, realizing slowly that he was not, in fact, covered in fur. He could smell nothing but the ash from the campfire, burnt down as it was to the final fading cinders.

"What's going on?" he mumbled, bleary eyed. Looking around, he saw the others wide awake, lit by the moon. Tyrion stood next to Morrec, who looked particularly abashed, head low and hands clasped. The horses were unhitched, with Jyck already mounted.

His uncle Benjen knelt down before him, roughly grabbing his shoulders.

"Jon, listen to me," he said, face grave. "The two men, the criminals, they've managed to flee. Don't ask me how," at this, he sent a rather venomous glance at Morrec, "but they've gotten lost somewhere in these woods, I'd bet. Lord Tyrion has generously gifted me assistance in the form of Jyck, but I have a feeling they split up. I need you to help me comb these woods for them."

The summary gave Jon enough time to gain some semblance of wakefulness, and he found himself nodding along before his uncle had even finished. "Yes, of course," he said. "How… How are we to do that?"

Benjen helped Jon up to his feet. "I'm guessing you've gone hunting with your father." Seeing Jon's nod, the man led them to the horses. "Same thing here. Search the trees, look for signs of breakage, for tracks. It's night, but we're lucky to have a true moon out." He pointed to the road. "If they're smart, chances are they split at the road. I want you to take it back to Winterfell while Jyck rides it north. If they're smarter, they split and fled deeper into the forest. Leave that to me. I'm not First Ranger for nothing."

Jon noted that not one of their horses were missing. "They've gone on foot?"

"Likely the only way. Hard enough to run off without waking anyone as it is, and I'd bet it would be much harder on a horse."

There was a certain level of irony in that, Jon thought. Horse thieves forced to escape on foot. He looked over at Morrec, and his voice lowered. "What happened with him?"

"The fool fell asleep before he could wake me up for my shift," Benjen said, shaking his head. "It must have been hours ago now. Who knows how long a lead they have on us."

Almost like in a dream, Jon mounted Steelfoot while Benjen got on his own horse. They looked at each other, and his uncle nodded. "We'll meet back here," Benjen said. "Break the search at dawn, whether you've found them or not. We can only do so much ourselves, but I'd bet they haven't gone too far."

"Yes."

"Remember, check for anything out of the ordinary. Broken branches, a spooked animal—"

"I know, uncle."

Benjen stopped himself, taking his horse's reins. He looked to Jyck, who nodded silently, then back at Jon. Despite the circumstances, he smiled. "Call this your first scouting as a brother of the Night's Watch, then. I trust you, Jon."

Jon smiled at that, and the three of the rode out, Jyck and him into the road, Benjen into the forest.

As he rode, Jon kept his eyes on the trees, watching for any sign of disturbance. He didn't think it likely that the man had escaped by running straight down the road even if he had followed it. Close enough to see it for direction, far enough away to avoid the inevitable search, Some ways into the woods, then, and with that thought Jon dipped Steelfoot into the forest.

Time slipped, minutes passing into what felt like but couldn't have been hours. Jon wondered where Ghost had gone. The wolf could take care of himself, and had gone whole days without coming back, but Jon had a feeling he was following Ghost's trail just as much as the prisoner's. Something about these woods felt familiar. A nudging in his head.

Without even meaning to, Jon found himself honing on this nudging, trusting it, almost as if he could smell it in the air and the smell grew stronger the further he went.

A howl. Jon's heart thundered. "Hya!" he called, setting Steelfoot at a gallop.

Another howl, and before he knew it Jon had reached his friend, spotting Ghost's white fur among the shadows of the trees. To his surprise, he also found the man he'd been looking for, who was slowly backing away from the growling direwolf.

"Halt!" he said reining Steelfoot back even as the shock threatened to overwhelm him. Had Ghost led him to the man?

"Tell that fucking thing to leave me be!" the man said, a stick in his hand. He waved it forward like a sword, pointing it at Ghost, who seemed ready to leap on him at any moment.

Jon dismounted his horse, pulling out the sword he'd tied to his saddle the morning before, sheath and all. He walked briskly towards the man, apprehensive as he neared Ghost, eying the stick the man had begun wildly swinging in his direction. It reminded Jon of himself when he was only just learning the blade, a toddler pretending to be a knight.

