Rare was it that Mikken Snow needed to seek council within the confines of his own work. He was a man of six and two, knew his craft better than most could ever claim, and rarely spoke besides.

But needs must, and he'd a need.

Making way through the court of Winterfell's yard, limping painfully towards his forge, his cane tapping against warm cobblestone paves. His chimney flame was covered by the billow of smoke, heat brimming and grindstone ringing through ironwood walls. It was an unusual sight for a time, to see the forge started before Mikken had come by, but it was more common to see as of late. Opening the door, Mikken took in a man at work.

Jon had grown well over these past two years. Now five and ten, he stood taller than Lord Eddard and seemed not inclined to stop growing. Black of hair, grey of eyes, coupled with his long, freshly shaven face, Jon looked a traditional Stark. His size, his almost feral demeanor, and his body, rippled with large corded muscles and scarless as it was, made the boy many a maiden's dream. Mikken knew the boy took advantage of this on the occasion, having happily wet his wick on the kitchen wenches who'd offered themselves, to the clear displeasure of Lady Stark.

But Mikken cared not for Lady Stark's disgust. He also did not care for Jon's promiscuity. These did not matter. Jon did his work and he did it damn well. And he was a man now, he could fuck whoever he wanted. No, what mattered to Mikken was that Jon was the only apprentice he could trust to take on new tasks without worry.

"Jon," he called out, the larger Snow turning away from his work as his name was called. He'd been hammering hard at an anvil, tongs holding a red-hot sheen of metal menacingly. Or at least, menacingly to anybody that didn't work the forge. To Mikken, the lad was just working his craft. By Jon's side was Korin, a farm boy of twelve that Mikken had taken a shine to a few months back.

"Mikken," nodded Jon, putting his work away. Korin seemed displeased by this. Good, the lad was eager still. "Need something?"

"Aye, lad. I do. Look at m'leg."

It was not a pretty sight. His left leg was a mangled mess, claw marks and bite scars running red through his pale skin. It was so bad that Mikken had been forced to use a damned cane by his daughter. He hated canes. Boring to make and rarely meant for an edge.

Jon's eyebrows rose, his eyes squinting. "…Wolf?"

"Dog," Mikken shrugged, sitting on a nearby stool. "M'neighbor's hunter smelled meat that I'd spilled when breaking m'fast and chose to try for a free meal this morn. I'd had m'axe on me, and made quick work of the bitch, but she did her work 'fore I did mine."

"Thought it was off that you weren't here already." Jon hummed. "You tend to be here before the roosters crow."

A statement that held true enough. He'd been trained since a boy to get up with the sun, and though he was old and slowing down, he wasn't done just yet. This injury wouldn't end him, it'd only set him back from the other side of his duties.

"As it were, it's an issue."

"You need the maester? Luwin likes you well enough, he wouldn't mind giving you some potions."

Mikken shook his head. "Mayhap I'll do so later, but that is not the problem I speak of. I was due to make way to Castle Black, remember? The Lord Commander requested twenty longswords of castle-forged steel and a hundred ingots of its make along with it."

Jon scoffed, crossing his arms. "Hard to forget. I was the one that made all those ingots."

Mikken smirked slightly, Jon glaring in turn. The forging of ingots was dull work that needed to be looked upon with a close eye. Mikken did not feel like doing so, and so had Jon show Korin how to create ingots whilst Mikken made the swords. Korin was a slow boy, likely having been dropped as a babe a time or two, and it took almost all of the hundred ingots made before the boy figured it out, to Jon's annoyance. Better him than me, Mikken thought.

"I need you to take the load to Castle Black."

Jon quickly became wary. "You aren't planning on making me take the black, are you?"

Mikken shook his head. True, Mikken respected the Wall and would have been proud for Jon to join, but that was not to be. Had he wanted such, Jon would refuse. The Night's Watch was something Jon would never join – he found their oaths and laws stifling. Jon had the habit of following through with his oaths to the letter, honorable sort that he was.

