1. A Wish in Winter, Chapter 3
From afar it had looked like a line drawn between land and sky. From up close, Jon thought it a mountain of ice grown from east to west, like a god had come down and cut out a string of earth. The afternoon sun, obstructed by a sheet of clouds, cast it in plain light which only served to blur it against the horizon, as if the wall went all the way up into a dome that ensnared all the world.
"If I piss off it," Tyrion said, breathless as any of them, "I might just kill someone by accident."
Benjen smiled at that, and at all their awed faces. "Welcome to my neck of the kingdoms, Lannister. How do you like it?"
"I like it very well. Every man's a dwarf in the face of that."
They trotted towards Castle Black, a dark and crumbling mass of stone cradled to the Wall as if glued to it. Even from afar, Jon could see the ladders and staircases that clung to its towers and battlements, many of which crept up the Wall itself. He could see something like a tube, the sole construct that ran from the ground all the way to the top, almost lost in its height.
When they reached the gate, they were met with a small band of brothers. At their head stood a stern, broad-shouldered man. His beard, white and wispy, ran down to his chest, and to Jon's bemusement, a crow sat perched atop his shoulder, black as the man's robes.
"Benjen!"' he said, breaking into a smile. He walked forward as Jon's uncle dismounted, the two men meeting with an enthusiastic wrap of forearms.
"Lord Commander," Benjen said. "Good to see you."
"And you, Stark," the Lord Commander said. His eyes drifted towards the rest. "And these lucky few?"
Benjen turned to them. "Ah, right. Some guests, and a couple new recruits."
They'd all dismounted now. Tyrion waddled right up to the old man, hand held out.
"Tyrion Lannister, my lord," the dwarf said. "I hope your hospitality is as impressive as the scenery."
At this, the Lord Commander's smile broadened. "That's a hard standard to meet. Don't hold your breath." The two clasped hands. "Jeor Mormont, at your service. I'm sure we can find you and yours some adequate lodgings. Better than what our men are used to, at least."
"And I'm sure they all live in luxury already."
The two laughed, already friends, or so it seemed to Jon. As for himself, he held back, as did the prisoner of theirs, who was currently in his custody. Benjen had given the man over to his nephew some days before, and Jon had been as proud as he'd been ashamed to be given such a show of trust.
Speaking of which, Benjen removed himself from the rest of his black brothers to stand before Jon.
"Lord Commander, this is my nephew, Jon. He came here to follow in my footsteps."
Jeor looked down at the boy, eyes searching. "Well then, Jon. If you're to stay at the Wall, you'll need darker furs. And heavier." Something caught his eye, and he turned to look around Jon. "And what's this?"
They all turned to Ghost, who'd sat quietly behind the rest, watching the welcome with red, hawkish eyes. The wolf, now the center of attention, proceeded to ignore them all and stare up at the Wall.
"Oh, that's Ghost. He's…" Jon stammered, only then realizing the absurdity of his next words. "Well, he's my direwolf."
"A direwolf?" Jeor took a step forward, and when Ghost didn't so much as twitch in response, he hummed. "Small for a direwolf. Still growing?"
Jon nodded.
"He won't be giving me any trouble, will he? I'd hate to see a mangled arm in the kennels."
"Ghost is well-trained," Benjen said. "He won't eat anyone. Right, Jon?"
"Yes. I mean, he won't eat anyone. "
"Right..." Jeor looked at Ghost a moment longer, then shook his head. "I've seen my share of direwolves north of the Wall, but I've not seen a man own one." Jeor held out his hand to Jon. "Good meeting you, Jon. Keep surprising me and I might just swear you in sooner!"
They clasped hands, Jon stammering out a greeting. Without much pause, Jeor turned to the prisoner.
"And you. Jon, let the man free." Seeing the boy's surprise, he put a hand on the prisoner's shoulder. "We're all bound to the vows here in the Night's Watch. The man's a brother now. What's your name?"
The prisoner blinked, shocked at having been addressed at all. He'd spoken very little during the trip, Jon knew, and he'd struggled the most out of all of them without a horse. Even now, Jon could tell his knees shook as much as his skin, still clad in thin linen.
"It's… It's Ronald, m'lord."
"Ronald, then. These men here will take you to your lodgings. Ready yourselves for sore backs and frosted hands."
