1. A Wish in Winter, Chapter 6 - END


Ghost ran ahead of him, and Jon could hardly see the wolf against the snow around him. It fell in a slow, gushing shower, sticking to him as mildew to grass. But he didn't feel the cold; only the burning in his chest, an anger he'd not thought himself capable of. Frustrated tears still streamed out his eyes, whipping out behind him as his horse galloped on through the wood.

It had been fine. Everything had been fine. Then it wasn't, and he had only himself to blame.

Jon tried to picture himself holding the sword to Edwen's neck and slicing the man's head off. He couldn't, not without cringing at the image, and this only caused his rage to grow. A man was dead, a good one, and Pyp might die too, and it would all be because Jon hadn't found it in himself to dole out his father's justice when he had the chance. He still couldn't.

But he would have to. Jon would not allow himself not to. His honor was at stake.

A bark. Ghost veered left, weaving gracefully around the encumbered trees and over snowswept bush. Jon's mount, Steelfoot, didn't have as easy of a time doing the same, but with Jon's swift guidance they made a valiant attempt. Edwen might be a horse thief, likely had ridden enough in the war, but Jon had been on horseback from the moment he'd been capable of straddling one. He was, if nothing else, confident in what those years had given him.

Thinking of this, his hand drifted down to the sword strapped to his saddle. After a moment of hesitation, he pulled it out and, with another moment to stabilize himself on Steelfoot's gallop, he tied the sheathe onto his belt.

Jon was getting closer. He could see tracks now, and he just had a feeling. Something in his gut boiled and bubbled the further he went. Ghost bounded forth still, following the trail with strange precision. Jon realized then with some unnerving clarity that he'd never trained the direwolf to track anything, much less another man. The smell of blood hung thickly now. Had Edwen been injured during his flight? Had he gotten blood on him from Kale or Pyp? Or was it the blood which even now dried on Jon's cloak and gloves?

He saw another horse, and with a gasp pulled the reins and slid Steelfoot to a stop. The horse just stood there, ambling awkwardly in the wood, riderless. Ghost sniffed the air, prowling around the horse, scaring it into a rolling neigh. Jon himself kicked Steelfoot to a walk, looking over the other horse in simmering confusion.

Ghost snapped his head up to the bushes. Jon followed, too late.

A slip of wind. Pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. The impact knocked Jon off his saddle and onto the ground. He shouted in both pain and surprise, landing with a cushioned thud on soft and reddening snow. Steelfoot neighed, rearing up, kicking at the air. Ghost growled, crouching low, fangs bared at something behind the trees. Gasping for air, hand clutching his shoulder, Jon saw that his direwolf was set to pounce.

"No!" he said, and to his dulled relief the wolf actually listened. "Hide, Ghost. Hide! He'll shoot you!"

Jon stayed low to the ground himself, crawling to position behind the horses. Idly, he saw Ghost dash into the trees, disappearing behind snow-capped leaves, but he was in too much pain to pay it any more mind. An arrow was stuck in his shoulder. Through his shoulder, actually; with a sharp intake of breath Jon ran a hand across his back and felt its tip stabbing out of it.

His vision wavered, head light, but a quick shake of it snapped him back. Where had the arrow come from? He needed time.

"Why, Edwen?" he called. His hand patted around the wound, getting a lay of it. Jon couldn't make himself look.

Not hearing a response, Jon clicked his tongue and tried again.

"You're a dead man! A deserter! The Watch was your last chance!" Feeling some of the old heat rise back up, Jon growled. "And you killed on your way out! How dare you?! They didn't deserve that, you fuck!"

Blood poured out of him in long streams. His head swung about again, darkness creeping over his sight. Another shake, another rapid breath, and Jon began packing snow over his wound, ignoring the red slush on which he sat. Every twitch of his arm sent a shiver of pain through his body.

A rustle. Jon threw himself sideways, not bothering to look, and an arrow shot past, disappearing behind the shrubbery with a whistle of air. He peered past the snow and saw a shadow rushing out of cover.

Grunting, Jon shot up and ran, one hand pressed on his wound, the other unclasping his cloak. He darted from side to side, and another arrow whizzed by, lodging itself on a tree ahead with a snap. Cursing, Jon rounded the tree and threw his good shoulder against it. He pulled out his sword with a heave and it slid out with a steely ring. Luckily, he'd not yet lost his sword arm, though the blade was heavy with only one to carry it.

"If you kill me here, you'll just leave more for them to track you down with," Jon said. He didn't shout, but his words carried in the silent air. Behind him he could hear the horses whine, trotting back and forth, uncertain as he.

Jon drew his sword up before him, the steel polished to a clean gleam. He'd yet to truly use it, ever. Its sharp edge seemed to cut through the snowfall, and Jon could make out his own reflection on its surface. That, and a bow being drawn.

