CHAPTER 5

Jon Departs Winterfell

Night glowered above the turrets of old Winterfell. It was a starless sky, and black storm-clouds were rolling in from the north. The wind howled angrily as Jon walked along the parapets with an armoured knight on either side of him. Since Arya's letter had arrived that morning, furious fighting had erupted between the stags and the wolves. Stannis had been forced to open the gates and have soldiers from the camps enter and quell the turmoil. Never had tensions between the Northmen and the Southrons been so great. Now hundreds of men-at-arms lined the castle walls, watching for any sign of unrest.

Jon arrived at the King's chambers, and one of the knights opened the door and shoved him forward. As he entered, he felt the warm glow of a hearth wash over his icy skin. The King sat before a huge, grey map of Westeros, with Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Godry Farring standing at his side. Ink marks and wine stains covered the map. Queen Melisandre sat in a wooden chair by the fireplace, her gaze firmly on Jon.

"Lord Snow," the King grunted, and beckoned Jon with a gloved hand. His tone was laced with anger. "Where in god's name did you think you were going after court this morning?"

Jon no longer cared what Stannis thought of him. "I left to pack my arms and stock my garron."

"And where exactly had you planned on going, had my men not stopped you at Winterfell's gates?"

Stannis' guards had detained Jon for almost six hours, and he was in no mood to play the courteous vassal. "I planned to ride north, to Hurrick's Perch… while you and your pets squabbled in the Great Hall."

"How dare you speak to your King like that?!" Ser Richard declared, his hand moving swiftly to his hilt.

"No, how dare you?!" Jon spat back, his eyes firmly on Stannis. "How dare you call yourself King, while our enemy marches across the realm, and you sit here and play politics." He flicked the map across the table in disgust.

"Your grace," Ser Godry spoke, "Let my gut this insolent bastard, once and for all."

"Withdraw, Ser Godry," Melisandre whispered darkly. "This is none of your concern." The hearth flared up, and Ser Godry backed away from Jon. Longclaw still hung mockingly from his belt.

Jon continued, undeterred. "For over a week I've been asking for leave to return to the Wall, but no, you needed me around as your rallying stick." He could see the King growing red with anger, but he'd come too far to stop. "And now this happens, and my sister cowers in the mountains as any army of death surrounds her." Tears stung the back of his eyes.

Stannis was grinding his teeth. "I don't care if the Others are on our doorstep tomorrow. I will not abandon my claim to the throne." He slammed the table, knocking over a cup of wine. "Not now! Not ever!"

"My King," Melisandre spoke in a softer tone. "Of course the realm must be united under its true King, but Lord Snow speaks truth. The Wall must be guarded. The Great Other has commenced his assault."

"Then why was it not seen in your flames?!" The King shot back. The Queen offered no answer to that. "Curse these brigands in black cloaks. No sooner had I won the North than they let our enemies waltz right into the realm." Stannis tore himself up from his chair and stomped over to a window. "Curse them to hell!" He roared.

Jon rose from his seat steadily. "If you do not answer this call… then perhaps you were never a King to begin with." Stannis winced at that. Horpe and Farring moved towards Jon like wraiths, their swords in hand. Jon stepped back, clasping his dagger hilt.

"Stop this folly!" The Queen exclaimed, rising from her chair, and standing between them. "By the Lord of Light, stay your weapons." The two knights halted, and sheathed their blades warily. Jon released his grip, and sat back down. Stannis had not moved an inch.

The King continued to stare at his own murky reflection in the window. "We've had more letters from the Watch," he said after a while. "The Shadow Tower confirms Arya Stark's story, as does Freehold and the Nightfort… The Others have returned, and they've raised Castle Black to the ground."

"My sister is no liar, your grace."

Stannis turned and studied Jon for a moment. The room was silent, save the crackling of flame. "You have grown bold in your second life. The Jon Snow I knew at Castle Black would never have spoken to me thusly." He returned to the table and pressed the grey map back to its original position. "Though perhaps I can sympathise with your vexation. I know what it is to love a sibling, whether I wanted to or not."

The King rotated the map, so that Jon could see it, and then tapped at the point where Castle Black had been located. "The Wall from Oakenshield to Queensgate is shattered. Lord Mallister's scouts report thousands of Wights flowing through the cracks. They are led by these so-called 'White Walkers'… wraiths who ride dead horses, and wield spears of ice."

