Note: Large portions are taken directly from A Song of Ice and Fire, which I obviously do not own.

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CHAPTER 6: The Ghosts of Ghost Towers

Looking to the future despaired Jon.

Ygritte was a wildling, and he kicked himself for ever daring to forget, for lapsing so much he had ever allowed himself to believe there might be more for them that than just this moment. As they journeyed through the lands on the South side of the Wall for days on end, heading for the Night's Watch, for Castle Black, they avoided discussing anything that Jon considered truly dangerous. Only once, he had tried to tell her what he thought to be the sum of the situation.

"Ygritte," he had said in a low gentle voice when it was just the two of them. "Mance cannot win this war."

"He can!" she insisted fervently. "You know nothing, Jon Snow, and you have never seen the free folk fight!"

He had heard how the free folk fought. Like heroes or like demons depending on who you asked. In the end, it came down to the same thing.

"I don't doubt that you're all very brave, but when it comes to battle, discipline beats valor every time. In the end Mance will fail as all the Kings beyond the Wall have failed before him. And when he does, you will die. All of you."

Ygritte looked so angry he thought she might actually strike him. The gleam in her eyes had looked almost wet, too.

"All of us," she had corrected him. "You too. You're no crow now, Jon Snow. I swore you weren't, so you better not be." Then she pushed him against a tree and kissed him, full on the lips right there in the midst of the ragged column. Jon heard Grigg the Goat urging her on. Someone else laughed. He kissed her back despite all that. When they finally broke apart, she was flushed and the warmth in his cheeks told him he was as well. He stared into her eyes.

"You're mine," she whispered. "Mine as I am yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon." That was the only time he had heard her call him only by his first name, he thought. "But first we'll live."

"Yes," Jon's voice was thick. "First we'll live."

He yearned to tell her the truth he hid in his heart, that his loyalty could never be to the wildlings (he wondered if it could be to her, but never thought of this too directly, lest he attempt to answer). He didn't think she'd betray him, or at least he hoped not. But he would never tell her, he knew. No matter how much he might wish to. Too many lives were at stake, depending on him somehow escaping the wildlings and getting to Castle Black before them. He had done all Qhorin had commanded of him, had ate and walked and rode and even lay with (one) of them, but still, they did not trust him. Thenn eyes were on him constantly, day and night and alert for signs he wished to betray them. Staying with Ygritte as they walked made what he had to do harder and harder. Many a night he lay warm with her, wondering if Rhaegar Targaryen had felt this way for Lyanna Stark, despite being married to Elia Martell.

It was on their third day of walking that the scouts reported a small stone cottage ahead, with a single man on it.

"A man with a horse," the scout had said.

The Magnar had summoned Jon and Ygritte to him, as well as a few of his Thenns to kill the man.

"He cannot be left behind to raise the alarm," he said, and perhaps it was so.

They entered the man's house, the man himself tightly held between two Thenns. As he was a kneeler, they made him kneel. Still, they kept both their hands on his shoulders. The man was old, older than Jon had first expected him to be. Fifty, perhaps sixty. he was encircled by wooden spears and bronze swords. He watched Jon approach but said nothing.

"He must die," said Styr the Magnar. "And I want you to do it, crow."

The old man still said no word. He only looked at Jon, standing amongst the wildlings. Feeling apprehension, Jon drew Longclaw from its sheath. He drew his sword, but then did not move.

"Why do you hesitate?" the Magnar said, staring at him hungrily. "Kill him, and be done, crow. Or I'll kill you and be done all the same."

Jon swallowed and moved the fingers on his burned hand over his sword. The man was old, he thought, older than most. And he was dead to boot, what did it matter if it was Jon's hand that slew him? It didn't matter, not when buying the trust of the wildlings was the prize. He cast his mind back to another time, another killing; the deserter on his knees his father had killed when he had still been half a child. Longclaw was Valerian steel, like Ned's, and he could do it quick. A single slash was all it would take.

"Do it, Jon Snow," Ygritte urged from his side. He could tell she would rather he had done it without her voice. But still, she said, "You must. T' prove you are no crow but one o' the free folk."

The solution came to him then, and for a moment there was the smallest smile on his face before he wiped it away. He wasn't sure if he could refuse to kill the man and still keep their trust, no matter what words he used. But still... Aloud, he said, "An old man sitting by a fire?"

