Indeed, the pessimism about his situation was well found, if not thoroughly underestimated—six hours later, in the hour of the owl, Jon re-realized his idiocy.
Though he desperately wished to travel the flat and steady paths of the Kingsroad, he knew he had to avoid it like the Great Spring Sickness, or else he would be stopped and questioned and be sent home in a grossly humiliating manner. Therefore, he turned west, heading for the banks of the tributary to the White Knife.
Hours of walking as fast as he could manage, and he was no closer to it; the North looked so much smaller on Maester Luwin's maps than it was in actuality. A fingernail length distance on the map was going to be days of pain—and his short legs and heavy pack would not help.
Jon's plans did not account for his inability to perceive distance. He had hastily packed a single loaf of bread stolen fresh from the kitchens—now, however, only half of one, as he had greedily scarfed several large clumps down minutes earlier. It had long turned cold, tasting like a block of frozen dirt. He cursed himself for the lack of self-control, now having to ration his meals down to meager portions.
His heavy backpack, threatening to burst open, now seemed so much more empty when he considered what items were inside. Besides his food, he had a grand total of two items: a waterskin and a sleeping bag. Though the large and thick waterskin was useful, it weighed what felt like a fully-grown bear, and took up the majority of space in the pack. The partially-camouflaging sleeping bag, or in better terms, an old, brown rucksack, also helped him avoid freezing to death or getting spotted during his rest.
His only form of protection was a steel hunting knife inside a scabbard tied around his waist, with the thin blade spanning his entire arm, while it was large for him, it was assuredly not going to do too well against men triple his size and skill.
Otherwise, he had a small pouch of coin—an accumulation of his weekly allowance, which would be otherwise useless if he doesn't make it out of the wilderness.
It turned out, to his detriment, wildlings and bandits would be the least of his worries. It was the early morning, just after he had risen from an uncomfortable sleep. The sky was fully illuminated by the sparkling sun, a coalescence of bright and vibrant lights of many shades of orange. His surroundings were clear as it could be, allowing one to have a limitless view of the land; scattered trees in the far distance were like ants in his vision.
Jon had risen from a poor and restless sleep not long earlier, and fortunately, he heard the riders before he saw them.
He was packing his items, within a patch of greenery, when he felt the distinctive soft vibrations in the earth, distant thuds of horse hooves, and they were growing closer by the second.
Fear paralyzed his body. For a second, he was convinced that it was an ironborn raiding party about to take him as a thrall, forcing him to resign to working as a slave for the rest of his life.
He berated himself for the foolish thoughts and the wild imagination: the Ironborn typically don't ride horses, especially on what sounded like cavalry. Besides, unless they had taken over half the North, there would be no way they would be so far inland, meaning what was approaching was presumably just a Northern patrol.
Jon almost allowed himself to relax, but suddenly came to the realization that he was a seven-year-old boy dressed in scrappy, dirt-covered furs and sneaking across the countryside alone, undoubtedly a patrol for a raiding party, be it bandits, wildlings, or Ironborn. The soldiers would most likely employ the policy of: skewer first, ask questions later. That (dieing) would be very, very detrimental to Jon's health.
So Jon dragged his pack along with him, crawling into a large, dense bush. He laid down, and made himself as small and invisible as he could, hoping that he would be fortunate enough to have the party pass by without a hitch, giving his patch of greenery a wide berth.
Unsurprisingly, they headed in his direction, as it was the only area of cover for miles out. As the steps grew louder, his heartbeat only grew faster—a deep and steady pound in his chest. He heard the clumsy movements, clangs of weapons and equipment, the rowdy voices of the men, tired neighing of horses, and recognized the distinct heavy Northern accents.
They made a stop to rest, halting barely a few feet from his hiding spot.
As insects, mice, squirrels, and other inhabitants of the greens crawled and scuttled uncomfortably around Jon, he spied through the foliage—at the edge of his vision—some men refilling stacks of waterskins in the stream. Directly in front of him, others started to tame a fire, unpacking meals of bread, venison, and wine to be shared.
