Friend of the Freefolk

Frigid and rotten, the last lands claimed by House Karstark had become a graveyard of northern carcasses, whilst the Karhold stood occupied by an army of Wildlings. By the looks of things, the last band of surviving Karstark soldiers were fool enough to engage Tormand Giantsbane in the field, instead of sitting pretty behind strong walls. Jon's mare cracked through a ribcage beneath her hoof with a squelching crunch. Crows circled above, a signal post to the dead. Jon spied one of the black winged pests pecking out a corpses eyeball, a sight that turned his stomach.

'Burn the fallen. Winter is coming, and the dead rise with it.' A pair of Mormont men trotted off to spread the order. Jon didn't want to breath life into an enemy host right on the doorstep of his only hold fast. One castle makes me no conqueror, and I'm no Lord if I'm defeated by fresh whites.

I shall hold no lands, his black brothers echoed in his head.

They passed a thousand dropped swords before reaching the main gate of The Karhold, whilst Jon noted not a single Wildling body was amongst the garden of bones and blood. A stunning victory for The Freefolk perhaps, Jon wondered. He lead a modest host, a thousand men strong, beneath the stone gargoyles that quietly guarded the Karhold. One of Tormand's chieftains came to greet him, sparing him no courtesies, as Jon had expected. Traitor, Ser Alister Thorne whispered.

'King Crow, you're late to the fight. You missed a good scrap.' The scraggly beard of a man chuckled to himself, resting a longsword sized axe over his shoulder. He was taller than Jon by a head and a half, but he'd learned a man's size doesn't always determine the outcome of a fight. He remembered burying a hammer into the skull of the chieftain Thenn back at the battle for Castle Black. And he was almost as big as Hodor, Jon thought.

Jon climbed down from his horse and handed his reigns to Podrick Payne. The boy seemed odd and bumbled around as a lost puppy would, but Jon aimed to make a squire of him until he set sail for Mereen. The lad proved useful for minor duties, but he easily imagined the boy being under the feet of hardened knights. Though he doubted Tyrion Lannister ever had call for a squire, so this one would have suited him fine. Jon pondered if Pod had mastered pouring wine.

The boy had told him how Brienne of Tarth trained him in swordplay during his travels with her. He had no means to disrupt his learning, and had begun teaching Pod himself during their venture deep into the heart of the north. So far, he'd fought with heart, eager but clumsy; no worse than the infrequent fugitive recruits Castle Black had lured to swear the black. Giving the boy some pointers would make a swordsman of him yet. He would need it if he were to make the journey to Mereen alive.

Jon did not flinch at the notion of allying with the last of the Targaryan dynasty, despite the so called Mother of Dragons being openly at war with the current Kings of Westeros. If she made her landing and defeated Stannis and his armies before the long night, Jon wanted to be in good standings with her in hopes of gaining her support when the Others came marching.

Jon acknowledged the Wildling in a blunt manner, his patience and energy had been drained by the hard ride. 'Take me to Tormand. We have much to discuss,' Jon ordered, removing his gloves to let the cold bite at his bare hands. He flexed his burned one until the skin didn't feel tight and stiff around his fingers.

'This way then, though I warn you to watch his mood. He's taking a liking to your southern ales,' the wildling grumbled. 'Too tame for my liking. A woman's drink.' Jon would have guessed he meant wine, but he knew Tormand's man wouldn't care.

He led them into the main keep at Karhold, a grey chunk in the landscape, a square castle of moss covered stone, bleak and not near as impressive as Winterfell. To Wildlings, the Karhold must have been a wonder to lay eyes upon. He remembered Ygritte, mistaking a deserted windmill for a castle. She had never seen stones stacked so high, but her marvel at the sight was lost upon him. Being son of the Lord of Winterfell, Jon had seen many a holdfast like this one.

Reaching the main hall, Jon could already hear Tormand's voice erupting through the halls, telling a tale to his men, and seemingly in no foul mood at all. Creaking open the door to the Karstark's ancient seat, instead of a noble northern lord, Jon found a steaming Wildling boasting a conquest named Sheila, whilst his drunker companions burst into a flurry of butch giggles beside him. A hog was crackling on the spit roast, filling the room with wafts of bacon, a scent that brought Jon's mouth to water.

'Her fangs were sharp as any dagger, but believe me she knew how to use them. She was gentler than you would have expected, but that's because I tamed the beast below. She was purring for me by the end,' the Wildling leader slurped at his drink with a grin hidden beneath his fiery beard. The rest just guffawed into their cups, trying not to spit their ale and wine out.