No, if Mikken ever bade Jon to join, the lad would just stop being his apprentice. Not that he really was anymore. He'd mastered the smith already and had other skills besides. A deadly warrior, an able hunter, a learned man… Jon could become a maester, a sellsword, a castle smith – anything, really. Lord Robb made mention once that Jon could be his Master-at-Arms upon his becoming Warden of the North. It was an offer made in jest, and Jon took it as such, but Lord Robb also seemed serious about his proclamation.

Jon had options, none of which would involve the Wall.

"No, no Wall for you. But I meant to bring them myself. Would've too, were it not for m'leg."

"You've never done it before," Jon said, brow furrowed.

"I have. Just not when you worked under me. The older apprentices took the trips." And it need not be said that things had changed. Two months ago, Mikken's last understudy, a man of twenty named Hewnil, made arrangements to become the blacksmith for a holdfast loyal to House Flint of Widow's Watch. "You're my oldest apprentice left, and a man besides. Only man I can trust not to cock it up."

Jon's face contorted, looking thoughtful. "How long can I stay there?"

"Long as you like, I care not." Knowing Jon, he'd want to see the Wall for what it was, and that took time. The Night's Watch would welcome him, his background in the forge and arena and his being the nephew of their first ranger would give him an easy acceptance at Castle Black. They'd work him to the bone, for he was not a lord, but they'd welcome him all the same.

Added, Jon had made his intentions clear over the years. He wanted to travel before settling, should he ever settle. A trip to the Wall would start him on that path.

"Fine," Jon conceded, rolling his shoulders. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"Ye've no chance, y'know? UH?! Do ye?! Bastard?!" Shouted a man, a sword in his hand and a bloody grin on his face, teeth rotten and lips chapped. Twelve men were alongside him, surrounding Jon, jeering with their comrade. Slurs and threats of rape and slaughter loosed easily from their tongues.

Jon did not answer. He instead kept his form strong and gripped his own swords tightly, harshly holding his Dovahsos back. Jon needed to keep his calm in this situation. The red rage boiling inside him would not due. Not now. Not here.

Not yet.

There were lessons to be learned when it came to being a courier. Lessons that many could glean without much issue – tricky to put into practice though they were. Lessons that Jon thought he'd learned well within the confines of his first life.

Always be wary. Keep an eye on all things. Never be far from your weapon. There were more lessons to be said and more worries to be had, but these three were the most prevalent in this line of work.

And Jon had plenty reason to be wary. He was not traveling alone like he would have preferred. Instead, he was carting Mikken's supplies with two members of the Night's Watch as entourage, along with nineteen prisoners from the South. He should have expected this, Mikken would never have made the journey to the Wall on his own. Strong though he was, he was old, and such journeys were difficult even for the young. Alas, Mikken had the habit of speaking little, and did not warn Jon until it was too late to make other arrangements.

The prisoners were the main reason for Jon's guardedness, them and the cold that could kill a prepared man were they caught unawares. Five thieves, three rapists, ten murderers, an arson and a cannibal. Their pasts were harsh and their deeds bloody, and many of them did not seem to mind their titles. They reveled in them. Only six had been regretful, all of them among the murderers. Jon had fair reason to be cautious, as did the men of the Night's Watch he traveled with.

His Dovahsos was what brought him into this mess in the first place. A dragons soul was one of arrogance, arrogance that was earned but arrogance all the same. Men were but mice before him. This arrogance had him ignore the second rule of being a courier. Keep an eye on all things. What did he have to care when with these lesser beings?

They'd been traveling the Kingsroad for over a week, little happening. The prisoners made occasional digs from their iron-barred carriage, but that was all. Jon was quick to grow bored and offered to hunt some game. Their supplies were of salted jerks and muddled mead, bland and boring. All agreed, Night's Watch and prisoners alike, that they wanted more.