Benjen took Jon's shoulder then. "My lord, let me take Jon up," he said. "We'll see what my nephew thinks of the view. I'll bring him down just after."
Jeor nodded, his chest rattling in a chuckle. "Sure, Stark, help yourself to it. Boy," at this, he looked down at Jon, eyes piercing. "I'll see you later, I'm sure. Work hard."
Jon nodded, watching as Jeor led Tyrion and the others toward the castle hall. Benjen waved him forward, and Jon looked back at Ghost, who sat still among the horses even as they were taken by stewards. One of these men stood near the wolf, slowly nudging closer, looking from Ghost to Jon and Benjen with wary eyes.
"Leave him be," Jon said, unsure of whether to laugh or sigh in exasperation. "He'll not hurt anyone. Not unless you try to cage him."
At this, the steward nodded stiffly and left with the others, walking the horses to the stables. A moment later, Jon waving goodbye at Ghost, he and Benjen followed.
They walked across the yard, Benjen greeting a brother here and there. Some carried piles of clothes and bags of foodstuff, huffing from one end of the yard to the other, or trained and fed the barking hounds. A forge sat along with an armory, where a pack of brothers stood jabbering and playing with steel. A few, Jon realized, actually hung along the Wall itself, wrapped in rope and tied to platforms nailed to the icy side doing gods knew what.
All these men, Jon thought, carried the same hardened demeanor, as if cloaked in ice, their steps heavy and their faces the least bit gaunt. Yet Benjen seemed to know most of them, if not all. Everyone waved back at him, their greetings wrapped in jeers.
"Stark! Had enough southron snatch?"
"I almost forgot your ugly mug!"
"You better have brought back good wine! I'm tired of the piss we've got here."
Comradery sent in ships of dirty humor. Jon felt like he'd walked into the Winterfell household lodgings. Or a whorehouse.
A group of brothers stood on one side of the yard, practicing with blunted steel. Jon saw them wave the swords around, some more skilled than others but all hardly capable, and the sight made him remember the prisoner in the forest. His mood dropped, and it dropped further when the man at the head of this group took note of he and Benjen.
"Stark," the man said, turning to them with a grizzled scowl which deepened further the closer they got. "I hoped you'd be an oathbreaker by now."
Different than the others, Jon heard no humor in his gravely voice. The man stood tall and slimmer than most, long black hair greying. His blacker eyes, passing from Benjen down to Jon, cooled everything in sight.
"As you can see, I've decided to grace you all with my presence once more," Benjen said, words straining ever so slightly. "Thorne, this is my nephew, Jon. He'll be in your care from now on."
"Another wolf thrown to the crows." Unlike the Lord Commander, this man said no greetings. Extended no hands. He only looked Jon up and down, a sneer on his face. "And a half-wolf at that. I suppose the Wall's as good a place as any for bastards."
Jon felt a fire brush at his chest, a smoldering anger. Something of this must've made it to his eyes, because the man barked a laugh.
"Hurt your feelings, boy? Get used to it. The Wall's no place for women or babes." The disgust in his face shifted into boredom. He looked down at Jon as one might the dirt under his boots. "Neither is my training yard. Can you hold a blade, or shall I be teaching you even that?"
"I trained under Ser Rodrik Cassel!" Jon snapped. "A true knight!"
"A true knight?" The man's lips curled into a slick smirk, thin and crooked. "Why, you're looking at one right now, bastard. We'll see how well your southron games do here."
With that, he turned back to the trainees, cloak sweeping up in the air and smacking Jon in the face. Blinking, Jon could feel the fire in his chest cook and bolster, and he readied himself to stomp over and shout the man into a hole. Benjen stopped him, a hand on his arm.
"Come, Jon," he said, pulling. "We're off."
With one last look at the slime of a man, Jon followed his uncle. The man's shouting voice, cruel and harsh, followed them as they went.
"That's Ser Allister Thorne, the master-at-arms here in Castle Black," Benjen said, sighing. "Quite the pleasant one, isn't he?"
"Quite the devil, more like," Jon said, his frown deep.
"If it makes you feel any better, he's like that with everybody."