"Only dragonglass can defeat the Walkers," Jon replied. "Fire will do for the Wights."

"Yes, I know. Mance Rayder managed to salvage four crates of obsidian during the attack. He brought them to Hurrik's Perch, along with Lady Stark and the other survivors."

"Good. If the mountain clans can fashion dragonglass blades and arrow-heads, they'll have a fighting chance." Jon traced a line from Castle Black to Hurrik's perch with his finger. "According to this map, Arya is fifteen leagues from the wreckage. If the Others can travel only at night, then they have, at most… two weeks before the full attack." Jon's eyes rose to meet the King's. "Your Warden of the North calls for aide, sire, as do the Night's Watch, and all the hill tribes and wildlings who dwell in the Gift. If they are defeated, then the Others will move further south, first to Last Hearth, then to Karhold, down the Long Lake and through the Wolfswood, and eventually to Winterfell itself. What will your claim be worth then, when you are besieged by an army of ice and shadow?" Jon slammed his fist on the map. "We must raise our forces against them, your grace. We must take the fight to them!"

"I know, Lord Snow. Don't you think I've been over this half a hundred times today? It is my duty to protect the realm… above all. But my bannermen are at each other throats. I've had lords and knights who've remained loyal for years, defeats and all, only to watch my kingship rise and fall on the wings of a raven."

Melisandre's slender shadow moved across the map, and Jon felt her warm hand rest on his shoulder. "It matters not," she said softly. "You are their King. Command and they will obey."

The King gave a heavy sigh and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. His eyes were bloodshot. It looked as though he hadn't slept in years. "From what Lady Stark and Rayder tell us, all of the Wildlings in the Gift have gathered here, in Hurrik's Perch." He tapped a small black dot within the western hills. "Likely the mountain men are among them. Their numbers will be strong, and the mountains will provide good cover and high ground. In the meantime, I will deploy two-thousand men from Sea Dragon Point, and a further five-hundred from the Stony Shore to reinforce their ranks." Jon gave a sigh of relief. Perhaps he will prove an honourable King after all.

Ser Richard's shadow flickered over the map as well. "So long as the weather holds, it should only take our men five or six days to arrive." So long as they only stop to sleep. "The Others' army may reach the mountains within a fortnight, maybe less, but it will take just as long to trek the maze of rock and winding paths that lead up to Hurrik's Perch. We ought to know, we walked it ourselves."

Stannis tapped Sea Dragon Point again. "I will also send four longships to rescue any women and children caught in the mountains, including your sister Arya. I swear by the Lord of Light, I shall ferry her back to Winterfell unharmed."

"Thank you, your grace," Jon replied humbly.

Stannis continued. "Now, the main battle will likely take place at Hurrik's Perch, which is why I will deploy a further five-thousand men-at-arms from Winterfell, to try and rout the Others in their trek through the mountains. But as your say, Lord Snow, they may also make for Last Hearth, which is why I've sent Whoresbane and Crowfood, with one-thousand men, to garrison their castle, and to shelter any and all smallfolk fleeing the invasion."

"This is a sound strategy, your grace, but so long as the Wall stands agape, there's no telling how many Walkers will march through it. The Wall must be repaired, sooner rather than later."

"And it will," Stannis said. "Lord's Locke and Ryswell have graciously offered me four scores of builders and masons from their castles. Once the threat has been nullified, I will set them to work raising a stockade of timber and rock along the broken border."

"Your grace, forty men is hardly enough—"

"Don't interrupt me, Lord Snow," the King scolded. "Obviously the builders will supervise construction. The work itself will be carried out by the thousands of Wildlings and Night's Watchmen who let this happen in the first place." Even now he blames them.

"I'm told Rayder has a giant or two in his service. I'm sure they will come in handy."

Jon nodded. "His name is Wun Wun. They say the Wall was raised by giants… thousands of years ago."

"Then so it shall be once more. But we are getting well ahead of ourselves. First we must meet these godforsaken creatures in battle, and throw them back into the frozen wastes from whence they came." Jon wished he shared the King's confidence, but the Others were not Wildlings. They did not feel fear or panic or sorrow. Their ranks would not break before a cavalry charge. And to hear Sam tell it, they would never stop fighting, even with their dying breath.

