Some of the upcoming Jon chapters, including this one, will be reminiscent of the books and show. I will be using some dialogue from both. I'm afraid it can't be avoided.
Re the events of the previous chapter and why Benjen appeared to be similar to Ser Aliiser. I toned him down from Ser Alliser, but Jon had wanted himself and Sam to bond, Benjen was asked to act that way with Sam for Jon gain his trust. Sorry if that wasn't clear enough in the previous chapter.
Jon and the men he was taking with north of the wall with him, were still required to take on watch duties to earn their keep. This was what had him and Sam stood atop the wall in the freezing cold as the sun set. The wind howled, flapping their capes, which they huddled into. The braziers burning brightly only offered a miniscule of warmth. Despite Jon knowing Sam, his counterpart didn't know him.
"Will there be girls there?" Sam asked.
Jon turned to Sam and smirked. "Why do you ask?"
"I've never been with a girl before," said Sam shyly, although Jon already knew that.
"We're rebuilding Queenscrown, so it's mainly soldiers and builders at the moment. Of course, there's my sister, mother-in-law and wife. They are the only girls there right now. In time, there will be girls, maybe even a whorehouse."
"You're married?" asked Sam, who seemed surprised. Jon nodded. "Is she pretty?"
Jon considered Sansa for a moment, her long red tresses and bright blue eyes. In her own way, Sansa was a cross between ice and fire. Despite her current youth, Sansa would grow to become a great beauty, of that Jon could be certain. "Aye, the greatest beauty in all the Seven Kingdoms."
"You're biased." Sam laughed. "What does she look like?"
Jon closed his eyes and pictured her. "She's tall, red hair, kissed by fire, with the bluest eyes and fairest skin."
"And does she have a nice..." Sam drew the shape of an hourglass in the hair.
Sansa was only really beginning to develop a woman's body. By the time Sam got to meet her, she would be far more curvaceous, like she had been when he saw her at Castle Black. From memory Sansa was slim but had curves, although he'd paid little attention back then. After all, he'd thought she was his sister.
Deciding not to give too much away, he replied diplomatically. "She's perfect."
"Ooh." Sam sounded like his mouth was watering. "So... what's it like?"
"What's what like?" asked Jon innocently, knowing exactly where this conversation was going.
"You know... being with a girl." Sam blushed.
"I wouldn't know." Jon lied.
Sam looked confused. "But you're married to the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms."
"For most of our lives, Sansa and I believed we were siblings, but it was a lie. We are cousins. For the time being, we have a practical marriage. Until we get used to the idea of not being half-brother and sister. Anyway, she's only fourteen and hasn't flowered yet," Jon added.
"So, what are you going to do?" Sam asked.
Jon shrugged. "I'll do my duty."
Sam shuddered. "Will you know where to put it? I mean, with her being your sister and all that... won't it be weird?"
"They kept us apart as children, so we barely knew each other." Jon said. "We've had time to get used to being cousins. We're waiting until she's flowered." At least he didn't have to describe to Sam what sex was like. His friend would find out soon enough. "Anyway, you'll have your time."
Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I mean... look at me. Who's going to want me?"
"There's no whorehouse in Queenscrown, but in Winter Town there is. Maybe when we get back we find you someone, unless you find a wildling girl." Jon pretended to jape, knowing he was trying to devise a plan to rescue Gilly from Craster.
The shifts at the top of the wall never lasted over three hours, lest the men freeze to death. When he and Sam had finished, they had supper in the common room and Jon headed up to his room where Ghost was waiting for him. Jon was aware tonight was the night the wight would attack Lord Commander Mormont. Although the Old Bear knew Jon had some knowledge of what was going to come, Jon had played it down, acknowledging major wight attacks and Daenerys hatching dragons. He hadn't told the Lord Commander about the Othor attacking him. However, knowing it was going to happen, Jon wanted to stay awake to be ready for it. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas.
