1. A Wish in Winter, Chapter 4
Blood filled his mouth.
It tasted like biting on liquid steel. He drank it up along with the meat, devouring it along with tiny chunks of bone. His throat rumbled of its own accord, a low tenor which shook his whole body and fed straight into his ears, muting everything behind a dull throb.
When he finished, the carcass was unrecognizable. Some animal, no doubt, obviously one smaller than him. If it had been bigger it wouldn't have gotten eaten. And soon enough, he knew, soon enough he'd be bigger than anything. The knowledge sat at the back of his mind, a truth like the sky above his head and the coming cold. As the sun rose and set, he grew bigger, and once he was big enough…
A howl in the distance. He didn't respond. He never did. Its kind was not his kind. He listened to it a moment, heard it fade to the wind. A beat of silence. Another howl. A beat. Another.
Silently, he slipped into the shadows, searching for his next meal.
Jon leaned back just as the dull blade swiped at his neck, missing it by inches. All as planned, of course—the wind-up had been that of a carpenter with a sledgehammer rather than that of a swordsman, so it was easy to read. Another swing. Jon stepped around it, shoulders slack, his own sword held lightly at his side.
Grenn tried again, an overhead, and this time Jon stepped into his guard. Grenn's wrist slapped against Jon's shoulder, hard enough that the sword slipped out of his grip and clattered to the ground.
Grimacing, Jon stepped back, rubbing his shoulder. It couldn't hold a sword properly, but that swing wasn't something to scoff at. Jon knew that Grenn and some others recruits were stronger than him physically; many had been carpenters or farmers or smithies, toiling every day under hard labor. And yet he'd won again, if only because a hammer or a plow was not the same as a blade.
The small crowd around them groaned as one. It was a routine they'd built over the previous few days, so it was easy for Jon to ignore. He bent down, picking up the dull sword, and held its handle out for Grenn.
"Good fight," he said.
Grenn grabbed the sword, pulling it roughly out of Jon's hand. "Oh thank you, Lord Snow," he said, walking back into the crowd. "So grateful for your kindness."
Wordlessly, Jon made to follow Gendry, but a barking voice stopped him.
"Hold there, Snow." Allister Thorne watched over all the sparing that went on under his watch with the same dethatched fury, but when it came to Jon he seemed to have taken a special interest. "Not a bruise on either of you. Is that what you call a fight?"
Jon shrugged. "If it ends, it ends."
"And without neither of you having learned a thing." Thorne crossed his arms, a vicious glint in his eye. "Makes me think you need a proper challenge. Castle trained boy like you, I'm sure you're getting bored up against all this lowborn fodder, am I right?"
The crowd of recruits grumbled at that, shooting both Thorne and Jon needled looks. Thorne preened in the anger, while Jon could only struggle to keep a straight face.
"Hard to get bored with a sword swinging at you," Jon said.
"Oh, but you make it look easy." Thorne's eyes roamed over the recruits. "You, Pimple. And Halder there."
Said men perked at that, and the two were men, or at least close to it. Halder was older than most of the others, with a thickening beard and squared shoulders atop a large body built from years as a stonemason's apprentice. Pimple, whose real name was really Albett, suffered from his namesake, with a face puffed in red blots. Like Halder, he was also one of the older boys, and though he wasn't quite as muscular, he more than made up for it with size alone, standing a head over even Thorne, arms thick as tree trunks.
"Give Lord Snow a good fight, will you?" Thorne's smirk curled further up with each word. "Let's have everyone sleep with some bruises tonight. Hard work is something to be proud of."
The two recruits didn't need much convincing. They grabbed a pair of swords off the nearby rack, then stomped over to Jon amongst a fading 'ooooh' from their peers. Jon watched them come, wanting to protest. He opened his mouth to, but at seeing Thorne's face, and the faces of everyone else, he decided against it. They all hated him already; no reason to have them all think him a coward as well.
Instead, he took on the stern mask of his father, grim and stalwart, like a pike man standing against a cavalry charge. He raised his training sword, tip pointed between the two men, still in the cold air.
Halder and Albett looked at each other, then split around Jon, surrounding him from either side. Jon chose to face Halder, the stronger of the two men, his feet shuffling as he turned, all the while keeping his ear open for what would surely come from behind.