They stopped close to the gate, a semicircular chunk carved out of the ice filled in by thick wooden beams. Next to it sat the winch elevator, the great iron chains strung all the way to the top of the wall. And before these two great and fundamental constructs, like a watchful bear, stood an old and bulbous brother who greeted them with jolly laughter.
"Benjen! The First returns!"
"Kale," Benjen said, and his smile bloomed in earnest.
The two men met with warmth, the larger brother taking the other up in a backbreaking hug. The sight was friendly enough to drive Jon's anger away completely, not through some magic but through the whiplash that came with such a quick release of tension.
"I thought we'd lost you to those hot springs of yours!" Kale said, voice booming and eager.
"And miss out on the first snow of Winter? I think not." Benjen turned to Jon, his own smile contagious, and before long the boy found himself grinning a bit as well. "Kale, this is Jon, my nephew. He'll be taking his vows as well."
"Ah, a family tradition, then." Kale took Jon's hand and shook, almost pulling the arm out of its socket. "Kale of the Riverlands. Always a pleasure to meet a new brother!"
"Nice to meet you," Jon said, pulling his hand back carefully.
"Yes, well, I'm guessing you lot want to take the cage up?"
Benjen nodded, and Kale went over to the winch. He pulled the lever along its side, opening the iron cage with a rusty screech. He stepped aside, hands out like a butler. "All yours, First."
"Thank you, Kale. I'll see you back at the hall."
"Ha! I'll save you a drink!"
Jon followed Benjen into the cage, which turned out to be bigger than it looked from the outside. The iron bars closed with another screech, and with one last salute, Kale pulled another lever. Jon felt a rumble under his feet, and before he knew it they were floating up into the air.
"How?" Jon gasped, looking down as the ground and the men and the castle itself grew smaller and smaller.
"Gods if I know, but it's damned convenient," Benjen said, looking at Jon with an amusement built over years of experience. "Fifty years ago we'd have needed some brothers to pull us up. A hundred years ago we'd have had to climb the stairs."
"That's incredible," Jon said, looking up at the chain-wrapped ropes which pulled them. He hadn't even known something like this was possible. The closest thing to it he'd ever seen were the toys Maester Luwin kept on his desk. Tiny pulleys and gears which John had spent his lessons examining while the learned man droned on. It almost made him regret not paying much attention.
He looked down, feeling himself a bird atop the world. The men looked like termites, and the buildings like simple piles of stone strewn about.
"Who was that man, uncle?" Jon said. "Kale of the Riverlands."
Benjen also looked down, through the iron bars, smiling softly. "A brother of the Watch just like any other," he said, shrugging. "A friendly sort. Serves him well as the gatekeeper."
"So he just stands around there all day, sending people up and down the Wall?"
"He waves us off during rangings as well."
Jon thought of himself standing still for hours on end, waving hellos and goodbyes. It seemed like a boring job to him, but the riverlander seemed happy enough.
"Why'd he call you 'First'?" he asked.
"I'm First Ranger, Jon," Benjen said. "Someone better give me credit for it."
The cage came to a sudden stop, and Jon almost fell at the shake which followed.
"We're here," Benjen said, turning around to meet the opening cage. Without any fanfare, he stepped out onto the top of the Wall.
Jon watched him go, finally able to hear the wind now that it wasn't drowned out by the creaking and cranking of the winch. It howled in a slow song, like a wolf in the distance, and Jon felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He stepped out after his uncle, and in seconds was looking over the Wall, a hand coming up on its own to rest upon the cold parapet.
A blanket of white covered the world. Jon knew this wasn't the case—only minutes ago he'd been below, walking on grass and dirt and stone. Winter wouldn't arrive for another few months at least. And yet, looking at the lands beyond the Wall, Jon could see a mass of snow reaching out from the horizon and creeping towards him with icy fingers.
"Amazing, isn't it?"
Jon looked at Benjen, who already looked far more at home atop this slab of ice than he ever had all the times he'd visited Winterfell, a leg propped carelessly on the parapet. There was awe in his eyes, Jon could see that, but it was a honed awe. Even now, the man was looking for his next trail, judging the land as much as he was wondering at it even after so many years.