Jon sat on his cot, hands around his knees to keep warm, despite a fire burning in the hearth. He noticed his younger body felt the cold more. It hadn't acclimatised, nor was it as muscular as his older self. He stared at the candle on the table beside his narrow bed, waiting for Ghost to alert him when Othor attacked the Old Bear. I will not sleep, Jon thought, watching the flame on the candle flicker in a mesmerising fashion, growing darker and darker. However, he must have dozed off, for Ghost was standing on his hind legs, scrabbling at the door to get out. Jon knew he didn't need to ask the direwolf what the problem was. He already knew, but he asked anyway.
"Ghost, what is it?" he said. The direwolf turned his head and stared at him with his red eyes, baring his fangs. "It's me, Ghost," he murmured, trying to reassure the direwolf. The room had suddenly got much colder than Jon remembered. He trembled violently, through fear or cold. He couldn't tell. Ghost scratched the door and then backed away, leaving deep gouges where his claws had scraped away the wood. "There's someone out there, isn't there? Shall we go find him?" he asked. The direwolf crept backward, white fur stood up on the back of his neck.
Jon was shivering uncontrollably, wishing he had Longclaw. Instead, he pulled on the sword-belt which held the castle-forged steel sword he'd been using since he left Winterfell and a dagger. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it inward, letting in even more cold air. Ghost slid past him out the door and started up the steps, stopping only to look back at Jon, as if encouraging him to follow. That was when he heard it; a sound of scraping boots came from above in the Lord Commander's chambers.
Ghost silently padded along the steps, and Jon followed as quietly as possible. Eventually they reached the door to Mormont's solar and Ghost jumped up at the door, trying to get in. "Lord Commander." Jon called out, but there was no answer. Slowly opening the door, Jon peered inside, but the direwolf had no hesitation and plunged inside. Drawing his sword, Jon stood in the doorway, blade in hand. He made his way into the dark room, which was black as ink. "Who's there!" he called out, this time trying to remember where to look, then he saw the wight, lurking in the shadows, approaching him, pearlescent blue eyes shining in the darkness. Jon swung his sword at the wight, knowing it wouldn't make much difference, but if he could render it useless, then he could destroy it, hopefully without burning his hand. At least this time, he knew how to fight the monsters. He slashed with the sword, chopping off Othor's left hand, noticing the resistance the flesh had towards the blade, completely different to that which he felt when using Longclaw, which cut through a man like he was butter.
The hand crawled across the floor while Othor just came at him. Instead of thrusting like he had last time, Jon knew to slash and cut the wight down. It was the only way. He just avoided Othor when the hand grabbed hold of his ankle and squeeze. Not having time to prize the fingers away, he fell to the floor and chopped the right foot off the wight, slowing it down. That gave Jon enough time to draw his dagger and chop the fingers away from his ankle. The fingerless hand dropped to the floor, twitching.
The wight fell on top of Jon, causing him to drop his dagger, its remaining cold, dead hand wrapping its fingers around his neck, trying to squeeze the life from him. Jon tried to reach out for his dagger, but he was working blind. There was no light in the room and he couldn't move his head. A snarling noise distracted him, and suddenly the weight of the body was gone. Ghost had got him. Jon heard a squeal from his direwolf. The wight must have thrown him or punched him. "Ghost!" Jon cried, suddenly having no care for his own safety. He picked up the dagger, got up, and ran over to the sound of Ghost whimpering.
The direwolf was lying on the floor, looking slightly dazed. "Ghost." Jon whispered in a panic when he heard a noise behind him. Ghost sat up and snarled, confirming the wolf wasn't hurt. Jon swung around and saw pale blue eyes in front of him. He stabbed the dagger into the neck of the wight, although all it did was slow it down. Jon punched it in the face, and got up, drawing it away from Ghost.
The door to the Lord Commander's chambers opened and Mormont appeared wearing only his dressing robe, with an oil lantern in his hands. "What in the seven hells..." he started. But Jon didn't give him time to finish. He grabbed hold of the lantern and threw it at the wight, setting it on fire. Ghost scrambled over towards them and followed them into the chambers, where Lord Commander Mormont opened his window and called out for a guard to put out the fire in his solar.
"Are you alright lad?" asked Mormont, turning to Jon. "How's your hand?"