Thus, Jon did just that. He'd separated himself from the group during the night: swords at his side, bow strapped to his back and leathers doubled over. They chose to camp at the northern edge of Long Lake, meaning there were few woods to be found. This was a flatland; the game was cunning and of a stealthier lot than what could be found in the Wolfswood.

He'd not found much, just pair of rabbits and a few wild potatoes. But that was fine, they could cook a stew from that. He'd not even been gone an hour, the night still dark and stars bright overhead. Jon's return to camp was meant to be an easy thing, twenty-one men happy to have something different to sate themselves with.

This was not to be. One of the thieves broke out of their irons and freed the whole lot while he was out, when Rian, one of the men of the Night's Watch, was on watch duty. They killed Rian quickly and butchered Huller in his sleep, the other brother in black. Jon returned to the sight of thirteen of them divvying the leathers the black brothers wore, the six that had been regretful off to the side, trying to keep the horses calm. All nineteen of prisoners had a sword crafted by Mikken strapped to their sides.

I should have known, Jon thought miserably. Should have expected this. But he'd not, and those two men had paid his folly with their lives. Their past crimes had been absolved by the law of the land and they'd turned into honorable men. They did not deserve to die, not like this. These prisoners… They weren't worthy of the Wall. Weren't worthy of their second chance at life.

They would die.

"What're we waitin' for lads?!" The man that had been found a cannibal cried out. He'd also been the one to threaten Jon first. "Gut the bastard! I've a stomach t'fill!"

With a roar, they charged. Their rush was uncoordinated and pitifully executed, but it was dangerous all the same. Thirteen men versus one, no matter how strong the one was, brought about horrible odds. Odds that Jon made to put in his favor.

"Tiid… Klo Ul!"

The world took on a sheen of blue, the snow falling at the pace of a snail. His attackers were even slower. Their once threatening movements became like stone, their faces of gleeful carnage fixed. All around Jon was stilled, for time was his to make play.

Time. Sand. Eternity.

Slow Time was among his most dangerous Thu'ums, arguably the most dangerous of the lot. Against a dragon, it had no effect. A Dovah did not feel the effects of time as a mortal did, and thus was immune to this effect. But there were no dragons in this world, the closest thing to them were daedric creations of Peryite, and they'd been extinct for over a century by this point.

It was painfully easy. With his prey unable to comprehend the slowness with which they moved to Jon, he made quick work of them. He allowed his Dovahsos its bounty, tearing their flesh with his blades and ripping their bodies asunder with his bare hands. Within less than a second to them, though minutes had passed for Jon, they were all dead.

Time resumed its normal course, thirteen men now bloody messes along the dirt, Jon's leather raiment stained with the smell of copper. The six who did not partake in his slaughter were stock still from their huddled position, eyes wide with fear and awe.

Jon bared his teeth, the only part of his visage that hadn't run red with blood. "Who's next?" His voice was strained, gravelly and hoarse from his use of a fully realized Thu'um, but that mattered little. Should they choose to fight, he would meet them happily.

Smartly, they did not fight. They dropped their arms and shuffled back to the caged carriage they'd been traveling in. Jon nodded, satisfied but not. That they did not attack him was the only reason he'd left them alive. He still wanted them to suffer. Punishment was still due.

As such, Jon hoisted the bodies of his quarry in their cage as well. He did not know what custom the Night's Watch held for these sorts, but they'd been bound for the Wall and they'd get there still, regardless of their being dead. For those six… to travel within the confines of such was a fitting due.

Rian and Huller, though. They were different. Men of the Night's Watch, men whose station was worthy.

Jon dug through the bodies of the thirteen and removed whatever remained of the belongings they looted from Rian and Huller. He did his best to put them back on their corpses and wrapped their bodies in the cloth of their tent. Gently, he brought their bodies alongside the ingots, surrounding their bound forms with stolen swords.

