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Chapter 5: Lovely, Dark, and Deep

Osha cast sideways glances at Jon Snow as they walked away from the hall and though the bitter cold. He was not as delicate as his half-brothers, Bran and Rickon. His dark hair and long face unlike that of her Stark lordlings, begging the question: who was he? And, more importantly, could she trust the man with her charge's life or her own?

Jon felt her gaze, like a hot poker stabbing at him every few steps. The Free Folk were skeptical in the best situations. Her worry mixed with his own; he had been reborn from fire. For the love of the old gods, how had he survived? Who was he? Who was his mother? The question that had plagued him his entire life had become a crux, weighing him down.

"I need to go to the weirwoods," Jon told his walking companion. With each step taken from Melisandre, Jon knew he could not go back—metaphorically or literally. Deep in his marrow, Jon could feel the Red Priestess could not be trusted. His hackles rose at the thought of her influence sinking into his life like talons, as she had done with Stannis. Ghost growled softly. Maybe he could find answers somewhere else; his father had always consulted the old gods, maybe he would find something of substance there, too.

"Humph," Osha's breath came out angrily, "we're not to be going north again, Jon Snow. No good can come of it."

"It's just beyond the wall," he told her. They had crossed the courtyard and then stopped just outside of Jon's building. Only hours had passed since Olly had given him false hope that his uncle Benjen Stark had returned. But, with his brother alive and safe in his arms, Jon could not help but feel a small measure of happiness. Even with all of his worries—the betrayal of the Night's Watch, an army of white walkers, his missing uncle, and his own mysterious past—Jon Snow had been reunited with one of his half-siblings and another was still out there, somewhere.

"You're more like 'im than I expected," she said to Jon no longer looking at him. Instead, her gaze was fixed on the wall, slowly climbing up its side.

"More like whom?"

"The Little Lord Bran," she took a brief respite from her review of the wall to give a cursory glance into Jon's eyes, he was sure she saw more than just grey-black staring back at her. It was like she had seen his thoughts of Bran.

You've got a way about ye," she again fixed her stare at the wall, "and the way that white monster follows ye' around. It's unsettlin'."

"What do you mean? Is Shaggydog not as attached to Rickon?" Jon looked to the two wolves. Once the runt of his litter, Ghost was a frightfully large wolf-a giant mass of white fur and muscle in comparison to Shaggydog.

"Aye, he's fiercely protective of the boy," she nodded at the black wolf with approval. "But not like Bran is with his wolf," she finished carefully.

I thought," she started before Jon could respond, "I would never see this damned Wall again. Yet, 'ere I am. Nothing good hides behind that wall, Jon Snow."

"Do you think Bran is safe?" He asked Osha, but Jon had meant it as a prayer or plea to some higher power. Keep Bran Stark safe. She answered him anyway.

"Safe?" she shook her head sadly, "nothing is safe, especially on the other side of the Wall. But I think the Little Lord is alive, if that's what yer after."

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He knelt down in front of the heart tree. The red eyes of the godswood watched him as closely as Ghost's red eyes. The white direwolf crouched in the snow, Jon could feel the wolf's presence. He could almost see himself through those red eyes; and, then, like stepping through thin ice, Jon found himself not only imagining the direwolf's point of view. He could feel the crunching snow beneath the pads of his paws and the wind ruffling the fur on his back, he could see his own form motionless beneath the heart tree, he could hear hurried awkward footsteps, he could smell putrid decay.

And, just as suddenly as he had entered, with a gulp of air and a rush of blood to the head, Jon was back in his own body. He had crossed the wall in search of answers, and instead was barraged with more questions.

"Something is coming," Jon Snow announced loudly for his men to hear him over the wind. Eddison Tollett and three other men had followed Jon Snow across the Wall and into the weirwood. He stood up and pulled Longclaw from its scabbard in one smooth motion.

"What is it?" Tollett asked with panic rising in his voice. He trusted Jon Snow to the Seven Hells and back—had seen one of those hells with Jon when they had rescued the Wildlings. But, after witnessing the ruthless power of the dead, he was deathly afraid of dying at their cold, clammy hands. He pulled his own sword out.

"White walkers," Snow said with icy calm. The white direwolf paced behind Jon Snow.

"We have to get out of 'ere, Jon," another of the men said, backing away from the godswood in the direction of Castle Black, "there's nothing we can do. We haven't got any dragon glass."

With that, the men started to quickly move back toward Castle Black. None of them questioned how Jon Snow knew there was something out there.

And then the first white walker appeared. One of the men let out a scream; despite the warning, he had been taken by surprise. Jon Snow rushed to the white walker, Valyrian steel at the ready. With one decisive blow, the white walker shattered like glass—just like it had in Hardhome. When the other white walkers rushed toward the small group, Ghost and Jon worked in tandem to dispatch their enemy.

There had only been a handful, but the men all but ran back to Castle Black. There were always more dead.