Albett didn't disappoint. The moment Jon lost sight of the larger man, he heard the tell-tale sound of a heaving step, a great scratching of dirt, and in a second he twisted around, blade up.
He parried the wide swing that had been coming for his neck—and Jon had guessed that it would be the neck, or at least the head—and rushed forward. He twirled around Albett, keeping the man between him and Halder, who had tried to take the opportunity to slash at his open back. He then pushed Albett into a charging Halder, and the two men bumped ungracefully, arms flailing carefully around each other.
Jon breathed out, air drifting slowly out from his nose, before bringing his sword up again. He waited, allowing the men to regroup, Albett straightening with a face reddened all the more by embarrassment. They faced him, even more hesitant than before, shuffling forward in half steps, and Jon saw it as his chance to end things.
"That won't work," he said, tonelessly, like reading from a book. "Splitting off, it's obvious what you'll do."
It wasn't, but his words had the intended effect. The two glanced at each other, anger bubbling up their faces, and charged him all at once, sword hands drawn back as if to throw stones. Seeing this, Jon stepped forward to meet them halfway, right before their swords were set to come down. He then turned around and spread his legs, bending his knees slightly so that his feet came to rest right inside their step. The two men, too slow to react, finished their stride, their ankles locking up with his and, with a heave of inertia, tripping the both.
Halder and Albett fell face-first, hands coming up to stop their fall. Still, they landed in a gasping heap, flat against the ground. Albett even dropped his sword.
There rose another round of groans, though this one dotted with bouts of laughter at the expense of the two on the dirt. Jon looked at Thorne, who had watched the whole thing with amused indifference, arms crossed.
"Looks like you won't be learning much today either, Snow," Thorne said. Louder, he addressed the whole lot. "Alright ladies, that's enough of my time you're wasting. Same hour tomorrow, and don't let me catch you somewhere else."
With that, he walked off, not sparing a glance behind him. The rest began to disperse too, splitting into groups of two or three, heading to the hall for dinner. Halder and Albett threw Jon a final scowl before doing the same, and soon enough he was left alone on the yard.
Sighing, Jon put his sword on the rack and readied himself to carry it back. They weren't to leave it outside after all—had been told not to by Thorne their first day of training. Ideally, he'd have someone to help carry them all back to the armory, but the others had learned to leave him with such trifles as a reward for hours of humiliation.
Well… All but one of them, at least.
"I'll push again?" Sam said, hands already reaching for the wooden rack.
Jon nodded, walking around to the other side.
Slowly, they half-carried, half-dragged the rack of a dozen or so training swords across the yard, not bothering to look to any of the other brothers around for help. When it came to the recruits, the ones under oath seemed to steer clear unless they had no choice. Benjen's words from his first day came back to him then, and Jon wondered if it was some unspoken rule to let the new members deal with their own problems.
A problem he'd accepted, Jon knew, and the thought made him sigh again. He looked at the only person who'd stuck by him, and he felt some gratitude towards Sam, the large boy puffing and sweating through the trek, arms already shaking even though Jon was pulling most of the weight.
Soon enough, they reached the armory. It was, unlike the rest of the castle, lacking in open space. Weapons littered the walls, lined up from top to bottom, some old and nicked, others entirely unused and clean. Hundreds of years of weaponry stacked one atop the other. Jon could almost believe that the dirt under his feet was merely rust built over centuries of aging steel.
There was no door, merely a wooden canopy open to the yard, silent save for the constant ring of hammer on iron that came from the forge just alongside it. Jon could hear that ring now, looking over at the blacksmith as he dragged the rack of swords, sharing a nod of greeting before he stepped further inside.
"Thank you, Sam. Again." Jon let the rack go with another silent huff, dusting his hands off.
For his part, Sam had to put a hand on the wall, bending over to regain his breath. "No need to… t-thank me."
Jon considered offering some help, but not knowing what this might entail, remained in place. "I'd pull it all back myself, Sam," he said instead. "Why not leave with the others?"
"Ah, w-well…" Sam managed a smile, though a weak one, face a deep red from the effort. "It'd b-be… unfair w-wouldn't it? Though I d-don't see why… ha… no one uses wheels around here!"
"It's because you kids need some discipline pounded into your skulls."