He then took the reins of the clearly addled horses and made way to the Wall, the rabbit and potatoes he'd foraged forgotten.

What a mess.

"What a mess," Lord Commander Jeor Mormont groaned, unknowingly echoing Jon's initial assessment.

"If I could have done more-" Jon started, only to be interrupted by a raised hand.

"No. You've done plenty, Snow." Jeor proclaimed, honest and forthright. "That you were able to defeat all of those men… You've a talent, lad. You'd do well in black."

Jon shook his head. "No. Mayhap when I am older, but I am young yet and have things I aim to do. Things that will take me away from the North. The Wall is not going anywhere, I've time."

"That it is not," Jeor agreed, raising a horn of mead. Jon clanged his own horn against the Lord Commanders, and the two drank slowly. From his shoulder, Jeor's pet raven crowed "Not! Not!"

The Wall had indeed been a sight to behold. Having never seen it before, Jon had been struck dull at its sheer scale. Seven hundred feet high and three hundred miles long, it was easily the most awe-inspiring structure Jon had ever seen. In both lives.

His arrival at Castle Black was not so awe-inspiring. Carting fifteen dead bodies, two of which were of sworn brothers of the Night's Watch, dampened many a spirit. That it was at the dead of night added to this. Ser Alliser Thorn had boldly tried to arrest Jon, accusing him of murder, but that was quick to be snuffed when Jeor held his side. The Lord Commander had come down to sort out the ruckus and brought Jon to his solar to learn his truth.

Jeor Mormont was a reasonable man, broad shouldered and host to an impressively long grey-white beard. He did not immediately jump to conclusions like Ser Alliser did, nor was he slow to move. He listened to what Jon had to say and interrogated the remaining prisoners soon after. He didn't seem to believe their tale that Jon killed the thirteen within the span of a second but did believe their proclamation that Jon only defended himself. That suited Jon fine. He'd rather not his Thu'um be known yet.

"What do you intend to do now?" Jeor asked, after having finished his horn. "Return to Winterfell?"

Jon shook his head. "No, I'd like to stay at Castle Black for a time, if you'll have me. I've not seen my uncle Benjen in years, and I wish to ask your maester some questions."

"Benjen is on a ranging. He's not expected to be back for a few months." Jeor said, sounding sorry. "And Aemon? What need of him do you have?"

"He's the oldest learned man alive," Jon offered. "My thought is that he'd have many stories to tell of the old world." That Aemon was the last Targaryen in Westeros was not needed to be said.

Jeor grunted. "As you will. I'll give you a week of leisure, then you'll work your keep. Donal Noye is our smith and armorer, he'll have work for you. Should you need him soon, Aemon can be found in the sickbay. It's the smaller tower left of the tunnel."

Taking that as dismissal, Jon stood, nodding to the Lord Commander. He walked out of the solar and breathed in the biting cold essence that was the Wall. He enjoyed the North, its climate reminiscent of Skyrim, but the Wall was another beast. He'd not acclimated yet.

Tower on the left, Jon thought, looking around the courtyard. Tower on the left. It was quick to be found, less of a tower and more a large stone hut built into the side of a barrack. Made of iced stone, as was all of the buildings here, its curved roof was rare to be found in the confines of Castle Black.

Jon opened the wooden door, bringing the bite of the North into the sickbay. There were two stone tables at the rooms center, walls of books surrounding them. At the back was another door, the light of a brazier flickering from beneath the doors frame. Jon walked towards it and opened the door.

Maester Aemon was lain on a large feather bed. He was an ancient man; bald and wrinkled and shrunken. If rumors were true, he was blind as well. Yet, following those same rumors, the maester's mind was still sharp, as was his hearing.

"In my old age," he wheezed. "It is easy to raise me from my sleep. I presume I am needed?"

"Not as such," Jon said, taking a seat along the foot of Aemon's bed.

"A voice I do not know," mused the maester. "A new recruit?"

"No."

