And here's the first of the presently written chapters. Things are taking quite a turn from my original plan, but hopefully this will give you more to sink your metaphorical teeth into. Enjoy!

A week. It was a week more before Jon had the strength to venture out of his chambers. And then it was to the news that Autumn was taking its final steps, before bowing at the foot of Winter's throne. He was no stranger to snow, or winter, but the bitter hands of the season were beginning to warp their surroundings into an unfamiliar collection of white coated buildings. From atop the wall, Castle Black must look like the product of a small child, fumbling in overlarge gloves.

Sansa used to like making things in the snow, Jon recalled, on the very rarity that it did. It offered her chance to live out some of the fairy tales she so fondly held close to her chest. He thought of the stark contrast her hair would make with the ground, and for a moment, he almost though he could see the flash of red as she turned and fled from Arya and Bran, snowballs falling apart in their hand. He saw all of this while his eyes themselves stared bleakly across the practice yard.

Hesitantly, and with no hurry, he made his way from building to building. Inspecting steps; wiping stripes of dust from a table off on his finger. When he reached the common hall, he found it not empty.

"Lannister" he sighed, stopping at the door. The dwarf looked back and with a sly smile, raised his cup to him

"Lord Commander" he said slowly "care to join me? The wine tastes like piss, but I can assure the company is second to none." Jon smiled at the self-appreciation Tyrion Lannister seemed to have lost none of since they'd last met, and climbed into a seat opposite. The dwarf poured him a cup of wine, as if he'd been expected. Or maybe he just liked to vary drinking utensil. Either way, Jon had to agree with the sophistication of the wine. "It's humbling" he continued, taking another sip "to go from such grand niceties to the good old provision of the Night's Watch. Did you bastards actually drink this stuff?"

"Every night" Jon assured him.

"Gods. You boys had more guts than I thought."

"When it is this cold you'll drink whatever keeps you warm."

"Well said" he raised his cup to clink against Jon's and took another long draw. There sat in silence for a while, drinking and breathing and thinking. Jon took the time to recover from his short walk out, the ache in his limb quickly receding, but leaving behind a lingering reminder that he wasn't ready yet. He doubted he could even lift a sword. You hobbled on that leg, he told himself, you can fight against the ache.

"So you finally let honour get the best of you?" Tyrion began, a short while later "if I'm honest I'm not surprised. Sooner or later the Stark in your was going to win out."

Jon said nothing. Half of him didn't want to admit that the dwarf was right, and the other half was scared he'd say something out of turn.

"I am sorry though" he continued "it's one thing to give up kinship in favour of duty, but to lose and not be able to assist. That's another thing altogether."

"I had new brothers."

"And yet you let the threat on your honour almost cost you your life. Some logic you have there my lord."

"I'm not my lord anymore" he said gruffly "and it wasn't just about me. Winterfell was under threat, as was my f-" he cut himself short. Not your family anymore. He resolved to stay quiet again.

"Well the princess would seem to see things differently" he said, picking up the jug again. He let the last drops sliver into his cup and made a face "this would not seem to do" he said quietly.

Jon eyed him suspiciously "what do you mean the princess sees it otherwise?"

"Well" he started up again, finishing what was left in his cup "though it would seem the Night's Watch is no longer needed, there still needs to be someone to hold the North."

"You talk boldly" Jon observed.

"Are there ears around?" he shrugged a shoulder "there would seem to be no need for secrecy. There is us, and there are the men of Mole's town, who come here scarcely enough to even catch us out of our rooms."

"Your disregard for subtlety has me at odds, Lannister" Jon almost smiled. It was an odd experience, sitting here with someone he had known before. Someone who had known the boy, before the man. Strange knowing Tyrion understood the way things used to be, before fire came out of the east and a Targaryen sat the Iron Throne once more. There was silence for a few more moments, until Tyrion pointed at the cup Jon was rolling between his hands.

"Are you going to drink that?" he asked. Jon shook his head and nudged the cup forward. "As I see it, too much of our lives have been drowned in subtlety and secrecy. Maybe it's time we take a different approach."

"Tyrion Lannister, you have changed" Jon spoke, reverently.

"So has the world, Snow. And we better catch up with it."

"I don't think the princess wants to" he muttered under his breath. He wasn't sure Tyrion heard him, as he clambered down off his bench. He patted the table once with his hand and then turned to waddle off in the direction of the inner rooms. No doubt his love for books hadn't been extinguished in his new favour of honesty. He was a Lannister after all however, and Lannisters were the masters of deceit.

He could take his words on board, and find his head on a spike within a fortnight. He could ignore them, to the same outcome.

No, he thought, standing himself, I am the only person I can trust.

He could almost hear Tyrion's voice in his head 'well done boy, you're learning.'

Chin dipped back into the furs around his neck, he braced himself for the cold again. His eyes were drawn to the great lift that raised or dropped you up and down the structure Castle Black made its foundation. There was nobody here to work it anymore; the men who had volunteered had disappeared, when their promise of warmth and food had come up short. They had plenty of supplies, and provided an amiable table, so Jon assumed it was the atmosphere that had sent them away.

He knew how they felt. The princess had a presence, one that was impenetrable and sometimes less than inviting. Ser Jorah was stoic and humourless, ever the guard in the corner of your eye. And Tyrion…well Tyrion was Tyrion, and people had heard enough of the Lannister imp to not warrant his company.

Jon eyed the switchback stair, and wished he had the strength to face the climb. Some clarity atop the wall seemed like the perfect remedy for the words Tyrion had just expelled. He was beginning to consider it and face the pain, when a call from across the yard brought him back to his senses.

He turned and made a small bow, hindered by the stretch across his back and stomach. The recipient nodded her head and smiled a soft smile. Jon thought that she looked just like a girl, younger than him, shoved into a world that had raised her above the rest. He couldn't help compare their stories, and he half wondered if hers held as much tragedy as his own.

"Your grace" he greeted once she was within talking distance.

"After all this time I'm still not used to being called that willingly" she said. He frowned "you'll find that many people in my past were just putting up one face of a coin. It's hard to know whether someone is being sincere when you're surrounded by so much threat."

"I would have thought that is when things become most clear, or at least it has been in my experience. Threat is the greatest test of loyalty."

"You would think so" she said ruefully "but…that has not always been the case. Even my closest advisors have been found to be hiding something" she looked away toward the gate while Jon began to shift awkwardly. The ache in his thigh was beginning to tell. He was about to make his excuses when she turned back, skin bunched up around her eyebrows. "I should go and check on Ser Jorah's progress. If you'll excuse me" she avoided his eyes and stepped past, not waiting for a bow or a reply. He didn't make one, didn't even turn to watch her go. Carefully, he made his way back to his solar and with more wine in his hand, and a fire growing in the hearth, he let himself think.

His mind roved back to the night a week ago, when, just for a moment, Jon had let himself feel her presence. He knew now that wasn't her. The compassion she had seen in her eyes, the warmth, it was all superficial. He had felt her presence moments ago, the hardness in her eyes. That was the lady, the princess. The Khaleesi, as he'd heard Jorah call her. He wasn't well versed in Dothraki culture, but he knew enough to understand where the power came from. If she had been respected as a princess of the Khalasar, then her position here must feel like being dumped at the bottom of a mountain and looking at the throne from the first rung of an invisible ladder.

His eyes were beginning to droop when he resolved to keep his trust close to his chest.