Jon and Sam both turned at the new voice, the latter with a startled gasp. It was the blacksmith, Donal Noye, his sole arm brandishing a newly polished axe. The man, towering high over both recruits, strode in with nary a glance at them, heading straight for the armor stand by the corner, one surrounded in mounds of unleathered steel plate.
Surprising both boys, Sam was the first to snap out of the shy quiet the sudden entrance had produced. "What do you mean, Ser?" he said, regaining some energy.
Donal huffed out his nose, dropping the helm right onto the stand and crouching in front of the plates. He began piling some atop one another, sandwiching sheets of steel—unused breastplates, cracked gauntlets, and whatever else had been abandoned to the armory's edges over the years. He spoke without turning around, voice rough and deep like any northman's, yet clearly southron in accent.
"Up here, no gods will save you from harsh winters," he said. "All we have is each other. Murderers and thieves we may have, but brothers of the Watch are expected to fight and die for one another if need be. And nothing brings men closer together than complaining about the ones ordering them around. The more to complain about the better."
Sam and Jon looked at each other, the latter shrugging.
"I suppose that makes sense," Sam said, haltingly.
"Hundreds of years of tradition? I'd hope it does," Donal said. The steel piled, he grabbed the whole heap with one massive hand and picked it up, sliding it under his arm like a book. "Well, boys, keep up the good work."
He walked out, rounding the corner toward the forge. Jon and Sam stood in the armory, watching as he disappeared, only then noticing the fading light outside.
"Dinner should be ready soon," Sam said. He glanced shiftily at Jon. "Might as well head there now, no?"
The Tarly's face looked hopeful enough that Jon almost agreed. A pause later, he held up his hand.
"I'm not hungry at the moment. I might stop by the kitchens later."
Sam's face fell, cheeks hanging low. "Oh, no problem. I'll see myself there, then." He started away with an uneasy smile. "See you, Jon."
"See you, Sam."
The large boy left. Jon waited, considering what to do. He hadn't straight out lied—he really wasn't very hungry. It made him feel a bit bad, as in his days here Sam was the only one he'd formed something of a friendship with, though even that might be too strong a word for it.
The first time he'd eaten in the hall, Jon had sat with the rest of the men, another face in a nameless crowd, watching ahead as Tyrion and his uncle Benjen had sat with Jeor Mormont and the other high officers of the Watch. After a week of eating with the two as equals, as mere travelers on the road, the sight had brought back some uncomfortable memories. The whole hall reminded him too much of Winterfell, as small as it was in comparison, and as much as it made him miss his family it also made him resent them just a little.
Benjen, as he had warned Jon, was far too busy to pay much attention to his nephew. The two only ever saw each other briefly, so brief as to inspire nothing more than a nod or a smile. Even Tyrion, without any responsibilities to steal away his time, seemed content to remain in the company of the Lord Commander. It made sense, Jon thought. Why hang around some random bastard, particularly one who spent his days doing chores with a bunch of other hapless recruits? It didn't sound very entertaining.
Jon closed his eyes, breathing in. Exhaling, he let his mounting frustration roll off him like water down a hill, into a stream and, eventually, out to sea. He felt the same disaffection he'd assumed throughout the week emerge from somewhere in his chest, and he welcomed it greedily, bathed in it, so that his face became as stony as what he imagined his father's to be. Perhaps he'd find Ghost for entertainment. After all, he hadn't come to the Watch to make new friends.
"Really taking in the stink of the place, huh?" Turning to the voice, Jon saw Grenn step inside, a sword in hand. "I'm sure it's to your taste."
"I was just bringing these back," Jon said, cocking a head at the rack of swords.
"Well, you forgot one." Grenn held the blade out. "On the ground. I guess you couldn't see Pimple drop it under that big head of yours."
"… Guess not." Jon walked forward, hand out. "Here, I'll—"
He stopped cold when Grenn swung the blade at him, the arc stopping just short of his neck. Jon looked down at the steel, raising nothing more than a brow.
"Oops." Gendry placed the handle in Jon's outstretched hand. "Almost had you there, Snow. You should work on those reflexes."
Jon could've said that he'd stopped just far enough that the sword wouldn't have hit anything. He could've said that the only reason he hadn't held his arm out to stop it was because the swing would likely have hit his shoulder anyway if he'd continued walking ahead, the dull edge bouncing off uselessly. Instead, he turned around and put the sword in the rack.