"Orell was sitting by a fire too. You killed him quick enough." The look she gave him then was hard. "You meant t' kill me too, till you saw I was a woman. And I was asleep."

"That was different. You were soldiers... sentries."

"Aye, and you crows didn't want t' be seen. No more'n we do now. It's just the same. Kill him."

He turned his back to the man. "No."

The Magnar took a step to him, tall, cold and dangerous. "I say yes. I command here."

"You command Thenns," Jon told him, "not free folk."

"I see no free folk. I see a crow and his crow wife."

"I'm no crow wife!" Ygritte snarled to him. She snatched her knife from her side and in three quick strides was in front of the man. With a hand in his hair to reveal his neck, she opened his throat from ear to ear. Even in death, the man made no noise. She turned to Jon. "You know nothing, Jon Snow!" she yelled, then threw her bloody blade at his feet.

Styr said something to his Thenns in the Old Tongue. He could have been telling them to slaughter Jon where he stood, and Jon would never know. A boom of thunder shook the house and a lightning flash left Jon near blind. He blinked rapidly, stumbling back as he heard a Thenn scream, then gargle, then die.

Blearily, he saw the moving shadow. Ghost, was his first thought... but no, the wolf was grey. Longclaw was still in his hands. All at once Jon knew he would never get a better chance.

He cut down the first man as he moved toward the wolf, shoved past a second and slashed at a third. In the madness, the horse reared and struck the air with her hooves. Somehow, even as she tried to bolt, Jon managed to grab her mane and vault onto her back. Someone grabbed his leg, and Jon turned and struck with Longclaw. He didn't see who he cut, but the hand released his foot.

Then they were running.

Jon thought horribly of the horse breaking a leg, falling in the chaos of the storm that had broken suddenly overhead. They would surely run Jon down and kill him within the hour... but the old gods were on his side and the horse did not break her leg.

Something hit him in the leg as he fled the scene, and Jon screamed out for a moment. Then he was gone and could hear and feeling nothing but the storm... and the agony in his leg.

Long hours later, the rain stopped.

His horse foaming and breathing hard, Jon did as well.

Jon found himself alone in a sea of tall black grass. There was a deep throbbing ache in his right thigh. To his shock, he looked down to find there was an arrow imbedded deeply in it. He didn't know when that had happened. He grabbed hold of the shaft and gave a tug, but it was sunk deep into his leg, and would not come free easily.

Jon cast his mind back to madness before... the wolf... he knew it had been a direwolf. Perhaps Robb had turned North... his thoughts were a jumble, a mess. He looked back down at his leg and the arrow that was deep inside it, and his mouth twisted.

This would be agony.

The arrow needed to come out, though. Clumsily he slid off the mare's back to the ground and barely held back a scream as the leg was jostled.

Jon curled a shaking hand around the fletching, took a deep breath and shoved it forward. He grunted, then cursed, and then he had to stop. Blood was soaking into the ground under him and had already soaked his pant leg down to his ankles. He stared at the deep red for a moment, his throat raw from how harshly he breathed. Jon grimaced and tried again to push the arrow through. Again, he soon had to stop, trembling.

Jon didn't look at the wound again. He felt too ill for that.

One more time, he promised himself. This time, this last time, he pushed with as much force as he could summon, folding his weight down onto it. This time he did scream. But when he was finally done, the arrowhead was poking out of his leg. Triumph tasted like iron, and he realized he'd bit his tongue so that blood flooded his mouth.

After all that, removing it was much easier. Easier, but hardly less painful.

He lay back in the grass for a time, the arrow clutched in his hand.

It dawned on him later that if he didn't make himself move, it would mean his death from blood loss. He dragged himself to the shallow stream where the mare was mercifully still drinking. There he washed his thigh in cold water and bound it tightly with a strip of his cloak.

Then, heart in his throat, he allowed himself to examine the arrow. Ygritte fletched her arrows with pale grey goose feathers. Job couldn't blame her for shooting at him, if indeed she had. He wondered if she'd been aiming for him or the horse... if this even was her arrow. And he couldn't tell if it was. It might have been grey, but it might have been white, as well. There was blood clinging to most all of it. Jon tossed the arrow to the side.