He ducked, feeling the wind whip over him as an arrow slid through where his head had been. It clipped the wood, gouging out a nick on the tree trunk and zooming out of sight. Without a second thought, Jon leaped out, running toward the archer. He saw Edwen running back, trying to fall into shadows again, but Jon was faster despite the pain.

"Stop!" He said, and to his shock Edwen did, pausing ahead. That shock turned to panic when the man twisted, arrow notched on his bowstring and pointed right at him.

Their eyes met for the first time, and Jon could see his own fear reflected on Edwen's face. A gleam of his eyes too, and at spotting it, Jon dived, narrowly avoiding the arrow which stabbed into the snow behind him.

Jon stood up again, sword drawn back. He was close enough, one more step and he'd be within range, but in that moment his knees buckled. His head spun, vision blackened. Too much blood lost. Looking behind him in a daze, Jon saw the red trail he'd left behind him, from there to the tree he'd hidden behind to the red pile of mud by the horses.

Eyes drooping, Jon looked up at Edwen. The man breathed heavily, almost as heavily as Jon himself, looking down at the boy and notching another arrow. Jon noted there weren't many left in his quiver.

"I should've killed you when I had the chance," Jon said, both to Edwen and to himself. He saw something out the corner of his eye, a white bulge on the ground. It shifted, but he kept his eyes on the arrow pointed at his head.

Edwen slowed his breath, aiming the shot with something akin to pity. "Maybe so, Jon. But now you'll not leave me be."

Jon gripped his sword handle, readying himself. He could feel the nudge in his head, a strange touch of something warm. He tugged at it, and suddenly smelled all the blood in the world. This, he knew, was not his.

"Let me ask you one thing," Jon said. He drew himself up, back straightening, though Edwen's arrow kept him on his knees. "Was any of it true? Anything at all?"

Edwen stared down at him. "No," he finally said. "And it's no lie when I say that I'll take no pleasure doing this." He pulled the bowstring wood creaking.

Jon bared his teeth. "I will."

He tugged at the warmth, pulled it fully into himself. With a deep, guttural roar, Ghost leaped into view, biting into Edwen's bow arm. The arrow loosed. In that instant, Jon shot forward, kicking the ground with an audible crunch, sword slicing through snow and air, head tilting sideways. He felt a cut on his cheek, but drew his blade around in a gleaming arc before him.

Edwen's bow arm flew up in a spray of blood. His screams followed shortly after, not helped by Ghost's hold on his leg. The wolf pulled him to the ground, then pulled again and again, tearing open cloth and flesh.

Jon watched it in a daze, the warmth in his head all-consuming. He could taste metal, as if it dribbled out his throat. He saw all the blood in a frenzy, heard Edwen's screams turned to wailing cries, Ghost's savage growling. He dropped his sword, steel thumping softly into the snow. The wind had picked up.

Something burned on his face. Reaching up, Jon dabbed at his cheek and saw fresh blood on his fingers. The warmth disappeared, like water pouring out in a stream.

"Ghost, that's enough."

The direwolf didn't listen, tearing into Edwen still.

"Ghost!"

Immediately, the wolf stopped. Ghost stepped away from the body, white fur covered in blood, tongue lapping it up, red eyes staring up at Jon. As usual, Jon could see no anger or fear in them, merely an observant curiosity. Ghost padded over to him, then reached up and against his leg. Uncertain, Jon rubbed Ghost's head, covering it in more blood, but the wolf seemed content nevertheless.

Edwen had stopped screaming, though a low groan trembled from his throat. Blood poured out his arm in routine gushes, and Jon could see the rest of the limb up to the elbow lying some feet away. He pushed Ghost off him, and the wolf padded over to the arm, licking up its blood.

His shoulder hurt more than ever. His head felt light enough to pop out of his neck. Jon bent over to pick up his sword and walked toward the downed man, kicking away the bow that had fallen in his path. Snow continued to fall, perhaps more heavily than before, though the trees above did a good job of covering him from the worst of it.

Jon loomed over the dying man, panting.

"I should've killed you before," he said again.

Edwen gasped for breath on the ground, squirming in a red mud pile. Jon watched him, trying to raise his sword, but it was too heavy for one arm as tired as he was. His knees were shaking already. He glanced briefly over at Ghost, but shook his head. The wolf had his fill already. With a heavy grunt, Jon swung his sword up onto his shoulder looking straight into Edwen's eyes.

"Any last words?" Jon said.

Gasping, Edwen's lips moved but made no sound. He looked up at Jon as if straining to see. Finally, his voice came, stilted and halting.

"I wanted… to r-run away," he said. Tears poured form his eyes, whether from pain or terror or both, Jon did not know. "I wanted to r-run away! I w-wanted to run away… I wanted t-to r-run away…"

He babbled on, voice drifting into incomprehensible garble. Jon heard his words, feeling despite himself some amount of pity. He fought it, angered at his softness. But as much as he tried, he could find no joy in the sight of Edwen's broken form. Somber, he swallowed down the ensuing despair and stepped around to line up the cut, kneeling to prepare his arc.