"I guess I should."
When he turned back to Grenn, the larger boy was scowling.
"You know, maybe you shouldn't show up tomorrow," Grenn said. "Save us all the trouble of losing."
"We're all required to meet for training."
"You just like stuffing us down, is that it?"
"Not particularly."
Glaring like a demon, Grenn's hand snapped out and caught Jon's collar in a clawing grip, scratching at skin under the cloth. "You bastard… Just looking at your smug face pisses me off!"
Jon looked at the other boy, calm still. Or rather, he forced himself to be calm. He had to fight against the urge to reach up and twist Grenn's arm right out of its socket.
"There's not much I can do about that," he said.
His head snapped back, followed by the rest of his body. Jon found himself on the ground, holding his cheek, vision blurred. He saw Grenn looming over him, hands clenched, chest heaving, and then he was up again, arm jumping up, fist smashing into Grenn's jaw in an uppercut. The sound of teeth snapping together cut across the castle clamor.
Grenn stumbled back, hands over his mouth. He glared at Jon, speechless from pain, before holding a hand out to see it stained with some blood. A bit dribbled out from the corner of his lip, and the sight of it Grenn marched forward, an arm already drawn back. His fury was such that he did not look at Jon as he neared, eyes set forward in blind purpose, and seeing him come Jon felt a rising note of adrenaline up his throat.
"That's enough."
Grenn paused, and Jon had to blink away the adrenaline that had so focused his vision. The two turned to see Donal along with another recruit who Jon recognized as the dreaded prisoner he'd let escape, something he was at the moment too frazzled to really process. As it stood, the man only lingered shyly at the armory's entrance with Donal, pretending not to see either of the two inside.
Donal stepped forward, his single arm still holding the hammer he'd only just been using to pound steel. "I don't care if you bruise each other senseless, but it won't be done at my forge. Take it outside if you must. Better yet, stop acting like overgrown children."
Jon bit back the urge to blame Grenn for starting it, and from the corner of his eye he could tell the other boy had almost done the same for drawing blood. Instead, they stood awkwardly, glancing at the men and then at each other before Grenn grunted and spit a glob of blood onto the ground. Without another word, he walked off, passing silently around Donal and the other man, cradling his jaw all the while. He looked back at Jon, frowning, before rounding the corner.
They all watched him leave, then Donal huffed, waving his hammer carelessly at the armory. "You'll find some over there by the corner. Shouldn't have any rotten through, but I'd pick from the right just in case."
With that, he left as well, walking back around to the forge. It took Jon a moment to realize those words hadn't been meant for him, and by the time he did the other man had closed in. Jon flinched as he neared, but the man merely walked by, heading for the bows hung along the corner wall. Upon reaching them, the man paused, turning to look at him.
"… Would you mind much joining me for target practice? I'm a bit rusty and… well, I guess we should talk."
The man smiled nervously, his large forehead creasing inward. Jon nodded, and saw him pick out two bows along with a quiver full of arrows nearby. The man looped it all over his shoulder with a grace Jon didn't expect and made his way outside. After some hesitation, Jon followed.
The Wall gleamed orange, as if aflame, casting the yard in artificial daylight. Where it anywhere else, candles might've begun to get lit, but at Castle Black the stewards still had an hour with which to save wax before nightfall.
"… What's your name?" Jon asked after some time. They'd set up some forty meters from a target, one among three beside the keep. The other two were unused, most brothers trained in archery out on rangings or merely busy elsewhere. All but this new one, who hit only a few inches off the bullseye.
"Edwen. After my grandfather." Another shot, another swift thump of iron on hay and straw.
This time, he did hit the bullseye. Jon saw this with some surprise, noting Edwen's measured draw, the grace and weight in his stance. The castle-bred boy thought himself better, but not by much, and there was something about the way Edwen reached in his quiver and plucked an arrow without a glance that made him doubt even that.
"You're good," Jon said, leaning against the barrel he'd dragged over to place his own bow on. "I didn't think…"
He stopped himself, but Edwen hummed, smiling sheepishly.
"Didn't think some cowardly horse-thief could know much beside sniveling for his life?"
Jon looked down, arms crossed. "Not how I'd put it."
"Then how would you put it?"
"Well… where'd you learn to shoot? Self-taught?"