He stayed down for a while, then forced himself to stand. Moaning and with a few tears sliding down his face, he did. The mare was grazing nearby, and he limped to her. Thunder rumbled softly in the distance, but above him the clouds were breaking up. Night had fallen and he hadn't noticed. He searched the sky until he found the Ice Dragon—a star to guide him. Then he turned his mare north for the Wall and Castle Black.

He looked that way for a moment, indecision biting at him. For a long moment, he sat and stared.

Then, slowly, he turned the mare around back the way he had come. He cast his mind back to the wolf he was sure was his brother's... sure was Robb's, or else Bran's or even Rickon's (although he couldn't fathom what either of them would be doing up here... but it hadn't quite seemed like Grey Wind). Going back would mean forsaking the lives of those in the Watch, or at least some of them... but a battle was coming even if Jon rode hard and reached Castle Black within the day. Some of his brothers would die anyway, and it was like to be a long battle.

Jon would be there within a few days, this was nothing but a slight detour, and he would still do his duty. Of course, there was no guarantee the wolf would still be there... but when he put his heels to the mare it was back to the old man's house he went. To where he had last seen that wolf. He would go out to the side, Jon decided. The Thenns would likely be following the same path he had, and he could slip by them unnoticed if he did it from a safe enough distance.

He could see what had become of Ygritte as well.

In another world he might have gone straight to Castle Black, but not this one. He rode till dawn, while the stars stared down at him like eyes.


Jon Snow was far enough out of the way, he thought. He'd ridden out to the side for a long time, then straight back to where he'd seen the direwolf. With this in mind, he was astounded to see that he could see the Thenns making camp the next night. Astounded and horrified.

But still... he had slowly ridden the better part of the night then slept the day away and now it was falling dark again... and they were making camp. He had found thick enough forest to ride in, and was grateful for it now, despite how far it had taken him out of his way as he looked across the flat plains to see the Wildlings.

Jon could see them, but there was no way they could see him. He drew the mare to a halt and looked hard. Making up his mind, Jon turned the horse and rode east, away from the camp. He would ride back to their camp in the darkest part of the night... and he would see what had become of Ygritte.

Four hours later or so, he was approaching their camp again. The wolf was banished from his thoughts—and all he could think of was Ygritte.

He knew the Magnar posted watches, but only three or four. They would be looking to the other direction, to Castle Black and the Shadow Tower not hardly at all where Jon was coming from. They would be looking for the Night's Watch. But still, it would be quite a bit of luck if he could ride close enough to their camp.

He decided he would stay close to the trees that edged towards their camp, clustered near a creek, and in that way he hoped to be camouflaged. But still, it was nearly impossible. The thought of dying now, before he had reached Castle Black and before he had seen the brother the direwolf belonged to made his stomach twist bitterly. But dying without knowing what had become of Ygritte made it twist worse.

When he'd been traveling with the Wildlings before, he had often wondered what Styr would do to Ygritte for his betrayal. But she had killed that man and she had probably stuck an arrow in him as he fled. He hoped Ygritte would not be harmed. Hoped, but he wasn't sure. Not for the first time that night, he cursed himself for not having kept hold of her hand that entire ugly time with the old man. Then he could have dragged her on the horse with him and they could have ridden away together.

You are mine as I am yours, she had told him. He had said the same to her. And Jon had meant it, his vows of the Watch be damned.

Before he entered their camp, he slowly dismounted his horse, then tied her to a tree with a bit of rope he'd made from his cloak. Jon barely bit back a cry of pain when he tried haltingly to put weight on his leg.

While he'd been waiting earlier that evening, he had tried to walk. It was a less than wise decision and to say the least, it had been an absolute failure. He had barely managed to remount his horse.

Then he had ridden her up close to an old dead tree, where he had pulled down a suitable enough, by his eye, walking stick. Now as he gazed at their camp from the ground, he propped it under himself. Cautiously, he took a step.

It was good. It was okay. He could walk. And if he could walk, he could find Ygritte.

When he and Ygritte had made camp together the nights and weeks before this one, she and he had favored the sites closest to creeks. No one else did, much, since bugs were there in abundance. But Ygritte didn't mind. She had told him it reminded her of being in that cave with him; and she liked the sound of the water.

There was only one creek here, Jon knew, and it was that creek be padded next to towards their camp. His head felt odd, and he constantly felt dizzy, but he had most of his wits about him now, he thought. Although his thoughts were coming distractedly.