"Then in the name of… of…" Jon wavered, then tightened his grip on the handle. "In the name of Kale of the Riverlands and the mummer Pypar, and in the name of my father Eddard of the House of Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and the old gods of the First Men… by the word of Jon Snow… I sentence you to die."

He lifted the sword as high as he could above his head, arm shaking in effort. With a great heave, Jon brought the blade down.

Soon after, Benjen and a few other rangers found him lying on the snow surrounded by blood, vomit coating his lips, Ghost nudging at him with a red-soaked snout. Edwen's body lay on its back, leg torn and arm sliced off. His head lay alone, cut roughly out, face frozen in death.


The maester's chambers looked more a lost library than a place where someone slept. Filled bookcases flanked the door, the tall windows, even the bed. Tables were littered with glass tubes and vials, some carrying liquids of rainbow colors, others empty and filled only with dust. A Myrish eye sat from the nightstand, pointed up at the nearby window. The room itself was dark even in candlelight, as if naturally inclined to it, hiding its black carpet in shadow.

Jon sat on a table propped against the stone wall, gasping in quick spurts every time the old steward Clydas stuck him with the needle. Maester Aemon stood nearby, leaning heavily on his cane but refusing to sit during the stitching even though he was blind and only Clydas came second to him in age and experience. Though Jon knew the maester couldn't see him, he still felt unnerved by the glazed eyes, feeling them peer into him in a way he couldn't quite place. The arrow that had stuck to his shoulder now lay alongside him in its own puddle of blood.

His back had already been sewn up, and it now throbbed in numb pangs of discomfort. They'd spilled some fire wine on the wound, though not before giving Jon a healthy dose to drink. Even with the warmth this brought to his chest, Jon's whole body still coiled and tensed like a rabbit in hunt.

"You're a quiet one," Maester Aemon said.

Clydas said. "With how drunk we got him, I'm not surprised."

"It doesn't hurt much," Jon said, not all that drunk. He grunted at another stitch. "Ah... Though I'll admit it's no mere scratch."

"Not like your face," Clydas said. "Small by comparison, but both will scar regardless."

By reflex, Jon's hand came up to his cheek. He'd not needed stitches for it, but Clyde had wrapped a bandage around his head to stop the bleeding.

"Oh, what's a life lived without a few scars?" Maester Aemon said, smiling.

The door swung open, and in walked three men: Lord Commander Mormont, Benjen, and to Jon's surprise, Ronald, the very same prisoner who he and his party had escorted to the Wall all those days before. On the Lord Commander's shoulder perched a raven, far larger than any Jon had seen before. As soon as they entered, it cawed and flew out to the window frame, looming over them with queer, beaded eyes.

Before Jon could say anything, Benjen marched over to him, nearly shoving Clydas out of the way, and cuffed him on the head.

Jon yelped, and Clyde glowered at the ranger.

"I've just about patched him up," the steward said. "I'd be grateful if you don't knock him unconscious again. Hard enough to wake him the first time."

Benjen ignored him, turning his own glower on his nephew. Jon couldn't quite meet the man's eyes.

"You foolish boy," Benjen said. "Had I found you any later you'd have bled out in the middle of nowhere. What would I say to your father then?"

Jon bowed his head, thoroughly shamed. "I'm sorry, uncle."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Benjen paced, hands on his hips, sighing in heavy, flustered breaths. "It's not like you, Jon! You're not the impulsive sort. What in the seven hells possessed you to ride out on your own? What possessed you to ride out at all? You're not even vowed, much less a ranger. You nearly died!"

His shoulders slumping lower with every word, Jon grunted one last time as Clydas snapped the string and tied the stitches on his shoulder.

The steward stepped back. "It'll take a week or two to heal," Clydas murmured. "You'll want to keep the stitches for that long, at least. Then there might be some soreness for a month or more."

Jon nodded, looking about the room at the others. Maester Aemon seemed content to listen, half-cast in shadow from the few candles around the room. The Lord Commander and his strange guest stood watching him, the former stern and the latter shifting nervously in place. Benjen didn't let off his glare.

"It was my fault," Jon said. He breathed deeply, fighting off the tremble in his voice. "When we were riding up here, and he escaped… I did catch him. I had him dead to rights. But I lied to you and let him go, because I felt sorry for him. And for that, Kale and even Pyp…" His breath hitched, and he kept his eyes pointed straight down at his knees. "Please, forgive me, uncle..."

Benjen's own breathing stopped cold. "Gods, Jon."

Jon could see his uncle nearing from the corner of his eye, and he closed his eyes, ready for another pounding. Instead, Jon felt a hand land softly on his head, pulling him roughly against Benjen's chest. The man's other arm wrapped around his good shoulder.