Jon made his presence known, warmly greeting his Wildling friend.

'We know all about the bear you didn't fuck, Tormand,' he heckled, drawing every eye in the room upon him, one pair at a time. Tormand looked his way last, but Jon had a grin for him.

'Well, fuck a bear called Sheila. Good to see you again, Lady Snow,' Tormand threw back in good spirit. 'Have you not had a haircut yet?' Jon smiled and the Wildling smiled back.

'You took the castle well enough. You left a bloody field of corpses, damn near snapped my mares leg,' Jon said, making his way over to the hearth. The warmth was welcomed in the midsts of cold northern winds hissing through the Wall, freezing the country frigid. The eyes in the room returned to their conversations, paying Jon no mind. No longer did the Wildlings wince at the sight of this old crow.

'If men willingly run into my axe, who am I to deny them a painful death,' Tormand replied, drinking his horn dry. 'And now we drink in celebration. It was a fine victory too. The cunts should have stayed behind their walls. But no, they came right at us. Any man with eyes would know to stay hidden in the castle. Even a brute like me. You know, I think I'd make a good Lord.'

Gods, he is drunk, Jon mused. 'They will not forget this defeat. If the other Northern Lords find out Roose Bolton can't even protect them from Wildlings, they'll flock from his side like spooked cattle,' he said. 'But he won't sit tight at Winterfell for long after this, and there is still a war to be won,' Jon said, less warmly.

'For you maybe,' he snorted back. 'The Freefolk's wars are done. You swore we'd only have to fight for our place in your precious North and we have done that. Ask the boneyard outside. They were your enemy and we killed them for you. Now we rest in our hard earned castle. I've always wanted a castle.' Tormand swayed where he stood, but his words rang from the heart, not his drink. Tormand remained ever stubborn to participate in Stannis Baratheon's wars.

'The wars will come to you. The Karstarks are loyal to the Boltons, and the Boltons will try to win the Karhold back,' Jon warned.

The Wildlings had played their part in Jon's 'southern war', defeating the last of the troops garrisoned at the Karhold. But that was as far as their involvement was supposed go, as was promised by Jon. Stannis was persistent in recruiting them to his cause, but all hopes of the Stag King earning their loyalty burnt away with Mance Raider. Though, with Jon landing the first blow, without even lifting a northern finger, the Boltons would like look to retaliate, and the Freefolk may have no choice but to fight, if the war came knocking on their new doorstep.

'The Karstarks are dead. Didn't you see them on your way in? Let them try,' Tormand taunted. 'The interesting thing about you southerners is you build big stone walls to hide from men like us. Had these Karstarks stayed behind them, their hearts would still beat in their chests.' A cocky smile crept into the corner of his mouth. 'I will gladly stay behind these walls if that Bolton cunt looks to oppose us. As for the Karstarks, fuck them they're dead.'

'They're not all dead, Tormand. And they will fight for their keep,' Jon tried to assure.

'Then you best root them out of Winterfell before they get a chance to strike,' Tormand went to fill his horn with more wine from a keg. 'The longer they sit there, the more our advantage dwindles. We have them outnumbered. We have them surrounded. Why do you march with haste and caution? Be a man and fuck them right in their faces, before they can do it to you.'

It wasn't Jon's doing. It was Stannis who consistently opted to let the Boltons stew with their schemes behind the walls of Winterfell, whilst they marched slowly down the Kingsroad, scraping for the last of the northern allies they could muster. Stannis wanted to be ready. He wanted the victory to be indisputable. Jon wanted Roose Bolton occupying a spike with his head as soon as the opportunity arose, but his King wanted to bask in his strength. Stannis had never been stronger in his conquests, and he was loving every second of it. I fear he grows too drunk on his power. He has a taste for a Kings appetite now. A dangerous appetite.

Tormand guessed his thoughts. 'Your kneeler King holds you back, does he not?'

'Yes,' Jon admitted. 'The man's gone mad with his plans and his schemes. When the long night comes, he wants to let the walkers south to slaughter the Lannisters, whilst we hide in the stubborn mountain ranges of the Vale.'

It yeilded only a laugh from the Wildling. 'Little girl. Men who believe in strange fire gods are no men to follow in battle, Lord Snow. And who knows what that red woman whispers in his ear after she's spread her legs for him. For all we know, she is looking to burn your country down, and Stannis's cock is too hard to stop her.'