"It's over, man," Jon said. Somehow, watching the ragged prisoner perform so ungracefully managed to calm him some. He looked down at Ghost, who still stared unflinchingly at the man but had thankfully stopped growling. "Put that down. There's no reason to fight."

"I have a bloody reason, alright!" The man stepped back, and Jon stepped forward, a hand on his sword. "I… I can't get sent to that blasted wall and freeze to death!"

"The choice was yours. Face it with some dignity."

"Dignity ain't worth my life!"

The man ran forward, arm swinging and stick with it. Jon's training came as if summoned, casting a spell over his body so that he dipped into the swing, hand on the pommel of his sword. In a flash, he cut the stick in half as it came down. The man, caught mid run, stumbled forward, and Jon pushed him with the other hand hard enough to knock him on the ground. Before the man could even sit up, Jon's sword was pointed at his throat.

"You're finished," Jon said.

He saw the man's face in the moonlight. Shallow, sharp, matted in a briskly, patchy beard. A young looking face, and Jon thought it couldn't have been too much older than his own. And there was fear. It reached up the cheekbones, stretching the lips down, drawing the brow. It lit the eyes in a desperate green.

Jon's hand trembled, but he fought to keep his face straight. A strange energy coursed through him, pumping his blood. It was the first time he'd ever truly pointed his blade at another man. With but a twitch, he could end a life then and there. That knowledge chilled him as much as it emboldened him.

"Come back quietly before… B-Before I have to do something drastic," he said.

He expected a bigger fight. He expected a peaceful if strained surrender. What he didn't expect was for the man to go limp, head on the ground, lying as if to sleep. His sword wavered, then straightened once more, eyes watchful.

"Please, m'lord..."

Jon blinked. The words finally reached him, and he leaned forward, thinking he hadn't heard properly. "… What?"

"Please let me go," the man said. Jon belatedly realized that he was crying, tears streaming down the sides of his face and into the dirt. "I just… I only wanted to feed my family. Please, I just had a child. What else could I do? We were all hungry, I thought a horse might sell for some coin to hold us over for the next few months at least. Just until the little one grew a bit. Just until she needed less food… M'lord, please—"

"I'm not a lord!" Jon snapped, out of reflex.

"Whatever you are! Please, I only want to be with my family! I only wanted to protect them!"

Jon felt himself grow angry. He inched his sword closer, almost touching the man's throat.

"Don't… Don't beg me for mercy. You broke the law. You brought this upon yourself."

"Then kill me!" The man opened his eyes wide, glaring up at Jon, face wet and nearly rabid. "I won't live without them! I'll off myself before I spend the rest of my fucking days trapped alone on that dreadful place!" He grabbed the blade of Jon's sword, holding it tightly.

To Jon's bewilderment, he saw blood start dripping out onto the man's chest, blotching his shirt. He felt his sword get pulled down. "Hey—"

"I know now… I should've just chosen death over this! I'm… I'm a coward…" The man sobbed, his breath hitching. "So end it! Kill me now and take care of it!"

Jon looked down at him, silent. His breath came out in low gasps, and he found himself hoping that this man, this thief on the ground begging him for death, couldn't see his face.

Jon gulped. His hand felt sticky against the handle of his sword. Sweaty. In a sort of trance, he brought his other hand up to wipe his brow, and saw that the hand was shaking. He stared at it, willing it to stop, but it wouldn't. It wouldn't follow his command. He willed his breath to still, and it wouldn't do that either. Jon found himself outside his own body, unable to control anything.

The man closed his eyes, teeth grit. "Do it!" He pulled the sword down until the tip stabbed lightly into his chest. He held back a gasp as blood seeped up out of the small wound.

With a start, Jon pulled his sword back, so fast it sliced into the man's hands, cutting his palms. The man shouted, holding his hands close against his body, while Jon only looked down at his sword, eyes wide. He saw the blood dripping down its length. The first blood he'd ever spilt.

"… Go."

The man stopped rolling on the ground, face scrunched in pain. His eyes rose to meet Jon's, but the boy's own eyes were on the sword. "M'lord?"