"Then a stranger that shall remain such. What is it you wish?"

Jon was unsure of how to broach this talk. He genuinely had no love of Rhaegar and found his mother to have been foolish for following the long-dead prince. But family was still family, and Aemon was just that. There was much he wished to know about the Targaryen dynasty, knowledge that books alone could not offer.

"My mother intended to name me Visenya," began the Snow. Aemon blinked his milky-white eyes in befuddlement. "To go along with my half-siblings: Aegon and Rhaenys. The three heads of the dragon. And yet I was born a boy, so she named me for the North, her home."

"And your mother…" Aemon breathed, trembling.

Jon closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath. "Her name was Lyanna. Of House Stark."

Feeble though the aged maester was, he was not slow. He sat up from his bed and reached shaky hands over Jon's face, an action Jon allowed. Aemon fumbled all throughout, his eyes watering.

"If you speak the truth… No, it is the truth. I feel it. Egg's nose, Rhaelle's ears, my fathers' cheeks. You've even the same slant of the brow that Jaeherys possessed. Rhaegar never visited me, but we exchanged many a letter. The last of them made tale that Lyanna was with child, that the dynasty was to grow strong once more. That the war would be over soon, and things would change at court. How have you hidden for so long, my blood? I thought you long dead."

"I inherited my mothers coloring and was raised not as a prince, but as a bastard. My name is Jon Snow. Lord Eddard claimed me as his own to protect me from the king's wrath."

"Yes…" murmured the maester. "Though my sight has since left, my ears hear much. I have heard Robert Baratheon thinks Lord Eddard a brother. More-so than his own blood-kin. Hiding you in the North was wise of Lord Stark."

There was little else to be said. Maester Aemon continued to touch along Jon's face, and Jon said nothing. Aemon was smiling widely, murmuring more connections between his appearance to that of the Targaryens. Apparently, the only thing that felt Stark was the length of his face.

"Mine own blood." Aemon said, finally removing his hands from Jon's face. "How I have long to… It is good you exist, Jon. Good indeed. A gift! I've a gift!"

"Hm?" Jon was properly confused. He'd not come for a gift of any sort. He wanted to learn history.

"Yes, a gift. Look to the windowed corner of my room – one of the floorboards has a white line on it. The plank is loose. Pull it up."

It was not easy to find. The sky was dark and the shadows of Jon's many-times uncle's brazier were deep. The white mark was hidden for Jon, taking him some fifteen minutes to discover. The mark was miniscule, a line the width of a few strands of hair. Barely visible, even in the light of day.

Jon lifted the board, and found a leather-bound package, tied by a dusty rope. He brought it into the light of flame and undid the straps. A sheathed dagger was there to be found.

"When I chose to go to the Wall to protect my brother Egg, I was given a retinue of prisoners as my guard. Among them was Brynden Rivers. He was an avid reader of Valyrian lore, some thought him a sorcerer. I did not think it, I know it – Brynden was brilliant in ways many could not hope to comprehend. Few knew this, but he loved Valyrian steel as well. He wielded Dark Sister in battle and brought it to the Wall with him. More than that, he wielded that dagger; a blade he stole from the hidden vaults of Dragonstone in the midst of the second Blackfyre rebellion. I've little need of it, and I trust my black brothers with its location even littler. None of my blood had visited me after King Maekar died, and so I had none to pass it to. Had Brynden left Dark Sister behind, I would have given its splendor to you. Alas…"

"No," Jon interrupted. "No. Do not think on what could have been. This is grand, uncle. A gift that I would have had to spend a fortune on were I to find it a seller in the natural world."

Small though it was, the rippled pattern of the blade appeared like smoke, just as Ice did. The dagger held an edge on only one side, and was curved along its other, flatter side. Its hilt was of pale ivory, the carved tooth of a dragon. Dragon bone was rare enough – coupled with Valyrian steel as it was, this gift was handsomer than anything Jon could have hoped to receive.