Jon held his breath, believing himself capable of being so still that he would be invisible to the naked eye, which was a poorly thought out idea. The sounds of nature—birds chirping, leaves rustling, bugs cricketing, and countless more ambient noises—already did a fine job of obfuscating something as quiet as breathing. Quite unsurprisingly, about a minute of suffocation later, he inhaled deeply, unintentionally twitching his leg, sending a panicked squirrel scampering away, leaving a path of death and destruction: twigs snapped, the bush rustled violently.
For a moment, his heart stopped, thinking himself discovered, but was relieved the soldiers paid next to no attention to their surroundings, continuing to talk animatedly between themselves. For the rest of his uncomfortable stay in the bush, he tried to relax his body, breathing deeply to avoid spasms in his stiff muscles.
His mind, however, was lucid as ever, fearing discovery at every moment. He managed to discern some critical information, though. They were young men—green boys—with the banners of House Cerwyn, and were irate about being stationed on patrol while their other comrades were off earning glory routing and killing the ironborn.
As Jon could tell, they were barely taking their current duties seriously, thinking them useless, or else he would have been spotted in a perimeter check ages ago. The troops were prepared for (and quite literally, on) a camping trip instead of a war; their weapons were scattered around the ground, and their foodstuffs were undoubtedly not standard army rations. Ultimately, any attacking force would take them out in moments.
Even if it was advantageous for him, their utter incompetence somewhat disappointed Jon. He imagined the army of the North as courageous, unflinching, and full of honor; instead, they were as ordinary and lazy—human—as everyone else.
Unfortunately for Jon, as he learned, there would be several other parties patrolling the borders of the land, and he did not want to rely on all of them being inept. Therefore, he decided upon waiting until the coming of darkness before setting off again.
His mouth-watering, Jon was forced to inhale the smokey scents of cooking meat. His stomach rumbled loudly, causing him to tense yet again.
After an hour of unreleased adrenaline and intrusion on soldiers' conversations more immature than even his siblings, Jon was finally spared. Muttering about the possibility of being found shirking their duties by other patrols, they quickly gathered their equipment and rode off into the distance.
Jon waited several long minutes before stumbling out of the bushes, cursing as he snagged his leg on a vine.
The same routine continued for the next day—traveling under the stars, sleeping into the day. The flickering stars in the night sky were just enough so that he could avoid falling off a ledge or slamming face-first into a tree, but they did nothing to prevent him from tripping every few steps as he stumbled through the rocky terrain.
Nonetheless, the distance between himself and the tributary lessened until, finally, he heard the rush of the currents.
It was serene but dangerous — a brutal force of nature. The current was swift and unyielding, and the flow of the water could be heard from miles away, no doubt becoming more and more overwhelming as one got closer. Trees dotted the banks, swaying rhythmically, willows flowing smoothly with the wind.
He gave a cheerful sigh of relief, reprieving his worries that he had been traveling in the wrong direction (what if he was going the opposite direction… what if the sun didn't always set in the west?). His impatience had been suffocating, his stomach rumbling, barely satisfied by the final bits of his rations.
Now, all he had to do was to travel along it, find a small settlement, and pay passage to White Harbor or beyond.
After an hour of walking, he spotted it—a small, wooden rowboat with a single dark-brown sail squat on the banks. Sitting on a fallen log not afar was a man—by the looks of it—taming an amber campfire.
The man hadn't seen him yet, as Jon was laying flat on the grass, carefully observing and debating whether or not he should approach.
In the end, his reckless bravery won over, and he stood up, sore limbs tensed, and waved his hands over his head as a sign of non-agression. From the distance, he saw the man glance up, fixing his eyes on Jon.
As Jon approached, he tried to make no sudden movements, warily eying the loaded crossbow in arm's reach of the man.
The distance closed… quickly, he was within speaking range.
The man stood up. They stared at each other.