Edwen breathed out, slowly slacking the bowstring. Stepping back, he held a hand out at where he'd been standing, the other offering his quiver. A second of pause and Jon had picked up his own bow, taking the quiver and slipping it over his shoulder.
"I practiced a bit on apples hanging from trees as a young'n. Later signed up with Lord Karstark to fight the rebellion."
Jon nocked, drew. "The Greyjoy rebellion?" He loosed the arrow, and it hit close to center, though not as close as the others. He grimaced, then cringed at the way it flexed the bruise quickly purpling on his cheek.
"Aye, to fight the Ironborn. Just a boy, really, looking for action. Couldn't have been much older than you, I think."
Tall. Lithe, though his arms held something of the muscle one would expect from an archer. Hair that slicked down and framed a youthful face. Jon noted all this as he drew again.
"I remember you telling me you had children of your own," he said.
At this, Edwen soured, lips set in a line. "… Just the one. A girl, some four months old now."
"And I let you go for her."
"Aye."
"And now you're here."
"…Aye. Caught me some miles down the road the next morning.
Jon loosed the arrow, and this time it hit center, right beside Edwen's. He gulped, frowning, then puffed his chest and glared at the man.
"If you tell anyone—"
"I won't." Edwen calmly raised his arms in surrender. "Gods, you saved my life!"
Jon glowered at him, hiding his relief with the same stony expression he'd become so adept at using. Truthfully, he had no plan for how to go about an Edwen set on ratting him out. Part of Jon wasn't convinced he would actually carry it out his threat. Another part of him wondered at the ease with which he'd managed to threaten the man in the first place.
A growl. Jon looked down to see that Ghost had chosen that time to pop out from wherever he'd been hiding all day. Teeth blared, the direwolf merely sat and stared menacingly at Edwen, who stepped back, eyes growing wider.
"Down, Ghost."
The wolf quieted. Bending down, Ghost began sniffing at the ground, licking his snout. Jon could hear the sigh come out of Edwen at that.
"I'd almost forgotten about him," Edwen said, smile rattled. "You've a terror of a friend there, Jon Snow."
Ghost now stood at his knees. What had once been a pup sniffing at his heels was now comparable to a full-grown hound, if a bit small for one. Jon hadn't noticed the growth, but now that he did the speed of it made him shiver. For a brief moment, he wondered how much Ghost would grow in the coming months, in the coming years. A strange sensation came over his tongue, and with sudden confusion Jon recognized the taste of blood, a taste which left as soon as it came, slipping away like a dream upon waking.
"I'm glad we're in agreement, then," Jon said, unfocused. He put down his bow, hands trembling. He felt cold. "Farewell, Edwen."
He heard Edwen gasp out half a word as he walked away. He didn't turn around.
"I'll not forget, Jon Snow!" he heard. "You saved my life!"
The words, said spiritedly, served only to hammer at his guilt. The cold penetrated his skin, sinking into muscle and bone. He heard Ghost trotting across the yard beside him, and did not look down at the sole friend he had in the world. Instead, his mind swirled with that abrupt truth. His one friend was a wolf. Though he'd always wanted to be a Stark, the comparison unnerved him more than it pleased him. Edwen's parting words echoed in his head. I'll not forget Jon Snow! Snow! Snow! Though he hadn't been to the top of the Wall since his first day at Castle Black, Jon knew with a certainty he couldn't place that the snow he'd seen creeping southward had leaped forward.
The bruise on his cheek throbbed. Jon put a hand on it, inhaling in pain.
"You look pale, friend!"
Jon stopped and turned in a jolting pivot. Stood before the gate as he always seemed to, Kale waved. That very morning he'd stood before the gate, waving to the small band of rangers off beyond the Wall. If Benjen was to be believed, Kale did this at every ranging, dawn till dusk, ever watchful for those returning.
Looking at the man's friendly face, Jon said the first thing that came to mind.
"My face hurts."
At this, Kale noticed the purple Jon hid behind his hand.
"Ah. Yes, that's hurting alright." The large man drew back. "Here, I've an idea that could help."
Jon looked down at Ghost, who didn't seem hackled and instead looked ready to leave for something more entertaining at any second. He followed Kale, and the two soon stood along the Wall. Kale put a gloved hand on the ice, looked about him. Jon and Ghost waited idly, the former watchful for the other brothers walking by.