He crept down the river for about ten minutes. Then, almost not daring to believe his luck, Jon saw a shape sleeping under a tree by the creek. As he limped closer... he stopped to listen to the person breathing... and he knew then it was her. It was like a bolt of lightning had passed through him. He went rigid and his eyes were wide. After a moment, he took a deep trembling breath and crept closer. When he was about ten feet away, he hesitated. Jon blinked hard, half convinced this was a hallucination brought on from blood loss... but no he had only lost enough blood to bring an unpleasant ache to his head and a cold feeling to his body. Then, banishing this from his mind, he approached and kneeled next to her. Red hair trailed down the back that was to him. He let a breath slip slowly, silently out through his mouth. Quiet now, he told himself. Detection would be lethal now. To him and to the woman who slept in front of him. And he would not kill Ygritte as well. He would not. Could not.

First, in what he hoped was an abundance of caution, he ever so carefully removed the arrows from the quiver lying next to her and cast them away behind him. She still had a knife on her but there would be no removing that without waking her. Still unsure, and somehow more afraid than he could ever remember being in all his life, he put a gentle hand to her shoulder.

"Ygritte, Ygritte," he whispered.

It took no more than that before she was awake. For a fraction of a second, she stared at him. Comprehension, then fury, then horror and then finally fury again flashed over her face. A shout from her would reveal him and kill him, Jon knew. Ygritte knew it too... but she gave no such shout. Her eyes fell back to him and then the horse behind him.

He could hear her voice in his head then, more vivid than the pounding that had also taken up there.

"I am yours and you are mine," he breathed, trying to infuse the emotion he felt into the near silent words.

They stared at each other for a long time. Jon felt dizzy.

Slowly, she nodded at him. "We'd best leave quickly then," she said finally, her voice a whisper.

Jon felt his chest loosen, and a joy such as he'd never known explode in him. Without thought, he leaned forward to kiss her.

He didn't, however, get as close to her as he'd have liked. He had shifted how he was kneeling on the ground to get closer to her, and accidently tensed the muscles the arrow had shot through. Black spots danced over his eyes and he made his body go limp to try and alleviate the agony and fire in his leg. He bit his lip and cheek so hard he tasted heavy blood. But he was almost sure he hadn't made a sound. Ygritte's face swam before his, looking at him in shock.

He thought she had said something. But he never heard it. The sky entered his vision on either side of her head, and Jon looked to the stars.

Then, finally, his mind gave in to his body's command and he passed out.


Bran crouched with Hodor in one of what Old Nan had called Ghost Towers.

They were crude buildings to the South of the Wall built by the Night's Watch but long since abandoned. Like most of their towers, they were crumbled and nearly destroyed. Maester Luwin had once made Bran learn the names of every one of the forts along the Wall. That had been hard; there were nineteen such Ghost Towers, although no more than seventeen had ever been manned at one time.

Bran would have liked to tell Jojen and Meera all this, but they had been split up days ago, perhaps even weeks. Now he was alone save Hodor and Summer. He'd seen neither of them since they left to go hunting, and he knew in his heart they were lost to him.

Bran looked through the crumbling stone wall at the house where the wildlings had passed through a few nights ago. They were gone now, and no one was left there now. Summer had been hurt when he leapt into the fight. But Bran had made the wolf lie down while Bran looked at it, and he had decided he would be okay.

Bran had been in Summer during the battle, and through Summer's eyes he had seen Jon Snow.

What Jon had been doing with wildlings he wasn't sure. And while Summer crouched and watched the going ons as best he could, Bran had been immensely relieved to see Jon had obviously refused to kill the old man who had traveled to the stone cottage. His only crime had been to make a fire... Bran had not wanted to see him die.

Through Summer, Bran had pressed his ears flat against his head on instinct when the man was slain, and his hackles had risen on his back. The woman who had done it scared him horribly... her face was to Summer as she cut the man's throat and the might of the fury there had startled him. Then, as he watched her take aim for Jon's horse's head as Jon climbed onto it, he had felt anger of his own. Summer leapt on the woman, but had grown slightly confused when she smelt so thickly of Jon.

At the last second, Bran had decided not to kill her. The second's hesitation though had been too much, and she had slashed Summer across his shoulder and down to his leg with a small dagger.

Bran recoiled from the pain and woke up in his own body, panting. He closed his eyes, then called Summer back to him. He hugged Summer and pressed his face into his soft fur while he waited for the chaos to be reined in outside. Fleeing now would only get them caught, but hiding was miserable.