Stannis had plans to cosy up in the Eerie, if they complied, during the long night, giving the Others only the Lannisters to slaughter in the south; as well as half the countries populous. To him, that would only cut their chances to nothing in an eventual, inevitable fight. If the Walkers were allowed to massacre the whole of Westeros, their army of the dead would be too overwhelming for them to even dent, let alone destroy. They simply had to turn and fight the Others when the time came. Winter was nigh, and Westeros was still oblivious to the looming threat. Or in mere denial.

'Stannis is honourable. He will do the right thing when we need him to,' Jon said, defensive of his King. Jon wasn't sure if he was right to, but he'd pledged his forsaken honour to him. It was too late to turn back now. 'He fought at our backs at Hardhome. He is the only one who knows what we're up against.'

Tormand raised a bushy ginger brow. 'And if he doesn't do the right thing?'

Jon wasn't sure what his options were if Stannis abandoned the real war. 'I don't know,' he yeilded.

'With the North behind you, Stannis does not cast a shadow that can match yours,' Tormand said, suddenly devious.

Jon gave him a queer look. 'The armies of The North are short at least four thousand of Stannis's force.'

'Ay, true. But you forget the two thousand Freefolk.' Tormand's eyes gleamed with purpose. 'And what, fifty men of the Nights Watch. Stannis's men are paid, in golden coins. They have no stake in this war. When the shit is thickest, they'll be the first to run. Your men are behind you, truly, as we were Mance. They'll follow you into the long night, as a Stark and as their leader. That's if Stannis doesn't force you south to fight for the fucking Iron Throne.'

'No, Stannis swore the North would only fight in the long night. We have no business in the games they play in the south,' Jon was louder than he intended, arousing Wildling eyes around the room.

'As you swore us. And look at us now. Sat in a fancy castle, waiting for your enemy to threat a war with my people,' Tormand argued back. He wasn't sure when this had become a conflict, but it soon grew heated.

'Stannis made me Warden of The North. He will give me back my home. I cannot turn my back on him. He is the one to lead us in the long night,' Jon said.

'No man, woman or child of the north, the real north, will set foot on a battlefield at the heels of a fire God mad, stake burning southern King,' the Wildling chieftain said, his teeth clenched beneath his shaggy copper beard.

'Then who will you follow, Tormand,' Jon shouted. 'You refuse to lead the Freefolk yourself, you refuse to abide by the laws of Stannis. If you refuse every option, you will condemn your people to the worst of deaths. When the long night comes, do you think this castle will save you? What will you do when the fight comes to you? Refuse to lead your people then, and you will suffer the consequences,' Jon yelled back. He had no patience for Tormand's stubbornness.

'We will be there when the others come lurking, King Crow. I will avenge those we lost at Hardhome, whether it kills me or not. But never will the Freefolk kneel to one of your southern Kings,' Tormand said. 'But we would follow you into the long night, Jon Stark.'

Jon measured his face. The man was all serious. But it was no surprise to him that the Wildlings had accepted him as a capable leader. He lived as one once. As a turn cloak crow, yes, but he established peace between the two factions, halting a rivalry that had stemmed back countless centuries, which was enough for him to be trusted on both sides. But Tormand had meant much more than his words could define.

'When the long night comes, Jon Stark, you are the man to lead us all. You care not for crowns, for castles, for Iron Thrones. You fight because you know it is the only way. Stannis is no hero. He would sooner hide from the walkers than fight them like a real King would. Like Mance would,' Tormand preached. 'With the North and the Freefolk, you can see us to victory…or a bloody hard fought death at least. And if we die, then at least your remains will do the fighting for us.

Jon did feel the weight of the whole war rested on his shoulders, and only he felt the urgency to stop the White Walkers before it was too late. His ancestors had warned them for years, Winter is Coming. His father, Eddard of the House Stark, Warden of the North and Hand of the King had said it near every day. Winter was coming. And Westeros didn't care. Only Stannis had come. And for that, Jon gave him his loyalty.

'It could never happen,' Jon argued. 'It just couldn't. I can't betray him.'

'So you will go south with him,' Tormand suggested.

He wouldn't turn his back on Stannis, but he wouldn't be beside him when he met the Lannisters in battle for Kings Landing. It was tempting, a chance to avenge his father, his brother, even Lady Catelyn, the woman who couldn't bare looking at him. Nothing would give him greater pleasure, to cast down those who had destroyed his house, baring the name Stark. But winter was coming, and so he would do what he must.