"The wildlings call it the 'True North,' did you know?" Benjen said, leaning on his knee. "We in the North think ourselves so different from the Southerners. And we are, in our own way. Our traditions draw back from the First Men. Yet we've mingled with the Andals and the Rhoynar for all the hundreds of years that the wildlings have not." He glanced at Jon, a wry grin on his face. "To them, we're the Southerners."
A gust of chill wind buffeted them. To Jon's shame, he felt himself shiver even under his cloak. "I've never met a wildling," he said, trying to stop the trembling in his voice.
Benjen stared at him, smiling still, though his face straightened soon after. He looked out at the land of white again. "If you're to be my brother in black, then you should know I won't be there to baby you at every turn. We're family, but every man must make his own way. Especially here in the Watch." He put a hand on Jon's shoulder, shaking it. "We are still family, though. I've an old cloak in my chambers that should fit you well enough. You'll need thicker stuff than this if you're to remain up here."
He laughed lightly, and Jon felt a stab of guilt at knowing he didn't deserve it. The boy thought about turning the gift down, but then considered that doing so for no reason might come off as ungrateful. Also, to his shame, he felt another shiver.
"… Thank you, uncle. No," Jon glanced sideways at the other man, "First Ranger Stark. I'll be proud to wear it."
"Perhaps it'll give you luck in the coming days," Benjen said. "I know I had a hard time of it at first."
"It won't be so bad as that," Jon said, meaning that it couldn't be that bad. If it was, he'd just have to pretend it wasn't. What else could he do? "I can handle it."
The process took place every week. Someone complained about the smell, took it up with a steward, and the steward took it up with the recruits, after which the recruits drew straws. Jon, due to some stroke of misfortune, drew short, and was therefore pulling his weight, a rope over his shoulder, as he and three other boys carried a sled piled with swishing chamber pots out to the creek near the castle.
"This… is definitely not effective," one of them said, panting between words. "At least a cart... Something with wheels…"
He was a fat boy, with reddening cheeks and arms which Jon could see straining and jiggling even under his heavy cloak. Samwell Tarly, or so he had called himself, though looking at him Jon could hardly believe that he was the firsborn son of any noble family. All the ones he'd had the opportunity to meet from either up close or a distance had been closer to Robb's ilk, strong and capable.
"Oh shut it, Piggy," another said. Oafish and wide at the shoulders, taller than the rest. Grenn, Jon remembered. He took the lead, feet pushing against the ground harder than the other three.
The last, a pint-sized boy with big, wiggling ears, was Pypar, or Pyp, as he had introduced himself. Out of all of them, he seemed to be enjoying himself the most, smiling and japing all through their trek, heels bouncing off the grass. "Lord's son not used to sweat and tears, is that it? Better get used to it, heh heh!"
Jon, of course, kept his silence. There were twenty recruits currently stationed at Castle Black, and out of them only the ones considered ready would be taken the following week to the heart tree beyond the Wall to say their vows. Most were boys like him, perhaps only a bit older, though a few were men grown and bearded. The prisoner his uncle Benjen had brought back was one, currently back at the castle, probably lunching with the rest.
"At least this one's helping well enough," Grenn said, head nodding at Jon. Their eyes met. "Did your share of chores around Winterfell, Snow?"
Jon stayed silent, staring the other boy down until he looked away with a huff.
"Well, I for one don't plan on ever doing this again," Grenn said, gritting his teeth. "Some other bloke can deal with it once I'm vowed and sworn."
"You sure are confident, Grenn," Pyp said.
"Not much competition," the large boy said, glancing towards Sam, who squirmed at the attention. "Yeah, I figured it'd be a shithole, but at this point I'm just glad to be on the useful end of things."
Pyp laughed, his voice taking on an accent Jon recognized as southron, all pomp and bluster. "They'll have you knighted in a jiffy, you be sure of it! A horse and armor for our best and brightest in the ass end of the world!"
None of them laughed, though Grenn did smirk at Pyp's antics.
"You're no farmboy, that's for sure," Grenn said. "What mistake brought you all the way out here?"
Pyp shrugged, smiling still. Jon though the look glued to the boy's face, like a gremlin in constant mischief. "Oh, I was betrayed, you see. My master turned me in."
"And what for?"
"I stole his coin purse."
At this, Grenn did laugh. "There's no blaming that on him!"
Sam spoke up, his voice soft and hesitant. "What kind of master did you have?"