It was of higher quality than Jon's own sword, something he found both astounding and disheartening. His sword, named Woe, was made of an alloy he'd developed between castle-forged steel and dragonglass dust, turning the blade dark and haunting. It was molded and named after the Blade of Woe, one of his favorite weapons as Dragonborn. Though Woe did not hold any enchantments, it was still a work Jon was proud of.

"I am glad," Aemon smiled, lying down once more on his bed. "Had Rhaegar survived, you'd have daggers of this sort and more."

"But he did not," Jon said, still staring at his dagger. Mesmerized.

"No, he did not. A greater shame there was not. Still, you live, more than I could have hoped."

"Do you know of any others?" There had been tale of the two remaining Targaryen's traveling Essos.

"I know little," the maester admitted. "Of Rhaegar's siblings, news of Daenerys and Viserys has eluded me for years. Though this is well. Should I have no news, Robert Baratheon does neither. Of those that remain, there are a smattering of bastards on Dragonstone. And there is Brynden, of course."

"What?" Jon blurted, eyes wide and mouth open. His eyes were trained solely on Aemon once more.

Aemon chuckled. "When I said I knew Brynden was a sorcerer, I meant it. He lives beyond the Wall, beneath the roots of a great heart tree. There he sends me dreams, dreams of the past and the present, and of futures to come. In these dreams I can see once more, in these dreams I fly as a dragon of old."

"How do you know these dreams are true?"

"I am not dull," groused the maester, easily picking out the tone of Jon's voice. Disbelieving. "Blind does not mean befuddled. Before Brynden was lost, my dreams were fleeting and easily forgetful. When he speaks to me, I remember these dreams as vividly as when my father sent me to the Citidel, as clearly as when I forged my chain. I cannot forget the dreams Brynden sends me, for they are truer than much of mine own life."

Aemon paused, and then spoke again. "But Brynden is beyond my reach. I cannot touch his dreams, only he mine, and he does so less and less of late. If you wish to know more of him, seek him out yourself. Should your intentions be true, he will guide your dreams, as he does mine."

"I will." Jon swore, sheathing his newly acquired dagger to his hilt.

"Good, good. Now, I've no interest in sleep. Ask your questions and share your stories. We've a long night ahead of us, nephew."

Jon found himself in Aemon's chambers for the next three weeks. There, they spoke on much. On the history of House Targaryen and the Valyrian Empire with which it was born. On the true nature of the kings Aemon knew. Of the status of things beyond the Wall. Of the Night's Watch itself, and how the order had grown progressively worse over his years here. Their topics were varied and their opinions diverse, but both Jon and Aemon alike enjoyed this time.

During this time, Jon had indeed overstayed his free welcome. Donal Noye put him to work during the day, where Jon forged the ingots he'd brought into building materials and horse shoes and more varied weapons; axes and maces and arrow heads. He'd even aided the builders after the last of the ingots had been used, replacing nails and adjusting hinges. Of the nails that were in need of replacement, they were thrown back into the forge, turned into more ingots for future use.

Now, Jon stood tall. Above the Wall, there was nothing he was not larger than. The expansive view of what was beyond was hard to describe, but it was such that Jon could find pleasure. The lands beyond the Wall, the True North, was largely unmapped. What had been cataloged was vague and close to the Wall itself: Whitetree and Craster's Keep and Hardhome and the First of the First men. There was much more to be found, much that few knew of.

Jon was intent on being among those few.

But Brynden Rivers did not enter his dreams to guide him like Aemon said would happen. His dreams were darkness and forgetful, as they always were. After near a month at Castle Black, Jon was tired of waiting. If Brynden would not bring Jon to him, then Jon would use alternate means.

He lifted his dagger and stared at its rippling steel. He focused the whole of his sight on the material, the sheen of steel and its smoky signature. And as he focused, his thoughts were centered solely on the one who once owned this blade.