"You foolish boy," Benjen said. "I thought you'd died. For a second, I looked at you there on the ground and thought you'd died. Do you understand that?"

Slowly, Jon used his good arm to hug Benjen back. "Aye, Uncle Benjen" he said simply, throat constricting. "Aye."

"I can't blame you for something you couldn't have possibly known would happen," Benjen said. "But please, don't ever do something so reckless again."

They held each other, and for the brief time it lasted, Jon allowed himself this dip back into childhood.

Eventually Benjen released his nephew. They looked at each other, Benjen nodding, and Jon wiped some of the wetness that had built up on his eyes. He turned to the Lord Commander, who had stood by quietly all throughout. Jon felt embarrassed by this, but tried to regain some of the stoicism he'd thought himself a master of.

"Sorry, Lord Commander," Jon said, sniffling. "How can I help you? And, um…" He glanced at Ronald. "No offense, but what business have you here?"

"He insisted," Mormont said, stepping closer. "But first, Snow, I'd like you to tell me what happened out there. Don't leave a thing out of it."

Jon looked to Benjen. The ranger nodded, so he sighed and begun the tale from beginning to end. He started, rather stubbornly, with his own failure on the way to Castle Black. Nervously, he kept his eyes on the Lord Commander, waiting for some indication of punishment. Surely there must be some, right? Edwen's actions might not have been entirely within his control, but letting go of a convict must be a crime of some sort in itself.

But Mormont's face stayed drawn in stern attention. Jon went on about finding Kale's body, and talking to Pyp as the boy bled against the Wall. He had to pause at this, not quite believing their deaths.

As soon as he'd woken up, he'd asked. Of course he had. Maester Aemon had said the young recruit made a brave attempt, but had ultimately lost too much blood. Jon had suspected this would be the case even as he rode out through the gate. The idea had risen up in him in blunt shock the moment he'd spotted Pyp's slack form. Waking up, Jon hoped his intuition would prove wrong, but it had not, and so he'd clawed at the wine Clydas had offered him in feverish enthusiasm. Even now that the alcohol coursed in his veins and slurred the ends of his words, the knowledge of Pyp's death sobered him far more than anything else.

He explained how Ghost had led him through the snow and forest, pausing briefly to allow Benjen's own aside. The ranger had drafted two others to follow after Jon, and though they'd been right at his heels, he'd gone out of sight. They'd brought a hound, not to mention their own years of experience, yet their arrival, while impressive, had come too late to help Jon during his encounter. When Benjen asked how Ghost could have gotten such a good bead on Edwen's scent, Jon could not answer. The direwolf had come back with them and disappeared into the woods south of the Wall almost as soon as they reached the gate.

Jon described the ambush, his injury, and the subsequent battle in the forest.

"Ghost got to him before he could shoot me," Jon was saying, finishing up. "Honestly, he would've killed me in the end if not for Ghost."

"And the body?" Mormont said. He peered into Jon's eyes, and the boy had to look away. "You say you cut his arm off, and your wolf explains the leg. But what of his head? Why cut that off?"

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," Jon said softly.

"Yet you had no authority to sentence death on anyone."

"No. But he'd have died regardless by then." Jon put a hand on his injured shoulder, feeling its stable tension. "I had to kill him. Not Ghost, not the gallows, not his bleeding stump. Me. It was my responsibility. Otherwise…" He swallowed some bile. "Otherwise, what kind of man am I?"

"No man," Benjen said. "Not yet."

Mormont's raven cawed above them. "Not yet! Not yet!"

They all glanced at the bird, all unnerved save Aemon, who didn't pay it mind, and Mormont, who was surely used to it.

"Not a man, with blood on his hands?" the Lord Commander said, voice light. "I'd say you've missed out on his burgeoning years, Stark." Sighing, he slapped Ronald's shoulder, shaking the man to attention. "Well, out with it, then. You've a reason to be here, do you not?"

"R-Right." Ronald's hands came together. For the first time, Jon noticed the sharpness of his features. Though he was rather large, his nose in particular seemed thin and pointed. "Snow. Jon. Well…" he begun kneading at his knuckles, as if to crack them. "I wanted to apologize. Edwen, see, he were my brother."

"Brother! Brother!"

Of all things Jon had heard and done that day, this was likely the most surprising. He couldn't help the look of pure bafflement which consumed his face.

"Your brother?"

Ronald nodded.

"He never mentioned a brother," Jon said. "How could he not? You were in the same place all along."

"Edwen was avoiding me these past few days. I don't blame him." Ronald sighed. "It were my fault we got caught in the first place, after all. He's used to tiptoeing and such. I'm the clumsy one, and it brought us both here." He looked Jon in the eyes. "I can't fault you for killing him, Snow. You did what you had to. If anything, you even showed him some mercy in not handing him over to the Watch. Better to put him out of his misery then and there than hang him after days in a cell."