Pyp turned to look at him, eyebrows wiggling along with his ears. "Can't you tell? I was in a mummer's trope. Traveled all over, saw all the sights. Even seen a monkey or two."
"Monkey?" Grenn said, frowning.
"It's a kind of animal," Sam said. "A simian. By which I mean, they have feet and hands like us, though they're far smaller. Not native to the kingdoms, but I've read they can be found in the Summer Isles and a few places along the coast of—"
"Oh shut it already," Grenn grumbled. "I didn't ask for a lullaby."
Sam shrunk into himself, and Pyp only laughed at the sight. "And you, Ser Pig? What brought one of your fine stature to such an honorable institution?"
Not looking at any of them, Sam mumbled into his chest. "… My father cast me out. Not quite the son he was looking for, I suppose."
Grenn snorted. "No kidding," he said.
"Hey, we're all friends here," Pyp said, sighing in mock frustration. "Let's be cheery now."
"I can only get so cheery dragging around pounds of shit."
"Well, Grenny, what's your story then? Can't be any worse than the lordling here." He covered his mouth, looking back at Sam in exaggerated concern. "Sorry, ex-lordling. I understand if the wound's still fresh..."
"I beat the crap out of some kid," Grenn said, shrugging. "Took my girl to bed. I'd bet they're having a good time of it about now." He smirked. "Well, they would be if he still had it in him to act a man."
"Eye for an eye with some creative interpretation," Pyp said, chuckling. He then blinked, eyes widening as much as his grin. "Oh, oh! So you lost a good deal coming here then, Grenny my boy!"
Grenn frowned down at the smaller recruit. "What're you talking about?"
Pyp puffed up his chest, eyes closed and chin raised. "You see, my friend, I… am yet a maiden." Grenn broke into laughter, followed by a bark from Sam, and even Jon found it hard to reign his in. "You may all laugh, but it's true. In all my years of swashbuckling through these vast lands, I've yet to take a girl to the sheets. This may be a tragedy, gentlemen, but hear me, it's you, Grenn, who really suffers now! It's only by the cruelty of your gods that you now find yourself at the Night's Watch, forever to swear off the ecstasy of a lady's embrace!" He thumped his chest, hand over his heart. "I, at least, know not what I am losing. The veil of ignorance will save me from the horrors of an untouchable knowledge!"
"You're a funny one, Pypar," Sam said, his cheeks still red, still huffing in the effort of pulling, but the japes on his person momentarily forgotten.
"On that we can agree, Piggy," Grenn said.
"Thank you, thank you. Save your applause." Pyp turned to Jon then, who he only just realized had abstained from the proceedings. "And you, Lord Snow, what crime sent you here to commune with us scoundrels?"
"No crime," Jon said, insistent. When the other three turned to him, he paused, words catching in his throat. "That is… Well, it's my business."
Grenn scowled, and for a second Jon was reminded of Arya whenever she was forced to her rooms along with the other ladies in waiting. "Oh, come off it, Snow. We all shared ours."
"Like a story circle at a campfire," Pyp sang.
"It's only fair, right, Piggy?"
Sam stammered. "Well, it's… I mean, if you want to…"
Jon hesitated, then sighed, turning away from them all. "I came to find some honor. As a bastard…" He couldn't find the words, and so left it at that.
Their expressions all morphed into some measure of shock. Pyp appraised him like a shopper might one's wares, watching for defects. Even Sam blinked owlishly at him. Jon saw it all from the corner of his eye, his face flushing.
"You… You mean you actually chose to come here?" Grenn asked, taken back. "Here, the ass end of the world? With scumbags and whoresons and all? From Winterfell?"
At this, Jon sent the other boy a scathing glare. "My uncle chose it too, so you know. There are plenty of men at the Wall who come seeking to make a name for themselves. What's so wrong with that?"
Jon's glare, it seemed, made Grenn respond in turn. "What's wrong? What's wrong?" He stopped pulling, and the sled sloshed to a stop amidst the trees and rustling bushes. The boy threw his thick arms toward the pile of chamber pots. "Look at it with your eyes, man! We're stuck here dragging shit from one piece of nowhere to another, and you're telling me you're here on purpose? Think any of us want to be here?"