He had a slightly gaunt face—sharp, though undoubtedly still healthy and strong. Large in stature, he had a distinctively Northern look, with thick eyebrows and an untidily-trimmed beard. The edges of his coat were frayed, but his clothing overall looked to be of decent quality. He was middle-aged, perhaps close to his thirtieth name-day.
The peaked tension disintegrated in an instant: the man let out a loud, bellowing laugh. "What's a little kid doing out here? Did your mother not tell you to avoid wandering off alone?"
Jon blushed, but otherwise maintained his composure. "May I pay for passage to White Harbor?"
"Oh! How polite! You run away from home? Why shouldn't I ransom you back to your lordly parents?" He chuckled. Jon hoped he was just joking.
"I'm not true-born, you wouldn't get a single copper if you tried." Jon stated. It was true, probably, Lady Catelyn would much rather prefer him gone.
"Then… welcome! Nice to meet you! Names Stigg, I'm a bastard myself—the bastard son of a third son of some Lord no one cares about." The joyous man turned serious, "Be careful next time. Most wouldn't be so nice like me—they'd slit your throat and take your coin and be off on their way."
Jon nodded, a little pale, thinking of the other potential outcome of taking that gamble.
"Now, let us negotiate pay. I'll take ten stags."
Jon gulped, that was almost his entire purse. "That's way too much. I'll pay two… even that's overpriced."
"Do you have food?" Stigg checked his expression. "No, you don't. Hence, ten stags, or you'll simply starve out here."
"I can just walk a few more hours to any village, four is fair." Jon retaliated.
"Kid, no one else around here is offering passage to White Harbor, the last village I saw is at least a day's travel away. Besides, rowing back upstream is a pain in the arse. I'll accept ten silver stags."
Jon grouched, "Fine. I'll pay half now, and the other half when the journey is over."
Stigg snorted, "If I wanted, all your money would be mine by now, and you'd be unconscious or dead. Full payment, now."
Jon resignedly counted and handed over ten silver coins.
Stigg pocketed them and gave a brilliant grin, "Great! Nice trading with you, I would've taken two stags, or even less, by the way. Deal's already sealed now, though."
It turned out that the nearest settlement was less than an hour away downstream, with a dock lined with several sturdy boats, not that it mattered anymore.
Stigg was immensely proud of his ship, something about it having braced mighty storms and eluded powerful fleets of a thousand ships. Jon grew increasingly suspicious that this man was a smuggler, but he was too wary to ask.
The next morning, on an uncomfortable wooden block in the rocky craft, Jon had just woken from his first peaceful sleep in at least a moon. His nightly terrors of chaotic landscapes and haunting blue eyes had ceased. "Was this a good sign? Am I on the right track?" he thought to himself.
In the latter days of the journey, Jon noticed the river's width slowly increasing, signifying his approaching the fork. Not long after, he and his companion entered the White Knife's mainstem.
It was an angry sunny day, with patches of dense mist blotching bits of the sky, looming and ready to strike, but the sun piercing defiantly through it, painting the skies with blood, almost as if the Lord of the Seven Hells was personally there to greet him. The river echoed the sentiment, its usually blue color reflecting a different shade.
He was standing at the front of the boat's deck when a drizzle had started raining down, splattering him with fat, inconsistent thuds. It felt wet, humid, and sticky—uncharacteristic of the North's temperament. his hair was matted wet from the droplets, dripping into his eyes.
The light splatters were slowly evolving into a steady shower.
Stigg looked out uneasily, but assured Jon, "It will be alright, just a light rain."
The first strike of thunder came without warning, it heralded the skies pouring open, letting loose torrents of rain. Jon suddenly could not see further than ten feet around him as a dark red mist descended upon him.
Winds violently assaulted the sails, singing a tumultuous symphony. He saw Stigg shouting something at him, but his voice was lost in the chaos.
The river was flowing at an intense pace, fleeing from a hidden enemy in terror. Waves assaulted the sides of the ship, causing it to rock rapidly as it hurtled downstream.