Kale grabbed the knife strapped to his belt—a Night's Watch standard, Jon had noticed—and bashed the handle against the ice. He chipped away at it, eventually breaking off a chunk large enough to fill his hand. Stepping back, he huffed and handed the chunk to Jon.
"Here, lay it against your cheek. Should help some, at least."
Jon took the chunk, sticking it against his face with a twinge as it burned cold on his skin. Despite this, he felt a slow release of the chill that had gripped his insides, and Jon found he could breathe deeply again.
"Thank you…" Jon said, sighing. Soon enough, the bruise was numb. Jon nodded toward the hole Kale had made. Relative to the structure itself, the damage was inconsequential, but the ease with which it had been dealt surprised him. "Is it alright to eat at it like that?"
"Oh yes. Where do you think the courts down south get all their ice?" At Jon's uncertain look, Kale chuckled and pointed up. "See for yourself."
Jon drew his head up, eyes scanning the side of the Wall like a solid horizon. He saw a vast and uneven expanse of bluewhite ground, broken up only by the elevator, thin staircases, and the occasional brother hanging by ropes tied to the top. It was this last sight he focused on, having seen them from an even further distance upon first taking in the impressive construct. Now, somewhat closer, Jon saw the bags they each carried with them. Narrowing his eyes even further, he noticed the pickaxes they held, the sprinkle of white dust which popped out in sporadic intervals and drifted to the wind.
"They're all picking away at it?"
The question came out of him more from wonder than curiosity. Kale had followed his gaze, looking fondly up at the black-garbed figures.
"That's right," he said. "Day and night, we've got them in shifts. Mostly builders under the careful eye of Othell, though we've a'times had recruits up there too." At Jon's bleached face, Kale laughed, slapping a hand against the boy's back. "Oh, I'm joking, Jon! We'll not send you greenies up there unless you want it! Not many do, as you might imagine."
Jon rolled his shoulder. The man's arm hit like a horse. "Isn't it dangerous? I suppose the Wall's big enough, but I'd think there's no reason to risk thinning it."
"That's the magic, lad. This here Wall's a tough one." Kale lay his hand against the ice again, smile softening. "Maester Aemon says he can't rightly place whether it's the cold this far north or Brandon the Builder himself come to protect us beyond the grave, but the icy shell always grows back. Even now it grows back, like it's alive."
Frowning, Jon looked at the hole Kale had made, watching for anything.
"I guess it's a bit filled in…"
Kale hummed, looking back at Jon. "Takes time. Long time, but it never stops. I'd not watch for it, though. What's the saying, 'a watched pot never boils?' Regardless, it's come in quite handy for the Watch. Ice straight from the Wall sells well, and gods know we can always use the money."
Jon walked forward, put his own hand on the wall, then leaned his back on it, shoulders sagging. It was cold even through his furs. When he sighed, he saw the frost in his breath. He noted the brothers passing by, their patchy coats. He noted the castle walls, cracked and in some areas outright crumbled. He remembered dinner that night, the slop he'd likely be served, along with the piss drink they called mead.
"We certainly can," Jon said.
Kale must've heard the defeat in his voice. He patted Jon's shoulder, leaning at his side. "Look up, lad. The place might be rough around the edges, sure. More than anywhere else in the kingdoms even. But a home's a home. Better than what many have out there."
"I thought…" Jon drifted off, unsure. If anything, he didn't want anyone to listen to him complain.
A gust raced through the yard, ruffling his hair. Ghost drew closer, sitting by his feet, and even Kale breathed out a lungful of fog.
"Twenty years here and I'm still not used to it," Kale said, crossing his arms, hugging himself against the wind. "You northerners might not understand this, but this place is damn cold, even in the depth of spring."
"We're not even out of spring yet."
"Don't remind me…"
"Why stand out here all day then? Twenty years here, I'm sure you could pile the task on someone else."
Kale smirked at him. "Volunteering, are you?" At Jon's grimace, he laughed. "Oh, don't pay me any mind, Jon. Someone needs to open and close this thing," Kale said, pointing a thumb at the gate. Then, smile softening, he sighed. "And, well… Cold as it is here, it does me good to offer up what warmth I can. I'd not last a day out on a ranging, but I like to think a laugh or two can help the boys who do go out."