'If Stannis does not hold his word, I will have no choice but to turn my cloak on him, but until then, I follow him. As do my my men.' Jon couldn't deny Stannis played a large part of the Stark's banners rallying to Jon. Absent Stannis, he couldn't doubt the lords of the North would have closed their gates on him. Only in fear of Stannis and his force did the Lords who refused the rule of Roose Bolton rally to Jon. Together with Stannis, they were the largest force in the north bar the Night King's own army. The Boltons couldn't contest, and it bred confidence in Jon from his father's old bannermen. They wore the smile and named him a true Stark to his face, but he wondered what they truly thought of him. A bastard, a deserter, he spat.

'You should find a new ally. Stannis only means to use you to secure the North. What will happen when you are no longer useful to him?' Tormand said, leaving. Jon was alone in the main hall with Tormand's Wildlings. They paid him no mind and continued their drinking. The stench of death lingered about the place, creeping beneath the scent of smoke and bacon and beer. He decided then he needed to rest, and made his way to find a fitting solar.

Podrick caught him on his way. He bumbled at his heels and stuttered his words. 'M-my Lord, your horse has been tended to,' Pod muttered.

'Thank you, Podrick. That will be all. Rest, find a fire,' he offered softly. But he continued to follow.

'A-actually, my Lord, I was hoping for a word,' Pod said. Jon stopped and urged him on.

Jon pressed on. Sleep was only a whisker away, but he'd asked much of the squire. He heard him out. 'Go on then. But make it quick,' he said.

Pod kept pace, bumbling all the while. 'I-I was wondering what exactly I'm to ask of Lord Tyrion when I reach Mereen? It's been a long while since I have seen him. Perhaps it is best for you to send one of your retainers, a noble perhaps.'

Jon smiled. 'A nobles word is no greater than a commoners. Besides, you know him. He trusts you.' He was keen to express his lack of involvement in the wars of Westeros, and he planned to keep it as such. 'I will write a letter, as formality. But we need allies, Pod. This fight isn't just the North's. Westeros is yet to bring itself into the fold. He's seen Castle Black, he knows how bad it is. Our struggle is worse than ever.'

'Our?' Pod stung him a little.

He felt ashamed all of a sudden. Even the squire doubts my loyalty. 'I said the words…I am still fighting for the Nights Watch. Until my death. I'll write the letter. Go find yourself a fire, perhaps something to drink.'

Pod nodded and left with, 'for the sake of the realm, I hope that does not happen soon, my Lord.' Jon smiled at him, then Pod bumbled off into the night.

He made haste to find a chamber. After crossing an empty courtyard, climbing up a stout stairwell and reaching the peak of Karhold's main tower, Jon found a room befitting the Lord of Karstark. The room was dim, so he lit the hearth. When the fires roared, he sat beside it, engulfing himself in a blanket of warmth.

Jon unloaded his inventory, stripping out of his black leathers, a reminder of his commitments to the Nights Watch. He had promised to return with an army of Northmen, ready to face the long night side by side with his black brothers. Yet, Stannis's intentions seemed like to lead him south, dooming the remnants of Nights Watch to a butchering. Stannis is not reliable anymore. He can help me take Winterfell back, yes, but then what? I cannot fight his wars for him. The North would never consent to another march down south, not after the Red Wedding. Jon placed Longclaw on the table, sheathed. He rinsed his face in a basin of warm water and laid down to rest his aching bones. After long, he found himself dozing off into a foggy dream.

He was hunting.

But he wasn't a wolf, like before. He was a crow. Shivering winds ruffled through his feathers, his wings broad and black, barely visible in the night sky. The moonlight shone within the imperfections of his gleaming feathers, like a veil of stars within his wings. There were several of them, the cawing crows, eyeing up their feast below. It was a banquet of bodies, fallen in battle. A gruesome and gory sight, where men had their skin stripped from their chests, flayed and butchered.

Others had been torched at the stake, their charred bodies roasting, whilst herds of red priests prayed at their demise. There was a trail, Jon could see, from up high up in the clouds. The Kingsroad lay waste to scorched, mutilated dead men, in the wakes of his war. The crows had flocked for miles, from Winterfell to The Wall, feasting on the river of corpses. Another dream, Jon thought.

He flew north, towards The Wall, cawing out to his flock to fly north. He saw it all; Roose Bolton in Winterfell, forking up schemes with his bastard. Bastard, bastard Mormont's Raven cawed. But you are not a crow, Jon argued. Are you a crow? Edd Toilette cawed. You're a deserter, Lord Snow. And a murderer, Thorne squawked. Just a traitors bastard. Jon flew away from them.