Jon frowned. He'd almost forgotten about his hand. After all, he'd just picked up a flaming oil lantern. It should be agony. He looked down at the palm, expecting to see the burns he'd received last time, instead it was just pink and slightly sore. Jon looked up at the Lord Commander. "It's not too bad."
"Well, we'll need to let you see Maester Aemon. Maybe it has something to do with that blood of yours. You might be less prone to burning than us normal folk," he said.
After the guard extinguished the fire, Jon visited visit Maester Aemon in his solar. Samwell, who was helping the old man, was with him, as Clydas had retired for the night. Like all the others in Castle Black, the Watch had built the room from wood, with a hearth, the fire burning from within. Under the instructions of the old Maester, Sam had been mixing a poultice for Jon's hand, which, despite being sore, did not burn like before. What he couldn't understand was why it was different.
Sam took Jon's hand in his and examined it under the candlelight. "Does it hurt?"
Jon rolled his eyes. "Aye, a little I suppose."
"How bad is it?" Maester Aemon asked.
"There are hardly any marks." Sam frowned. "It should be worse than this."
"I know. I held the oil lamp in my hand." Jon lowered his eyes. He knew Sam would need to know. "Is there anything you can tell me, Maester Aemon? I can trust Sam."
"I'm sure you've heard the tale about the night your father came into this world, Lord Whitestark." said Maester Aemon. "I believe it taught even the children of the north that piece of history." Jon blanched. He'd heard the tale of the tragedy of Summerhall. To him it had been some far off history that bore no meaning to him, aside from a prince who was born there and eventually stole his aunt, and that the Mad King survived.
"I do, Maester Aemon."
"My brother died that night. He was so consumed by the idea of hatching dragons. He thought he'd discovered a way to hatch them. Alas, we Targaryens are not fireproof, although I believe the dragon riders may have a little more tolerance to fire, but not much."
"But there are no dragons." Sam frowned. "Why would being fire resistant affect Jon?"
Jon shook his head. "I'm have Targaryen blood. But you can't tell anyone, Sam."
Sam's jaw went slack. "I promise, I won't." he frowned. "Are you prince Rhaegar's son?"
"Aye." Jon nodded. "Lyanna Stark was my mother."
"But you said..." Sam started. "That makes you the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"It matters not." Maester Aemon interrupted. "We are here to make sure Jon's hand is alright, not to discuss who should rule Westeros."
"Is it just dragon riders?" Jon asked.
"Will you ever ride a dragon, Jon?" Maester Aemon asked.
Jon took a deep breath. "I will... I think."
"We only know about those who rode dragons, although we Targaryens do like our baths warmer than most. We still burn, not as much as others. Only a small amount, but enough to stop you from having a badly burnt hand and instead it being a little sore. I've had Tarly here mix up a poultice which should help with the pain. He'll wrap it up for you and you can have him change the silk bandages and reapply the poultice over the next few days." Maester Aemon said.
"Thank you, Maester Aemon." Jon turned to Sam. "You can't tell anyone about this. King Robert would have my entire family murdered if he knew."
"And probably result in the deaths of thousands, as wars inevitably do." sighed Maester Aemon.
"I promise." Sam agreed. "Do you want me to pledge fealty?"
"I think that is a wise idea." Maester Aemon suggested.
Sam bended down on one knee. "I, Samwell Tarly, son of Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill, promise to be faithful to King Jon and his wife, Queen Sansa, and their heirs. I pledge fealty to them and shall defend them against all enemies in good faith and without deceit. I swear this by the old gods and the new."
"Rise." said Jon, almost hating himself for making Sam do this. However, he needed Sam to be a faithful and loyal friend more than ever before.
"Let's get this hand sorted out, your grace." Sam took Jon's hand in his and applied the poultice.
"Sam." Jon said. "Please don't call me 'your grace'. I don't wear a crown. I'm still just Jon to you."
Sam nodded. "Alright, Jon." he said, and got to work on his hand.