Stannis traced a line down the western coast, all the way to the Neck. "I will replenish our garrisons along the coast with soldiers from Winterfell, but my twenty-thousand men at Moat Cailin will remain in place for the march south. As far as my southron lords are concerned, nothing has changed. However, I shall remain here in Winterfell, until such time as this northern threat is quelled."

"I will be ready to depart for Hurrik's Perch within the hour, sire."

"You won't be going to Hurrik's Perch, Lord Snow." Jon was confused. Why would he send me to Last Hearth? "I am sending you to White Harbor, and then north to East-Watch."

East-Watch? Jon had not expected that. "Why? The battle will be waged in the west."

"Aye, but the war will be won at the Wall. You had the right of it, Lord Snow. The Wall must be guarded, and despite my efforts to raise your stature, your blood runs Black." Stannis took a sip of dark red wine, and ran his finger to the western edge of the Wall. "The Watch is now vulnerable at three points. Lord Commander Mallister holds the Shadow Tower with eight-hundred men. He guards the gorge and the Bridge of Skulls. East-Watch, however, has less than a hundred fighters, and remains leaderless after Cotter Pyke was swallowed by the Shivering Sea." Jon was stung again by a pang of guilt. "I want you to sail to East-Watch, with three-hundred swords, and restore the castle to its former strength. It will prove valuable in guarding the Bay of Seals, and eventually in mending the shattered Wall east of Queensgate." Jon pondered the King's proposal for a moment. He traced the string of jagged coastline north of East-Watch: up and up it went, all the way to… Hardhome. Jon raised his eyes, and caught Melisandre gazing at him. She offered the faintest nod.

"You said so yourself, sire, my allegiance to the Night's Watch is extinguished. My Brothers have replaced me."

"Your Brothers think you dead and buried," the King replied. "Doubtless Mallister will remain Lord Commander, but he would not hesitate to appoint you Commander of East-Watch-by-the-Sea… And if he does I will convince him."

"Alright," Jon nodded. "I'll go."

"Of course you'll go," the King replied, aggravated. "I commanded it."

…

Jon made his way through the darkened courtyard in long strides. Thunder crackled in the distance. He pulled his furs closer to his chest. Jon had never seen Winterfell so silent, nor felt so cold, since his return from the Wolfswood. Now he would leave it once more, off to some unknown shore, where an unknown fate awaited him. He wondered whether he would ever see the castle again. Somehow he doubted it, and sadly that did not bother him.

"Lord Snow," a high pitched voice squeaked from behind. Jon turned to discover Ser Daven Seaworth trotting after him. "His grace has named me your squire." He reached Jon, offering an awkward bow. "For your voyage to East-Watch-by-the-Sea."

"I am no knight," Jon replied wearily. "But if you would like to assist me, I would welcome the help. I have several matters to attend to before setting out for White Harbor."

"Then I am yours to command, my lord."

He is a sweet boy, Jon thought, smiling, but hardly ready for the bloodshed that awaits him in the north. He grasped Devan by his plate mail and hoisted him back to his feet. Were you? Another voice echoed in Jon's head. Were any of us?

"Pack warm," he told the boy, and when you are ready, meet me in my chambers. I have an important task that needs doing. Devan bowed again, and departed.

Jon made his way up to his late father's study. On entering, he considered lighting a fire, but chose not to. I will need to get used to the cold again. I've spent too long within smoky feasting halls. In the corner of the room was the satchel of clothes he'd packed that morning. Beside it stood his father's desk, a blank piece of paper at its centre.

Jon lit some candles and sat down on the bed. After a while there was a short, sharp knock at the door. "Enter."

Ser Devan walked in the room with a saddlebag in each hand. He let them fall to the floor with a thumb and closed the door behind him. "It l-looks as though a-a storm is c-coming," he stammered.

"It's a few hours off yet," Jon replied. "Take a seat at that desk over there. You'll find some paper and ink." The boy obeyed diligently. "I need you to write a letter for my sister Arya. I'd write it myself, but my hands seem to have forgotten how."

"Of course, my lord." Devan dipped a dry quill in some ink and set it to paper.

Jon had written this letter a hundred times in his mind, but saying it out loud was a different thing entirely. "Dear Little Sister," he began. He paused for a moment, forming the words in his mind. And then they came pouring out.