Jon leaned back, resting against the wall. "I can't accept your guilt. You've nothing to forgive."

"No. I've only grief." Ronald looked down, voice softening. "If I'm honest, I always feared for him. Ever since he came back from the war..."

Jon raised a brow. "The war? You mean the Greyjoy Rebellion? I thought Edwen wanted to go. Said he was looking for adventure."

At this, Ronald barked out a laugh. "He told you that, did he? Well…" He looked off, toward the window. "I suppose there's something to that, but the truth is it were no choice of his. Not fully, anyway."

"A draft then," Maester Aemon said. Jon startled at his voice, having forgotten the man was there. He slouched forward on his cane, resting on his arms. "Though from what I understand, tradition dictates the elder son go off for king and country."

Breathing out a cloud of cold vapor, Ronald nodded. "A man rode in through our village, saying a war was coming and Lord Karstark would need men to march under his banner. Said we had to send a man from each household. As the eldest, it were my duty to go. It should've been, but…"

Jon watched the man pause, hesitating. He felt then a return to days before, like he was speaking to the brother himself once again. "But you were too scared to die," he said, knowing it without a doubt.

"Die! Die!"

Ronald nodded, face slack. "I was, gods damn me. I would've gone anyway, but Edwen must've seen my tremors, because he volunteered in my place. To my shame, I was actually relieved. Can you believe that? Saved by my younger brother, and I'm glad for it."

Jon followed his gaze, looking out the window himself. The candlelight cast a transparent, orange glare upon it, providing them all with ample reflection. Ronald could see himself almost as if in a mirror, and Jon could see him see himself, dazedly staring at his own image.

"... I was glad, aye, until he came back," Ronald said. "Just a few months later, but there were something in him that just… died. Even when he married. Even when he sired a child. He could laugh and drink as always, but I could see whatever joy he was given, it couldn't fill up that death in his eyes." He breathed out, shaky. "Gods… How miserable he must've been…"

Jon watched uncomfortably as Ronald put a hand to his face, shoulders shaking.

"I just wish he needn't have died… That there were some other way…"

Quickly, as if just then realizing where he was, Ronald sniffed and straightened, blinking rapidly. He looked around him at the others, a shaky smile coming to place before staring off into the corner.

"Well, I just figured you deserved to know," he said. "The man who shot you, he weren't the brother I knew. Hadn't been for a long time."

They all sat in the silence of the moment. Ronald's brother or not, Edwen had killed in cold blood. This they all knew. Jon knew it. And yet, now that it was all said and done, he could feel no relief. Like Ronald, there was only grief. For Kale, for Pyp, for Ronald, even for himself. Even for Edwen.

Clydas shot forward then. "Oh, blast it!"

Jon flinched at the sudden sound, eyes shooting to the old steward. Seeing the man's eyes on his shoulder, he looked down and saw that the wound had begun to bleed again, spilling down his arm in a thin red river.

"We've to bandage this one too, of course," the man said, pulling white strips from the roll on the table. "Come closer, boy."

Jon leaned forward, allowing for the bandages to spin around his arm and chest. Humming, Mormont went for the door at steady steps.

"I suppose I'll leave the healers to it, then," he said. "Come see me in the morning, Snow."

Tiredly, Benjen followed the Lord Commander along with Ronald, the only one to hesitate.

"Get some rest, Jon," Benjen said.

Jon watched them leave, befuddled at the sudden exit. "Wait," he said, "that's all?"

Pausing at the door, Mormont glanced at a sheepish Benjen before turning to the man's nephew. He gave the boy an amused smile. "What else should I do? You meted out justice. A bit messy for my tastes, but the world's a messy place."

Benjen threw him a half-smile. "Unless you'd like us to chain you up in the cells?"

Jon shook his head, fervent, watching the men leave. Clydas, for his part, grumbled all throughout, unfurling the bandages on Jon not a second after having tied them.

"I forgot the ointment," Clydas said. He yawned, bending down to rummage under the table with heavy eyes. "Swan's touch. It won't help the wound close, but it'll ease the pain. You'll not sleep much otherwise."

"I can administer it, Clydas," Maester Aemon said, shuffling closer with a tap of his cane. "It's far too late for someone your age. Why don't you allow me and find some sleep yourself?"

Placing the green-tinted jar on the table, Clydas blinked, as if to wake himself. "Maester Aemon—"

"You've quite the walk to your chambers, whereas I've got my bed right here," Aemon said. His hand tapped Clydas' shoulder, patting it lightly. "Take it from me, Clydas, you shouldn't allow yourself any more wrinkles than necessary. Unless you think I can't so much as wrap a bandage…"

The steward drew his brows together, then yawned once more. Looking at a fidgety Jon, he sighed. "No, of course. By your leave, Maester."