Jon retired to his room and finally slept. The pain in his hand had almost disappeared, different from how it had been the first time he experienced the burn. Jon wondered if him riding a dragon had brought him closer to his Targaryen heritage, ready to allow him to be a dragon rider without pain. Something was definitely different this time. He could sense it. Ghost was different. The direwolf knew things he shouldn't. Now he had some tolerance to fire. It wouldn't stop him from burning to death, although it would slow the process down and make it more painful.
A week later, the burns had healed, although Jon was still wearing the silks. Had he have removed them too soon, people would ask questions, for grabbing an oil lamp wouldn't leave him recovered in under a sennight. Jon was just finishing getting dressed, while Ghost lay in front of the hearth, dosing, when there was a knock at the door. Ghost lifted his head, but seemed unconcerned by whoever was on the other side, he lowed his head and went back to sleep.
"Come in." Jon called out, comforted by Ghost's ease.
The Lord Commander entered the room, followed by the flapping wings of his raven. He closed the door behind him before making his way over to the table at the side of the room. "Are you well, Snow?" Lord Mormont asked. "Well," his raven squawked.
"I am, my lord," Jon nodded. "And you?"
Mormont frowned. "A dead man tried to kill me. I'm as well as I could be." He scratched his shorter shaggy grey beard, which was singed in the fire. "How is your hand?"
"All healed." Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. "These are just for show." Jon turned his bandaged hand over. "They'll be coming off in a couple of days. It seems my dragon blood may have saved me from a far more serious injury."
"Good." Lord Mormont laid out a sword on the table, housed in a black metal scabbard banded with silver. "Here. You'll be ready for this, then." The raven landed on the table and strutted towards the sword.
Jon hesitated, his stomach tied up in knots. It had been going on for a year since he'd seen Longclaw, while fighting the army of the dead at Winterfell. "My lord?" "The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leather and old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now … It's Valyrian steel." Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. "I had the rest made anew. I thought a white wolf might be more appropriate for the pommel. A dragon would have given away too much. Here, take it."
"Take it," the raven echoed his master.
Because of the silks, Jon clumsily took the sword in his left hand. Slowly, he pulled it out from its scabbard and examined it. Longclaw was exactly as he remembered; a pommel made from stone so pale, it was almost white, weighted with lead to balance the blade, carved into the image of a wolf's head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes, to match Ghost. Upon the hilt, from soft, black, virgin leather covered the grip, as yet untainted by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a hand-and-a-halfer, also known as a 'bastard sword.' Somewhat ironic, Jon mused, for he was no longer a bastard, but that was what the world would view him until the right time.
"I don't know what to say," said Jon, moved again by the generosity of the man. This sword should have belonged to Ser Jorah after the Old Bear's death, but he knew neither father nor son deemed the man worthy to wield it.
"It was my father's sword, and his father's before him. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when I took the black." Mormont told him.
"Your son..."
"My son brought dishonour to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the sword behind when he fled. The original pommel was a bear's head. For you, I thought a white wolf would be more apt. One of our builders is a fair stone-carver," the Old Bear smiled.
"My lord, you honour me, but..."
"Spare me your but's, Lord Whitestark," Lord Mormont interrupted. "For I would not be sitting here were it not for you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely … and more to the point, you thought quickly. Although, I suspect with your greensight, you know a fair bit more about how to stop one of those things." Jon nodded. "A sword's small payment for a life," Mormont concluded. "Take it. I'll hear no more of it. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord." Jon smiled.
"I want no courtesies either," Mormont said, "so thank me no thanks. Honour the steel with deeds, not words." Jon nodded. "I know who you are and I can see who you will become. By carrying Longclaw, you are honouring my house more than it ever deserves. A good King wields a good blade. The swords of your forebears are gone, lost to the histories. A Targaryen King should wield a Valyrian steel sword," he concluded.
"Does it have a name, my lord?"
"Longclaw." Mormont replied.
"Claw," the raven cried.
The Lord Commander stroked the raven's head with his thumb, and the bird made a contented quorking sound. "I must leave now,. I've work to do, your grace," he added quietly, and without further ado, Lord Commander Mormont left the room.