"It seems father was right all along… winter has come, and now it's time for us wolves to show our mettle… Yes, it's me Jon. I'm alive, thanks to you. You saved me Arya… I was lost in the wilderness, frightened and alone, and you lead me home again. Now it's time for me to return the favour.

"King Stannis has promised to send seven-thousand soldiers. They should arrive at the mountains within a week, along with longships for the women and children… I am sure you and Mance will put them to good use.

"The obsidian will prove your greatest weapon in the coming battle. Melt it down to craft daggers, swords, spears and arrow-heads. But use it only against the Others. The Wights, the dead creatures, they can be killed by fire… I had hoped to join you in Hurrik's Perch, to help you send those ice demons back to hell, but I am needed at the Wall.

"Stay safe, Arya, and come home. I want to see my little sister again, to hug her, and hear all about her adventures… The days grow short, and the nights grow cold, but the hearths in Winterfell burn bright once more. I will see you soon. I promise…

"Love Jon."

When Devan had finished writing, Jon took the quill and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. "Take that to Maester Lorrik in the rookery. Have him send it to Hurrik's Perch as soon as possible. After that, I want you to go to the armory to pick me out the best sword and shield you can find. Have the blade sharpened and then meet me in the practice yard tomorrow morning. We depart at dawn."

"Yes, my lord." Devan folded the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. He picked up his saddlebags, and gave a polite nod, before exiting the room.

Jon sat at his desk for a while, listened to the cold winds roar outside his window. The candles flickered nervously, as a chill crept into the dim room. Jon looked down and realised his hands were shaking. He poured himself a cup of wine to calm his nerves.

The path before him was bathed in shadows. Jon had never even seen a ship before, let alone sailed one through the endless ocean. Winter would wrack their voyage with vicious storms. No doubt Ser Manderly would provide them with a set of stout ships, but Jon would need a good crew and experienced captains to survive the passage north. Perhaps I'll find them among the docks of White Harbor… or perhaps they are waiting for me in the dungeons of Winterfell.

East-Watch seemed half a world away, but it was Hardhome that truly intrigued Jon. The frozen city beyond the Wall. There was something there that needed to be found. Some ancient power festered within its ruins. Jon saw the city in his dreams… its black stone towers crumbling into the icy waves… cracked walls covered in vine and hoarfrost… He knew he would find answers there, and by the look of it, so did Queen Melisandre.

…

The dungeons of Winterfell reeked of piss and dry blood. As Jon descended the craggy stone steps, the groans of prisoners wafted up to meet him. Down and down he went, his studded boots echoing as he walked. Clack, clack, clack. The air grew moist and stale, until at last Jon planted his feet on even ground. A dark corridor fed out before him, with barred chambers on either side. The gaoler Rolland was sitting in the corner, fiddling with some barbed restraints. He looked up and gave a curt nod. Barely a fortnight ago, Jon himself had been locked down here, back when he was in his wolf form.

He strode down the corridor, passing row after row of dank prison cell. He held a lantern at his side, and its flickering light splashing against the walls, making the shadows move and shift like ripples in a pond. Jon glimpsed men behind the bars, cowering in the corners of their cells, shielding their eyes from the fire. Some moved towards Jon like curious dogs, their hands outstretched for some token of mercy.

Finally, Jon found the prisoner he was looking for. It was the very last cell on the rank, where the torchlight was faintest. She was sitting at the end of her bed and looked up warily at his approach.

"Who are you?" Asha Greyjoy muttered from the darkness. Jon could see fresh bruises beneath her tangled black hair. Her skin was pale and shriveled, as though she'd not eaten or seen the sun in weeks. Ironborn or not, no one deserves this.

"My name is Jon Snow," he said, moving closer to the bars.

The girl offered a meek smile. "My wolf prince. Have you come to rescue me?"

"You could say that." He pulled something from his cloak and held it out towards her. "Here. It's some bread from the kitchen." She took the paper bag and carefully unwrapped it. "Eat it slowly," Jon warned after she had begun to attack the loaf. "Lady Asha, I have a proposal for you."

"You should know I'm already married," she replied with a mouthful of bread.

Jon chuckled. "I'm taking a little voyage… and I need a good captain."

Asha stopped chewing. "A captain," she repeated. "What's that got to do with me?"