"Good night to you, old friend," Aemon said. His head didn't turn to note Clyda's exit, though it did twitch at the sound of the closing door. His wrinkled lip rose up in a genial smile. "Well then, Snow, it seems you're stuck with this old skeleton. Or would you have me call you Jon?"

"Snow! Snow!"

Jon started, having forgotten the raven perched on the window. Aemon only chuckled, voice scratchy.

"Oh my," he said, "it seems our Lord Commander forgot to take his pet."

Jon stared at the bird, feeling the creature's black eyes staring back, head turning from side to side in spasms. "Jon is fine," he said.

The boy watched Aemon reach for the jar. The aged fingers fumbled around, sliding across the wooden surface before finding the glass. When they did, Aemon grabbed it confidently, hands expertly popping it open and dabbing into the ointment.

"Come closer, then."

Jon felt uncomfortable all throughout as Aemon smeared the greenish salve over his shoulder. The moment it touched his wound, Jon felt an eerie cool drift in like ice through his skin. The cool seeped into his bones, and to his awe the pain which had consistently spiked through him receded, his whole arm and chest falling into unfeeling, as if it all simply stopped existing.

"Strange substance, isn't it?" Aemon said, as if having gleamed the perplexion in Jon's face. "Made in Lys. Even if I knew the recipe, the northern countryside doesn't quite lend itself to alchemy."

"It's something, alright."

Aemon began wrapping his shoulder in bandages, fingers shockingly dexterous for their thin age. The maester reached the knot sooner than even Clydas had.

"A very peculiar series of events," Aemon said. "Though I suppose they might also be called rather mundane, all things considered. What a shame."

Head bowed, Jon looked at his hands. They still held some dried blood, though nowhere near what they'd had before his wounds were cleaned.

"He told me he just wanted to run away," Jon said. "Edwen, I mean. Those were his last words."

"Hm. Do you regret killing him?" Aemon asked.

"No." The answer came fast, enough that Jon surprised himself with its truth. Still, the tightness didn't leave his chest. "But… I wish he wouldn't have needed to die. I wish Kale and Pyp didn't die. I wish…"

"Wish! Wish!"

His hands curled into fists. "Why… Why must people die for nothing?"

Aemon finished the knot. He slouched back, leaning back on his cane. "Tell me if it's too tight."

Jon shook his head, then remembered the maester couldn't see. "It's fine," he said.

"Good. Would you please snuff out the candles on your way out? Wouldn't want a fire."

Jon slid off the table and, much to his pleasure, was able to stand without only a slight tremble of the knees. He felt stronger, even if half his torso didn't feel anything at all. He walked around the room, blowing out the tiny flames and shrouding the place in descending darkness.

As he did, Aemon shuffled to his bed across the room. He sat on it with a long, drawn sigh, resting and listening to Jon's footsteps.

"The gods are cruel," he said. "Both the old and the new. But they do have a knack for beauty." As the last candle flame blew out in thin white smoke, his leathery face turned toward the window. "Just look."

Moonlight beamed through the tall frame, casting the room in a soft, teal glow. Jon walked closer, looking out through its thick glass. It had stopped snowing, but now the ground and trees were coated with sleek white blankets, the light casting off them in crystalline waves. Even the castle walls to the south, manned listlessly by a single brother of the Watch, looked quiet and still as the forest. He'd not noticed the moon out, not until the candlelight faded.

"Pretty isn't it? I do wish I could see it," Aemon said. He turned to Jon, eyes murky but eerily piercing. "But wishes are for children. What do you want, and what can you do? That is the domain of men."

Jon looked south. He wondered what Winterfell might look like now. Staring out the window, he kept wondering, and after enough time had to cede to the weight of his eyelids. He turned to Aemon, unsure.

"Don't mind me, Jon," the maester said, bending down to remove his boots. "Have a good night. I shouldn't have to say, but try not to lie on your bad side."

"Aye," Jon glanced up. "And, ah… the raven?"

"Oh, it's alright. I'm sure he's just looking for a quiet place too. Isn't that right?"

The bird straightened, wings spread and flapping. "Right! Right!"

"Very well then, Maester Aemon. Thank you." Jon walked to the door, turning one last time to see the old man lying on the bed, lifting the sheets. As he left, he closed the door softly behind him, careful not to disturb the quiet of the midnight castle.


Two days later, Benjen found him at the stables, struggling to strap his things to the saddle with only a single arm. The huffing of horses rattled through the wooden shack, and hay lay haphazardly in piles, something which would have to get cleaned up later. Reaching him, the man took Jon's bedroll and furs from his shaking hand, packing it onto Steelfoot's croup with a small heave.

"Thanks," Jon said. He took the scabbard from his hip and strapped it onto the saddle as well. "Though I'll have to get used to doing it one-handed by myself."

"Only for a while." Benjen looked at Jon's sword. "Hand-and-a-half?" He smiled at that, ruffling Jon's hair even as the boy ducked out of his grasp. "I appreciate the irony, but you might want to find yourself a lighter one. Anything could happen out on the road."