"Go! Before I change my mind!"

A moment of hesitation, then the man got on his feet, shocked into action. He began backing away, eyeing Jon and Ghost, who had watched the proceedings in the usual icy silence. When the two didn't move to stop him, the man turned around and fled, disappearing into the woods.

Jon watched him go, breath shaky, and immediately regretted it. Had the man lied to him? Hat it been an act? Did it matter either way? He ran a hand through his hair, pacing in circles.

Benjen couldn't know. Right? Jon had technically just broken the law himself. Or, if he was to go to the Night's Watch anyway, what did it matter whether Benjen knew or not? Free or a criminal, he'd end up in the same place. But it did matter, because his uncle had trusted him.

Why did he let the man go? Was he so weak-willed as to be swayed by the briefest hint of pity? Apparently so.

Jon looked at Ghost, who watched him in return. The two stared at each other.

"What do you think of all this?" he asked.

Ghost told him nothing. His eyes held no accusation or comfort. Merely a red reflection glowing in the dark.

Shaking his head, Jon looked at his sword, grimacing at the drying blood. He almost whipped it on his leg, then clicked his tongue, realizing that he'd have to tell the others he hadn't found the man at all, and therefore could not come back to them with blood on his clothes. Instead, he knelt and wiped the blade on the grass, coating it in the crimson stuff, feeling like a brigand all the while. When he was done, he held the blade up to the moon, clean and shining in the pale blue light.


When Jon came back an hour later, the sun was beginning to rise. He saw that Benjen had already returned, one of the prisoners on hand, and his stomach dropped.

"Snow!" Tyrion hailed, spotting him before anyone else. He raised his wineskin, which swung empty under his hand, flapping like a heavy flag. "Tired of frolicking about in the northern wilderness?"

Morrec hailed him as well, a dopey smile on his face. It seemed as if Tyrion had shared. Jon could only wave in return, and for the first time in his life he felt the urge to drink.

"No luck?" Benjen asked as he neared.

Jon shook his head, dismounting before the others.

"You found your wolf, at least," Tyrion said.

Ghost had already made himself at home by the time Jon neared, laying down by the now dead campfire. Jon wondered idly if the wolf had gotten any sleep at all that night. Feeling his own heavy eyes, he sat down next to the canine, placing a hand on the small white head.

"I'd guess he went further into the forest," Jon said. He'd rehearsed that one line in his head the whole way there. He didn't look at anyone, instead staring at Ghost, the wolf a placeholder for his eyes.

Benjen grunted, hands on his hips. He looked around at their camp. "Well, we got one. According to this fella," he pushed the prisoner, making the man stumble and almost fall, "the other one's the one who managed to get them untied. At least we won't have to worry about something like this anymore, am I right, friend?"

His voice sharpened at the end, and the prisoner nodded fearfully. Jon wondered what his uncle had done to inspire such fear. Had he held this one at sword point as well? Had he been given some tragic story?

"Let's break camp," Benjen said, walking towards him. "We'll have everything ready for when Jyck comes back and move out the second he does. Maybe he got luckier than you did." Reaching him, Benjen put a hand on Jon's hair, ruffling it the same way Ned so often had, the same way he so often did with Arya and Bran. It made his stomach flip sickly, and Jon had to hold down a retch.

"… I'm sorry, uncle. Sorry I couldn't bring him back."

He didn't turn around, but he could feel Benjen's smile. "No problem, pup. These things happen sometimes. It's no one's fault."

His uncle moved away, walking towards the bedrolls. Jon sat there for a moment, calming himself. Then, he got on his knees and grabbed the small pot they'd cooked soup in the night before. He carried it over to the horses, packed it away. Then he returned to the campfire and, with his foot, brushed the pile of ash down into the ground, erasing it, leaving only the barest of traces that it had ever been there at all.


AN:

Thank you for reading. Any feedback is appreciated. Follow and favorite if it's to your liking.

Also, I don't want to spoil too much, but seeing as premise is so important on this site, I can promise one thing: Jon will not stay at the Wall. I won't say how or why, but at least you know and can decide based on that whether you'd like to continue.