Then he heard Jon's horse gallop away, and knew Jon at least was safe. And as for himself, Bran knew that if he was going to be found it would have been before the Wildlings even entered the man's cottage. Doubtlessly he figured they had scouted out the area as thoroughly as they were like to do. Still, hiding was difficult and fearful.

"Hodor," Hodor had said miserably next to him. The yelling and thunder and lightning had set him on edge. Then smelling the blood on Summer had put him even more on edge.

"It's okay," Bran had said to Hodor that night. Hodor seemed to listen to him, and Bran went to sleep.

Now, Bran was reluctant to leave. He had wanted to head for the Wall, but Jojen said weeks ago that was a bad idea. "We must avoid Castle Black," he had said, before they were split up. "Just as we avoided the King's Road. There are hundreds of men there."

But, Bran had said, they were men who had sworn vows, and he had an uncle and brother on the Wall.

"Aye," Jojen had replied, "but one man willing to forswear himself would be enough to sell your secret to the ironmen or the Bastard of Bolton." They were headed for Beyond the Wall, but what for Bran wasn't sure. Jojen had kept his cards close to his chest. But in any case, Jojen was probably right about one man selling the secret that Bran lived to Ramsey Bolton or his location to Theon. And that would mean his death.

Summer stilled at his side, looking intently out of the crumbling wall, as he had the night the wildlings came. Bran had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, and reluctantly he looked where Summer did. Bran shaded his eyes, and even so he had to squint.

He saw nothing at first, till some movement made him turn. At first, he thought it might be a cow. But no, it was a horse. A large figure on a horse, approaching from the opposite direction the Wildlings had.

Bran's heart went to his throat. He thought it might be Jon, at first.

But no, the figure on the horse was too large. The thought made him sad. He truly was alone, now. A glimpse of Jon through Summer's eyes had not been enough. It was so hard to be alone out here, with only Summer and Hodor for company. Tears welled in his eyes, but he pushed them down.

Bran sat back against the crumbling wall and watched the stupid horse that wasn't Jon's approach. Except, he must have taken his eyes of them and dozed off for a while, because he woke to Hodor shaking him.

"Hodor, Hodor, Hodor," the man said urgently, and raised his eyes to look outside then back at Bran.

Bran bolted to an upright position and looked outside.

A voice drifted to him then, "Grey Wind?! Robb?!"

Bran's head was confused. He looked around outside... and saw two people with a horse. They were nearby, a little ways from the old man's house. Understanding dawned on him slowly: it had not been a single, large person but two riding close together. One still sat slumped on the horse, and the other had a loaded bow and was looking around as warily as Bran was. Comprehension of who and what he was seeing didn't truly hit home until he heard his own name next, the desperate call of a desperate man.

"Bran?! Summer? It's me! It's Jon! Where are you?!"

Bran looked as though in a dream, his heart hammering and his head feeling odd from the adrenaline that suddenly coursed through him. His eyes fell to the woman with the bow and recognized her. Then he moved to the figure on the horse, who was still yelling.

"I'm here!" Bran was suddenly screaming a reply, his voice shrill. "Jon! It's Bran, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here! Jon! Jon!"

Both heads swiveled in unison to look to him, and with no effort Bran sent Summer streaming out of the Ghost Tower to meet them. The woman raised her bow, but Jon said something sharply and she lowered it. She took a few steps back, though. Jon said something to her in a kinder tone, and a moment later he had pulled her onto the horse behind him. Then they were following Summer as Bran had intended and was leading them back to him.

"Hodor," said his companion nervously.

"It's okay," said Bran watching his brother come for him. He had thought he was truly alone in the world, abandoned to those he loved and lost to those who loved him. But no, here was Jon to save him. Jon, right when everything had nearly been lost. A tear slid down his face, but he was beaming wider than he had ever beamed before. He might not be able to walk, but Bran felt like he was flying higher than he had ever climbed before. "It's okay, Hodor, we're going to be okay. Jon's here now, that means we're safe."

But things were not okay, not truly. And they were not safe.

Neither Bran, nor Ygritte nor Jon noticed the danger until it was too close. Bran saw it too late, and as he turned his head to investigate the flash of movement he has seen, his laugh turned to a high, horrible scream.