Jon chuckled. "I'll be sure to tell Mikken. Mayhaps he'll make me a kitchen knife."

Benjen looked at him for a moment, then reached for his belt. After some fiddling, he held up his own blade, presenting it to Jon, who watched on in casual bemusement.

"An arming sword?" Jon asked. He took it, roaming the back leather sheathe, hand wrapping snuggly around its handle from cross-guard to pommel. The blade was one-handed, barely longer than his own arm.

"Close. A two-foot sword, or a ranger's sword, if you go by our terminology." Benjen watched his nephew examine the weapon, arm's crossed. "Trekking through the forest gets tiring as it is without a cumbersome hunk of steel at your hip. Not to mention fighting amongst brambles and twigs could get complicated with your standard blade."

With a twinge from his hurt shoulder, he pulled and the blade slid out with a sharp scratch of steel, revealing a fuller carved straight down the flat, almost to the tip. It was a simple thing, perhaps too simple, though its guard was smaller than Jon was used to.

Jon unsheathed it completely, holding it at arm's length. He swung it experimentally, feeling more like he was swinging a twig than a steel-forged blade.

"It's like I'm hardly holding anything," he said.

"That's the idea."

"I've seen them on you crows, but never got a chance at a closer look." Jon sheathed the sword, holding it out to his uncle. "Forget the kitchen knife, I might just get myself one of these."

"Or you could keep that one," Benjen said, not reaching for it. His smile widened at Jon's slow comprehension, and he held up a hand when the boy looked to dispute. "I insist. It'll keep you safe, as it has kept me for all these years. That and… I'd be heartened if you had something by which to remember your days here, short as they were."

Jon looked at the sword, then at Benjen. Finally, he went to strap it onto his saddle, just beside his own. Without a word, he turned and hugged his uncle.

"I'll remember," he said.

After some astonishment, Benjen returned the sentiment. "Is there anything that could convince you to stay?"

"Ha. Maybe a thousand gold dragons." Jon pulled back, hand reaching to his horse. "I thought you didn't want me here in the first place."

"I didn't. At first." He watched Jon climb onto the horse, black cloak billowing with the motion. "But I spoke too soon. You fit well here."

They left the stables out into the yard, where the day had begun in earnest. Brothers strode by in groups of twos and threes, some toward the hall for a late breakfast, others toward the elevator to start their shift up on the Wall. A few of the recruits had already started to shovel out the snow under the watchful eye of Ser Thorne, freeing some space for arms training and dumping the excess onto chest-high piles. Among them were Grenn and Sam, who at seeing Jon dropped their shovels and ran over to him. Thorne of course began to sputter some warnings, but at Benjen's halting hand he settled for a spiteful glare before shouting louder at those who remained.

"Leaving so soon, Lord Snow?" Grenn said. He'd begun to smile some again, a stark difference from even the day before, and now sported a full smirk up at the mounted boy. "I always knew you'd think yourself too good for this place!"

Not long ago, Jon might've hidden his offense behind an icy mask. Now, he heard the jest for what it was. "I stayed so as to not make you jealous," he said, making an effort to look smug. "But I've only one life, and I'll not spend it on this rock."

"Eh, it grows on you. Like frostbite, but it grows." Grenn offered a hand up at Jon. "Good luck out there."

Jon leaned down and they clasped arms. "Save some of it for yourself." They grinned at each other, then Jon turned to the other recruit. "And you, Sam? Thought over my offer?"

Sam straightened, scratching at his thin, patchy beard. They'd all ragged him for it, but to his credit Sam had kept growing it nevertheless. "I did," he said, nervously. "Truly, I did, but it wouldn't be right for me to give up on this quite so easily. Er, not that you're giving it up easily, or even at all! Urgh…"

"Don't worry, I understand what you're saying." Jon offered the larger boy his hand. When Sam took it, Jon tightened his grip, smile softening. "You're a brave man, Sam. Try not to let these reprobates tell you any different."

"We'll treat Piggy with all the dignity he deserves," Grenn said, throwing an arm around the lordling's shoulders. "You come visit one day, Lord Snow. We'll shock you with our manners."

"Don't let me go on a lie," Jon said, voice dry. He let Sam's arm drop, hands wrapping around the reins of his horse. He looked at Benjen, who had stood silently during their farewells, and the man winked back. Nodding, Jon raised a hand at the three of them. "Until next time, then."

"Farewell, Jon," Benjen said. Stepping forward, he held out a rolled up piece of parchment. "Don't forget to write?"

Jon paused, then took it and stuffed it into one of his saddlebags.

"Never," he said.

With a kick, Jon drove his horse to a canter toward the castle gates. Sitting on their own horses, Tyrion and his guard watched him near. Yoren, the wandering crow who would be joining them on their way south, sat saddled nearby, talking to some of his own fellows.