Jon stared at him.
Hearing his silence, Kale combed his beard. "Mayhaps it's silly…"
"No! No, I mean…" Jon finally noticed the wetness on his face, and taking his hand away, saw that the ice had melted to almost nothing. His cheek was numb, thankfully, and save for some discomfort he could hardly feel the bruise. "I think it's a very honorable thing."
He thought of Sam, and Grenn and the rest of the new recruits. He'd kept himself away from them for reasons he barely understood. The Watch wasn't what he'd been expecting, that was certain, but now he could barely remember the image he had in mind whenever Benjen visited Winterfell, riding in all in black like some altered knight. Wearing those same clothes, Jon felt the exact opposite.
His stomach growled, a sound like rubber twisting on itself.
"Sounds like you could eat something," Kale said.
"Right." Jon pushed off the ice, drying his hand on his cloak. "I'll see if there's anything left at the hall. Thank you for the ice, Kale, and for… Well, thank you."
Kale watched him go. "You're welcome, I suppose." He combed his beard again, then looked down at Ghost, who didn't look about to leave. Crouching, Kale scratched the direwolf, under his ear. "You're a quiet one, aren't you?"
There was only a smattering of brothers left in the hall by the time Jon entered. The wind outside, beginning to howl with the darkening sky, shut out along with the closing of the door, and all Jon could hear in the large room were whispered conversations over a snapping fireplace.
The head table was entirely empty, all save for Tyrion, who had no responsibilities to get back to and therefore could afford to take his time. The dwarf looked over at him, raised his goblet, and at Jon's nod got back to eating. Jyck sat beside him, with Morrec likely in the stables feeding their horses. Alone as they were, there was plenty of space beside them.
But Jon already had a seat saved somewhere else. He turned to the only table in the hall with more than a couple of men.
Night's Watch recruits spent their first few weeks on the Wall training and doing chores, and it was during this time that their character and skill would be judged by their seniors. Those deemed worthy would be allowed to take their vows, while those found wanting would traditionally be turned away, thrown to a long trek back home. In recent years, with the surge of criminals without anywhere else to turn, the traditional decline slowly shifted to a mere delay, so that recruits not allowed to become brothers in full would be given as much time as it took to prove themselves. Either that or, as a last resort, the death penalty they had escaped in the first place.
Outside of their two core duties, then, Night's Watch recruits had plenty more time than their pledged counterparts, though they might not always recognize it. So, when Jon turned to the only crowded table, he wasn't surprised to find his fellow recruits, most of whom he'd left after training that day.
Without a word, Jon walked towards them and, upon reaching the bench, sat and began serving himself with what little scraps were left. The conversation quieted. Jon could feel their eyes like stones against his skin.
"Why, hello Jon!" Sam was sat right across from him, a conscious decision on Jon's part. "I hope you—" Sam's eyes widened. "Oh, what happened? Did you fall?"
Jon raised a hand to his cheek, which had begun throbbing again, if mildly. He shot a look over at Grenn, who looked back at him with equal stern apprehension. The other boy had an equally purple bruise on his chin.
"I didn't watch where I was going," Jon said. "My fault."
The two stared each other down, until finally Grenn scoffed and gobbled a spoonful of his soup.
"Shows where all that castle training'll get you," he said. "Can't even walk straight, can you, Snow?"
The others chuckled, but for once Jon didn't feel insulted. Instead, he managed a smile of his own. "Truth is, they have us run into walls on purpose," he said. "Toughens you up, but scrambles your brains forever."
This got a few laughs too. Soon enough, Pyp joined in and took all the attention, fortifying the clownish reputation he'd already made for himself. Jon chatted with Sam awhile, ate his fill of bread and jerky, and watched along with the others as Halder arm wrestled all comers. He even tried his own hand at it, though he lost not five seconds in, which elicited another round of jeers.
Jon took them in stride. Later, as they walked out of the hall onto their late night chores, Jon saw Grenn nursing his jaw, as if trying to find a loose tooth. When Grenn caught him looking, the boy spat on the ground.
"I'll admit," Grenn said, "those walls you lot run into work wonders if you're the average castle bloke."
"Takes years of practice," Jon said.
For the rest of the night, they helped some the castle builders oil rusty doors for the coming winter.
Thanks for reading.