Brynden Rivers. Bastard of Aegon IV, the Bloodraven, Wielder of Dark Sister, Hand of Aerys I and Maekar I, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, the White Worm.

The Last Greenseer.

"Yah… Zii Fron!"

Jon's eyes, still focused on his dagger, changed. The grey of his eye encompassed the whole of his sclera, his pupil turning long and thinly slit. His dagger was a guide, and from it he saw.

A path formed in his mind. From the where he stood to where he wished to be, a cave beneath the roots of a massive heart tree where the dead cannot reach, where the Children of the Forest still roam, where an ancient man with red eyes lay trapped within a throne of roots.

One hundred and twenty-seven miles from my current location, Jon saw. North by northwest, twelve miles southwest of the break of the Antler River.

Yah. Zii. Fron.

Seek. Spirit. Kin. These words formed the Find All shout.

Miraak created this shout during his time trapped in Apocrypha. With centuries to spare and infinite knowledge at his beck and call, Miraak devoted much of his time to perfecting his usage of the Thu'um, to such an extent that he crafted shouts for the most mundane of tasks.

Find All was a shout that had the capability to do more. Hermaeas Mora had a habit of throwing Miraak all throughout Apocrypha in fits of boredom, and Miraak found no enjoyment in this. This Thu'um was formed to let Miraak find his way back to his personal nook of the realm of Oblivion. He would focus his thoughts on one of the dragons that resided in Apocrypha with this shout, for they were kin by blood if not body, and never would his way be lost.

Jon found himself gladdened to have slain Miraak. His threat to Skyrim and the whole of Tamriel was great, and the reward for defeating him was even greater. Miraak's Dovahsos granted him the full bridth of his use of the Thu'um. Before, Jon – then Istind, knew the Thu'um as a means to an end. After, it was as it should have been, his very breath, more precious to him than anything else could be.

He meditated, waiting for his strength to return. It was a quick process, but his use of the Thu'um was not complete. He could shout fully now, an accomplishment Jon was happy for, but he could not use the Thu'um in succession. He could not debate in Dovahzul as he once could. His body was not ready for such strain. Soon, Jon thought.

When he recovered fully, he rushed over the edge of the Wall and jumped with a gladdened shriek. The biting cold felled his core deeply, the rush of wind billowing his person. The ground was fast approaching, as was his demise.

"Feim!"

Fade.

His body took on a translucent, ethereal nature. The wind was no longer felt, the cold no longer cold. He felt nothing, not even the ground he'd slammed into. Snow did not buffet with his landing, instead it held him as if he were one of the flakes it was made of. As if her were lighter than the snow itself.

He wouldn't have had to do this if Jeor would have just let him travel beyond the Wall. But no, Jon was not a lord of the North and was not a man of the Night's Watch. Jeor forbid it, and Jon did not take it well. Dragons were not meant to be kept, not when they did not wish it so.

The power of Feim faded, and Jon felt the cold and the wind once more. He shouldered his belongings, kept his hand on his blades, and trekked to the Haunted Forest.

He'd a relative to find.

Hah, y'all thought this was dead. Nope, I'm just lazy.

…Not sure which is worse in your minds. Ah well, new chapter, over a year-and-a-half late, but who's counting? Not I.

The journey of Jon Snow continues once again! We are now beyond the Wall, where magic is still abound and the forces of Molag Bal are found. Much has happened, but little has been stated as fact. There's a lot that can occur during the time between now and the next chapter, and I'm not even certain as to what the next chapter will be based around. We'll see soon enough. Maybe. Hopefully.

…Possibly.

Oh, and Jon can now use full Thu'ums. But his body isn't trained in their usage, so he can only use them one at a time. That'll change going forward.

And if you ask why he's so big, I'll just say it's a Dragonborn thing. A man with the soul of a dragon is compensated with the largest size he is capable of. I'm aware that the canon Jon Snow was not an especially tall kid. This is not canon. Thus, idc.

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