Jon looked down, he saw Last Hearth. He saw Sansa, sewing a cloak like fathers. And Stannis, fixated on flames within his tower, mesmerised by the dark whispers hissing in one ear. The red woman was clung to him, whispering more fables in the other. Lords Umber, Manderly and Glover bickered over who was to lead the vanguard, whilst drinking in the main hall. He saw Sam was with his Gillyflower, and Kraster's son, entranced in his brazen love, playing at a father. He flew on. But Edd followed. Castle Black was in the distance, an ants nest at the base of the wall.

You left us Jon. We needed you. Edd pestered him, swooping by with his pitch black wings.

I was always coming back. I am coming back, Jon promised.

Its too late Jon, cawed Grenn, another fallen crow, flying beside them.

You cannot save us, Jon. Our watch has ended, Pyp added, cawing with the other crows he'd lost.

No, I have the North behind me now. They will aid us in the long night, Jon reassured, but his crow comrades didn't care.

It matters not, Jon Snow. The Watch plays no part in the wars of Kings. Yet, you have brought the war to us, squawked Maester Aemon. It was strange, Jon hearing the voices of his fallen brothers from the crows he flew with. Though, to his knowledge, Dolorous Edd was still Lord Commander. The rest however had all perished into memories. It was a sign he figured. A message, hidden beneath a shroud of riddles.

Castle Black was so close now, just beyond Moles Town. Or what was left of it. The town was no more than a scorch in the snow now. Jon wondered what was cause. He saw no dead, but it was apparent they had been attacked. His flock of crows had flown off North, under the immense shadow of the Wall. He flew on.

The Wall was a monster—even flying this high up, he still glided below its summit. He swooped down, smelling the smoke and snow emanating from his old home. He eyed a string of torches, illuminating the base of the Wall, a signal post of the keep, but the rest was shadow, dark as his wings. As Jon flew down though, he was met with the gruesome sight of his own corpse, led dead in the snow next to the armoury. He'd seen this before, back when he was Lord Commander.

Jon landed, perching himself atop a training dummy in the sparring yard. The crows came down to claim their feast. He watched as they pecked out the eyes of his murdered self. He wanted to caw them off but he knew it was nothing more than a dream.

It's not a dream Jon, another voice cawed. It was a Raven amongst crows, three times larger than them all with a black gleaming third eye on its head. It perched itself next to him. This is as real as you or I. Your precious crows feed on the remains of your departure. They're starving leadership, and pluck at the remnants of your rule.

Jon wanted weep, and rage, and go back to his life before Stannis. Back to when he was Lord Commander, before he deserted his brothers and ushered in their doom with his absence. He wished he could have stopped himself slaying Ser Alliser, perhaps he was the man to lead them when the night was darkest. He wondered what consequences awaited the Nights Watch in times of such turmoil.

The Raven read his thoughts. It's not your fault, Jon. You always intended to return. We both know that much. It wasn't wrong. Despite being named Warden of the North and Lord Stark of Winterfell, in the back of his mind he'd always planned on rejoining the Nights Watch when the wars were over, if he still lived. Jon held his honour in high regard, as his father had, and he would not break his vowels. Jon merely wanted to restore his family legacy to its rightful place, for his house, for his family. All that had been taken from the Stark's, Jon sought to get back. Winterfell would be his first act but revenge was his motive now. And if he had the full force of the North rallying behind him on his return to Castle Black, he could sleep softly knowing it was all worth it when the Long Night came.

Or perhaps you drag the North into peril as well, said the Raven. Will they follow a man who deserts his brothers when they need him most? Or will they stay hidden in their castles, seemingly safe, and wait out the winter.

No, Jon argued. I am no deserter. He didn't deem Stannis's pardon a good enough excuse to exempt him from his crimes. The black rose above the Kings laws, and it was the most significant of vowels, an oath for your life itself. He had said the words, and he would have to uphold them. And I will, when the time comes, he reassured himself. My watch shan't end until my death.

And I beside you, brother, the Raven said.

Jon looked at the Raven, all three eyes sparkled in the moonlight, black as jet. Bran, Jon realised.

We have powerful blood, Jon. The blood of the first men, Bran cawed, his sharp black beak twinkling against the torches.

Jon had no questions, no words, nothing. It was all a sign, perhaps from the gods, the old or new. He had to be dreaming. If his is real, how am I here? How are you here?