Blinded by the droplets of the storm hurtling against his eyelids, Jon clung onto a pole for dear life. He thought that he was going to weather this freak storm when… KRAAK!—he heard the sound of wood breaking.
He glanced below him. The ship had split apart, quickly becoming an ugly mess of planks and splinters. The pole he was holding onto broke off from the rest of the carrier, and Jon was plunged into the turbulent waters.
The cold immediately sank into his bones, biting hungrily with its icy maws. He could feel the current—the roaring heart of the river—pushing and pulling around him.
Somehow, he lost hold of his wooden pole, and the river possessed his body. He could feel the direction of the flow, pushing him downstream at terminal velocity. He managed to keep his head afloat, gulping in lavish breaths of air; anyone of them could be his last.
If he wanted to live, he needed to exit this current.
With a transcendental surge of energy pulsing in his veins, Jon swam to the side, a sleek pointed-arrow, a warrior of the old defying the impossible odds launched against him. He had everything to lose and everything to gain, making him a more-than formidable opponent.
Even with Jon's limitless fortitude, nature's immobile strength easily triumphed: he was a stoppable force fighting against an unmoving object. Within seconds, he was dragged back into the epicenter.
The violent rush crashing down upon him, acting as an unstoppable fury, the pouring rain only adding to its boundless intensity. Jon was tossed around at its will, like a ragdoll, in all directions. He tried again to push forwards, to defy all odds but was instead dragged under, forcing him to inhale mouthfuls of chilling water. Desperately pushing himself upwards, he succeeded only for a second, gulping one breath of air, before he pulled back into its suffocating embrace, crushing him from all sides.
Thunder cracked in the distance, mocking the struggling Jon. He had by now been swept forwards by hundreds of feet, too much more, and he would be dashed against the malignant rocks lining areas of the river, body broken and lifeless, a willing slave, a marionette to the puppetmaster.
For a moment, he lost consciousness, his mind blanked, and his body shut down, sinking towards the river bottom, but immediately, he was unceremoniously woken by the devouring cold. Choking, pain erupted in his chest, blooming a flower of metal spikes, his mind was slowing, asphyxiating. He wanted it to end, for all the pain to flee, leaving his body an empty shell, and he didn't and couldn't fight anymore. Still, death spits him out, propelling his body to the surface again. Jon took frenzied gasps through the unabiding pain, returning to his bearings by a fraction.
Seeing through blurry eyes while his body gave tortured screams, he found himself in the center of the flow, carried forwards at an alarming speed; it was a miracle that he had not yet been smashed into a pulp by stray logs or lacerated by branches and stones.
Looking ahead, he saw a bend in the river, approaching swiftly, curving drastically to the right. He noticed the banks were smooth, downward curving, less dangerous compared to the lake of assorted, jagged rocks he passed by previously.
However, the current kept him in the center, less violent and equally fierce; it was impossible the river would wash him up at its own free will. He would get no nearer to the banks if he remained surrendered to the powers. So, once again, he tried to escape.
Several seconds before turning the corner, Jon utilized every muscle in his tortured body, every last bit of strength, in one last maddened attempt at survival, pushed himself to the left, thrashing forwards with his arms and legs, exiting the center flow, his momentum continued carrying him to the sides, closer towards the riverside.
More than a minute of agony later, he had left the chaotic rush of the currents and was in the shallow areas of the opposite side, water pushing half-heartedly against him. Paddling forwards, he threw his body out of the waters, collapsing on soft grass.
In a kneeling position, he heaved water out of his lungs, exiting his mouth and nose, his body racketing in pain, and eyes crying out tears from exertion.
Between his retching of the liquids, he took frantic gasps of air, still recovering from intense deprivation of oxygen. Several mouthfuls of water later, he had created a small puddle from the amount cleared from his body.
Too exhausted to evaluate his grim situation, he flopped down on one side, promptly passing out, allowing his suffering body a long-deserved rest.