"You are an Ironborn noble, are you not? Surely you have your own ship."

"The Black Wind, and it's been mine since I was six-and-ten."

"I have ships waiting for me in White Harbor, courtesy of Ser Manderly, and men to sail them, but our passage north will be treacherous. I want a captain who knows the seas as well as I know the Wall."

"White Harbor is on the Shivering Sea. I've only sailed the Sunset Sea and the waters of Dorne."

Jon shrugged. "It's all the same, isn't it?"

"Only a fool from the green lands would say that. Every body of water has its own current… its own speed and temper."

"All the more reason for you to guide me through it."

"I am Stannis' prisoner. He would never let me go."

"I think he would… if I asked him to. And you'll still be a prisoner, except you'll be my prisoner. You and your men will remain in chains until we set sail from White Harbor. Any attempt to escape will be punished with immediate execution. What say you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course. You can sit in your cell, in the dark, for however long it takes for your uncle to ransom you… or you can sail north with me, to the Bay of Seals and the lands beyond the Wall, and feel the winter sun on your skin once more." Asha gave a slow nod. Jon took that as a yes.

He motioned to the bruises on her cheek. "Who did that to you?"

"Oh," she touched her face lightly. "Ser Godry seems to blame me for everything that goes around here. Ser Clayton likes to watch, but he never joins in… the coward."

And they call me baseborn, Jon thought angrily. "I'm sorry my lady. That should never have been allowed to happen. I mean to have a word with the Giantslayer before I leave."

"My hero," she snickered. Even in this pit of despair, Asha Greyjoy had a defiance about her and a beauty.

"Pick your five best men," Jon said.

She thought for a moment, shoveling the last the bread into her mouth. "Qarl the Maid, Roggon Rustbeard, Grimtongue, Fingers… and Tristifer Botley." Jon turned to Rolland and nodded. He rose from his stall with a groan, pulling a large ring of keys from his coat pocket.

When all of the Ironborn prisoners were lined up, Jon offered them the same deal he'd given to Asha. "It will be a dangerous trip," he told them, "especially now that winter is here. Some of you may die along the way."

The one they called Grimtongue shrugged. "Better to die with saltwater in our lungs, than to rot away in this wolf's den." The others nodded their agreement.

By the time Jon and his prisoners had emerged from the dungeon, morning had settled over Winterfell. A light dusting of snowflakes powdered the castle walls, and for a moment the towers seemed to shimmer like glass in the morning sun. Stannis' knights were breaking their fast in the practice yard, while some of their squires trained with sword and shield. Jon spied Ser Devan by the armoury. He was feeding oats to their horses.

Jon turned back to the gaoler. "Rolland. Have these prisoners washed and fed, and give them some warm coats for the ride. If any of them try to run, send an arrow through their neck." Rolland grinned and nodded. Asha gave Jon a mocking bow as she passed, mouthing the words my hero.

"Oy!" a voice called from the yard. It was Ser Godry. Jon turned to find the Giantslayer and his lackey Clayton Suggs stomping towards him. "Those are the King's prisoners. Where do you think you're taking them, boy?"

Far from you, ser. "I have need of them at White Harbor."

"Fuck that," Suggs replied. "That iron cunt is meant for the flames."

Jon had heard enough from these so-called knights. "Tell me, Ser Godry, does it make you feel strong to beat a woman while she's in chains? And Ser Clayton, does it make you feel like a man to watch?"

Godry's face reddened, as the yard turned silent. "You have a bold tongue, bastard… but you're direwolf is no longer here to protect you. I saw to that when I put an arrow through his throat." Suggs snickered.

Jon could feel his wolfblood rising. He'd been caged up too long, and now he was hungry for a fight. "I believe you have something of mine," he said, motioning to the sword at Godry's waist.

The tall knight gave an evil smirk. "What, this thing." He drew Longclaw from his scabbard, and twisted the blade in the dawn light. The black steel rippled in the glow of the winter sun, throwing shades of silver light across his chest plate. "I told you before, boy. Valyrian swords are for fighting, not playing. Only a true warrior ought to wield it. Any other owner would be an insult to its craft."

"That we can agree on, but I'm still not clear what you are doing with it." A few of the other knights sniggered. A crowd was beginning to grow around them.

"Walk away, boy," Godry whispered. "You may be Stannis' new pet, but don't think I won't gut you where you stand."