The two stared each other down once more, and this time neither backed off. Eventually, Pyp forced himself in between the two. "That's enough, ladies. You're both a sight, let me tell you."
The sound of running water met their ears. To all their surprise, they'd reached the creek without having noticed. Jon, Grenn and Sam turned to their small companion, whose ears wiggled playfully.
Pyp smiled back at them. "Now, can we please dump the stuff before my nose falls off?"
The others went ahead onto the hall for dinner. Jon stayed outside on the yard, breathing out sighs of cold smoke. The days were slowly getting shorter, he thought, seeing that it was now night.
He leaned against a fencepost, staring up. He saw the four stars of the Crone's Lantern, its golden haze marked against the white milky streak that wrapped around the dark like a river across the sky. He saw the Sword of the Morning, its pointed tip brighter than anything surrounding it, and he remembered with sudden clarity the time he and Robb had played at war, when Robb had taken on the mantle of their father and defeated him as Arthur Dayne, the broken tower serving as the Tower of Joy.
Sansa had played with them still, young enough to barely walk. Arya had yet to be born, much less Bran or Rickon. Jon remembered how, playing dead on the ground, Robb carrying her in his arms for the rescue, he and her eyes had met, and she'd smiled at him, breaking their game, a secret look between them. Never did Jon feel as at home as he did then, and for a moment he forgot that they weren't true siblings.
The stars above Castle Black looked just as they did in Winterfell, and for the first time Jon understood that they'd likely look the same no matter where he went. They would follow him, the same constellations he'd memorized at Maester Luwin's side, and it pained him to know there was no corner of the world hidden form their sight, though he couldn't grasp why.
Something nudged his foot. Jon looked down, seeing Ghost, who looked up at him, tail wagging. Walking towards them was Tyrion, who seemed to have removed himself from the hall, hand patting a full belly.
"What's wrong, Snow?" the dwarf said, stopping at his side. "The indoors too merry for your tastes?"
"I wouldn't call anywhere around here merry."
"Oh, depends how you look at things." Tyrion hopped up onto the fence, sitting on it with a dexterity belying his size. "Just look at your wolf here. Rather unfriendly at first, but I'd say he's warming up to me."
Jon glanced at Ghost as the wolf panted happily up at the both of them, tongue lolling out. He sent Tyrion a dry look.
"How much did you feed him in there?"
Tyrion looked away, feet kicking up. "He's a growing boy. Very big appetite." His eyes widened a bit, and Jon, taking note of it, followed its gaze. "Seems we've got more visitors."
A wagon came into the yard, manned by a black brother and filled with four or five other men. The two horses pulling it drew closer, until the wagon stopped just before them, the driver hailing with a hand in the air and the other on the reins.
"Let me guess," Tyrion said, a hand up in greeting, "another batch of greenhorns?"
"Aye, from all the North" the brother said, voice gruff. His black and full beard took up most of his face, though what little of it Jon could see was riddled in moles and discoloration. His back seemed hunched, but Jon eventually saw the problem came from a shoulder which seemed twisted forward, likely from some accident. "Just picked up another on the way from Winterfell too. Fucker got caught at just the wrong time!"
"Quite unfortunate," Tyrion said, deadpan.
The brother huffed a stream of cold, wispy air in a shaky breath. "Where's the Lord Commander anyway? I gotta tell him I'm back. Hopefully he'll not send me off again too soon…"
Tyrion pointed behind him toward the hall. "Eating with the rest of the men. I suppose you'd better get these fellows sorted before getting a word in with him."
"Damn." The brother clicked his tongue, then whipped the reins. "I'm no steward… Well, thanks anyway, little man. We'll see if I can pass these lowlifes off yet."
The wagon rattled forward, the men atop it sat silently with their heads bowed. Jon watched them go to the stables, his arms crossed. Then, just as they were getting too far to make out, one of the men raised his head, looking toward the hall, a hungry longing in his face. His eyes looked around before eventually settling on Jon, and with a start they both recognized one another.
The prisoner. Jon remembered that face, those hands covered in blood. The chill of the air seeped through his furs and his skin and into his bones.
"Looks like you're not the newest anymore, Snow," Tyrion said.
Jon didn't respond. He merely looked on as the wagon stopped, as the horses were freed from it, as the men were called down from its wooden step.
AN:
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