We're Wargs Jon. And not of the same like as the Wildlings are. Our dreams take us places that are both true, and false, both full of answers and empty. They merely show us our path, or reflect on the trail we left in our wake, the Raven prattled.

Jon looked to the mutilated corpses, wondering whether this was a prompt from the gods for him to pave his way back to his post on the Wall, or if this was the mark he left on Castle Black. And what of this? Jon asked. Is this real? Are my brothers truly defeated?

Only time will tell. But it is clear danger looms over Castle Black in your absence. Look over there, Bran cawed, gesturing to the corner of the courtyard, by the armoury. What do you see? Jon flapped his wings and ascended over to the corner, landing on a weapon rack. He saw the body, pierced and leaking blood from multiple stab wounds. His expression was nonexistent and his wide eyed stare saw nothing. A slab of wood was nailed up above him, the word 'traitor' carved into it.

Jon recognised him, remembering the night he saw through Ghost's eyes. He'd seen this vision before. It's me. Betrayed by my brothers.

Not in is life. But yes, Jon. Bran the Raven perched up next to him. The Nights Watch had mutiny in their hearts when the Wildlings were allowed to pass through the gate. If you had stayed, perhaps that was how it would have ended for you.

So I was supposed to leave? To live? Jon had heard as much from the red woman. She warned him Ser Alister would bare blood if he remained Lord Commander. But he was dead now.

Your watch does not end until your death, Jon. Remember that when the Kings and Queens whom war for the Iron Throne ask you south. Bran seemed to know a lot of what was happening in recent times. And it was strange given he was last spotted by Sam heading north of the Wall. How could a crippled boy in the real north know the things he did? Then it occurred to him to ask, finally.

And what of you, little brother? I thought you dead going north. Why is it I see you only in my dreams? Jon had a barrage of questions, yet he could find no voice for them. Where was Bran? If he knew, perhaps it would give Brienne of Tarth a better quest of finding him. And what had he been thinking to even contest the idea of going beyond the Wall? It was a harsh country, and no place a crippled boy could ever survive. Or so he thought.

The heart trees, Jon. Their roots hold darker secrets than you could ever know. It's scary. But they hold power to you. You must find one. Touch the tree and they will tell you a thousand tales, if you bare the ears to listen. They will show you the truth of it all. Find one, Jon, and we shall speak again, Bran urged before taking off, and flying away.

Bran, Jon cawed. But he did not acknowledge. He was gone. I don't know what to do. Even with his titles, his honours, his name, Jon felt utterly powerless once more. Unsure what he was to do next, he flapped his wings and surveyed Castle Black, hoping for a clue to emerge. The black bone yard sat still and quiet, as snow trickled onto the corpses, smothering the black of their cloaks white as the Kingsguards own. They were almost buried in it now, the snows of winter growing ever thicker as each day passed. But winter was just beginning. He'd forgotten how cold it was up there. The colds of the crypts at Winterfell was a breeze in comparison the harsh gales that had tormented him north of the Wall.

From below, a man screamed, shrill and agonising. Jon swooped down, to see a black brother strung to a cross, shaped in the likeness of Roose Boltons banners. The man of the Nights Watch had been crucified, naked and left to freeze in the cold. The man was suffering beyond anything Jon had ever known. The sheer cold was enough to bring him an abundance hurts, but the man had been picked clean to the bone in some places, and ruby red lashes were dashed across his chest. But that wasn't enough to kill the man. No, he had been left to a slow and painful death. A flayed man, at Castle Black. Damn you, Bran. What am I supposed to make of this?

The only thing Jon could fathom from this surreal dream was a warning. His brothers for sure. But what business would Roose Bolton have with the Nights Watch? They were no elite force, nor donned any bold armies. They were but forty men, and barely a threat to a grumpkin. And the Boltons would never be able to smuggle a force passed Stannis and armies. If this is truly a vision, then I must warn them.

But Edd appeared from behind, still a crow. I told you, Jon. It's too late.

But how? Tell me what I have to do, Jon pleaded.

You know nothing, Jon Snow, uttered another tormenting crow. When he wheeled to meet the speaker, he woke to Podrick Payne.

'Lord Stark….L-Lord Stark?' Jon sat up and stared at his hands. They weren't wings, and he was back. But Bran had come to him, in his dreams.

'What is it Podrick?' His sleep left him wary. His mood felt snappy, and Podrick's bumbling was something he had no patience for.

'C-castle Black, my Lord. A raven came,' Podrick muttered, his breath heavy in the cold night air. 'The Nights Watch has been attacked.'