Lord Commander Mormont was there, to finish some business and say his own farewells. It wasn't every day that a high lord came up for a visit, and it was even rarer for one to promise his support. Tyrion, of course, had taken full advantage of the good graces this offered him.

"Took you long enough," the dwarf said as Jon neared. "I never thought you'd be the sentimental type."

"Oh, stuff it." Jon said, pulling on the reins.

Mormont chuckled. "It's not easy to say goodbye to family." He turned to the Lannister. "Farewell Lord Tyrion. You were a funny sort."

"And you weren't nearly as dour as the rest of these grim northmen, thank the Gods for that." Tyrion turned his horse around, trotting to the gates. "Two days to Winterfell, Jon! Let's not make it any longer. And you, crow, let's get a move on now!"

Jon readied to follow, but before he could Mormont reached up to pat his horse on the neck.

"It's a shame, really," the Lord Commander said. "We could've used another good man on the Wall."

"You've many already," Jon said.

"It's never enough. But be seeing you, Snow."

Jon nodded. "Give Maester Aemon my farewell."

"I've a feeling he already knows, but worry not," With a final pat, Mormont stepped out of the way, hand waving. "May the gods light your way."

Giving the castle one final look, Jon found Ronald by the doors to the hall, looking at him over the yard. He raised a hand, the man returning it, before turning to trot out after his departing party. Jyck, Morrec and Yoren were already muttering amongst themselves, deep into some discussion he couldn't begin to place, so he pulled up alongside Tyrion ahead of them. They crossed the gates and rode along the road.

"You know, for a second there I was convinced you'd stay," Tyrion said. "Just a second, of course. But still, what changed your mind? No more honor to be found here at the Wall?"

"There's plenty," Jon said. He glanced at the short man, noting the special saddle built seemingly for Tyrion and Tyrion alone. "Don't take this the wrong way, but do you ever wish you weren't a dwarf? Surely you must, every once in a while."

Tyrion hummed, facing forward. "Once in a while, yes, I'll admit it." He glanced at Jon, smirking. "But then I recall all the tits I've fondled regardless, and decide self-pity isn't worth the effort. We all must work with what we have."

Jon laughed. "I agree," he said. Then, softening, he gazed at the road stretched out before them. He breathed in the morning chill. His smile dropped, and all Jon could feel was a mixed calm. "I always wished I wasn't a bastard. The Watch didn't care, not truly, and I thought that there I could make a name for myself. And I could. I think so, anyway."

"Not exactly surrounded by immense competition," Tyrion said.

Jon scowled at the man, who merely shrugged in response. The boy sighed.

"I suppose you're right in a way," he said. "Everyone at the Watch is there because they've nothing left to lose. Even the ones who didn't come in shackles." Shaking his head, Jon's eyes returned to the road. "But I've plenty to lose still. To pretend otherwise would be easy, but it wouldn't be right. I won't run away anymore. If I'm to be a bastard, I'll do it south of the Wall where it matters. Everyone else will just have to accommodate it."

Tyrion looked straight at him, a glint in his eye. Nodding, he seemed to gain energy with each clop of his horse. "And what will a bastard south of the Wall do, then? I can't imagine it'd be very interesting."

"My father told me that next time we'd meet, he'd finally tell me about my mother," Jon said. "I figured I might as well take him up on his offer, if sooner than we both expected."

"Sounds like a quest!"

"If you can consider a simple ride down the Kingsroad a quest, I suppose I've met your expectations." He grinned at Tyrion. "Speaking of which, I find myself at a distinct lack of faithful companions. And while Jyck and Morrec might be good for a laugh or two, you seem like a dwarf in need of matching wits."

"I'll have you know, bastard, there's none with a wit to match mine," Tyrion said, returning the smile. "But a scarce resource shouldn't be taken for granted, and I suppose you've enough relative to everyone else."

"Spoken like a true Lannister. Your greed knows no bounds."

"We in civilized society call it resourcefulness. You northerners still stand to learn much, it seems." Tyrion looked around them then, eyes roaming the tree line. "And what of your direwolf? Don't tell me you've left your pet behind."

Amused, Jon nodded his head just behind the dwarf. "Look for yourself."

Tyrion turned in his saddle to see Ghost prowling behind them, weaving between trees, red eyes stuck on their party in stoic vigilance. His white fur seemed invisible against the snow, and at some moments Tyrion could place him by the eyes alone.

"That's simply terrifying," Tyrion said.

"It takes some getting used to."

Like that, the two continued to chat. Ghost followed after them in silence, leaving his own paw prints on the snow, and by nightfall he joined them at their fire, eating from Jon's hand, feeling the cold pull back from his fur on their way south.


AN:

That's the Wall. Thank you all for your incredible support. Please keep reviewing, following, favoriting, sending me PMs, all that. I truly do appreciate it.