Jon smiled. That's right, get angry you sack of wine. "His grace tells me that my sister has demoted you to Godry Gooseslayer."

Godry edged closer to Jon and spat at his feet. "No man would dare call me that to my face."

"Ah, no man… but what about a wolf." More laughter rose from the practice yard. The squires had stopped their sword-work and were slowly clearing the field. "I'll tell you what, Gooseslayer, place Longclaw at my feet, beg forgiveness, and as a favour to King Stannis, I will not humiliate you in front of your men."

Despite the chill, Godry's face had grown red with rage. "Bastard," he spluttered. "Pick up a sword and answer for your insolence."

Jon turned to the armoury. "Devan! My sword!" The timid squire rushed over to Jon and presented the hilt of a glimmering longsword. He drew the blade with a slow shuung, and moved swiftly to the centre of the yard. Jon swung the blade from side to side, letting the blood rush to his limbs. It had been ages since he'd fought, but he was too angry to care.

The tall knight regarded Jon menacingly, before unhooking his chest plate, and casting it to the ground. "I'll not have it said I thrashed you with an advantage."

"Words are wind, ser. Put up my steel."

"You all heard the boy," Godry declared to the other knights. "He wants to fight me. It's not my fault if he loses an arm."

The two men circled each, their weapons raised. Jon edged forward slowly, his sword extended in a defensive position. Godry began the fight with a furious slash to the chest. Jon caught the blow, but was jolted back by the impact. Godry advanced on him quickly, delivering a swift upswing to the waist. Jon parried, but was once again pushed rearward. Godry struck a third time, a forth, a fifth, a sixth. Jon deflected each attempt, but his arms were beginning to ache from the shocks. Gods he is strong. He wanted to strike back, but he maintained his defence.

"Fight me, coward," Ser Godry roared, launching another thunderous overhand into Jon's sword.

"The boy has milkwater in his veins," Ser Clayton cackled. Godry, frustrated, changed positions, delivering a flurry of stabs at Jon's torso, but they were blocked as well. More of the knights booed and hissed, calling Jon a weakling and a craven. Not yet, Jon told himself. Let him drain his anger. Let him drain his strength.

Godry hacked and hammered at Jon, pushing him further and further from the centre of the field. Sparks rose as blade kissed blade. Jon's longsword was castle-forged, but even it was beginning to chip and rattle against the might of Valyrian steel. He felt his arms grow heavy and his feet grow clumsy.

Ser Godry's fought desperately to break through Jon's defences, and his breathing was getting deeper and deeper. The morning snowfall was turning the field moist and muddy. Jon feared his footing may give out at any moment. It's either now or never, he told himself.

He mocked Ser Godry with a wide grin. The knight charged at him, aiming an overhand right at Jon's head, but rather than parry, Jon ducked the attack completely. Godry stumbled forward from his own momentum, as Jon looped around him, and delivered a shallow slice across the back of his knee. Ser Godry cried out in pain.

The knight spun to meet Jon. A red stain was growing beneath his breeches, and he strode towards Jon with a slight limp. "Give up?" Jon sneered. Ser Godry charged again, arcing Longclaw in a long, frantic slice. Jon smashed the blow aside, and responded with red cut across Godry's cheek. Jon pressed his advantage, with another thrust. Godry caught the attack an inch from his torso, but Jon was ready with an overhand, then an upswing, then another sideslash.

Now Jon was on the offensive, pummeling the Giantslayer with vicious blows. Ser Godry blocked and ducked like a corned prey, with each attack landing closer and closer to his body. A puddle was forming in the centre of the yard, and Jon hammered his opponent towards it.

While the knight's breathing grew heavy, Jon felt strong and alive. Why have I waited so long to pick up a sword? Far from milkwater, his blood burned like fire beneath his skin. This is what it felt like to hunt, he reminisced. Running through the Wolfswood, edging closer and closer to my prey… sinking my teeth into writhing fresh… and feeling the blood pour into my mouth, hot and sticky with fear…

Ser Godry's left foot sank into the icy puddle with a squelch, and his arms flailed to keep his body balanced. Jon brought his sword down in a swift, lethal arc. Godry shoved his blade against it with a bone-jarring clang, but the force of the attack sent him backwards into the puddle.

And there it is, Jon mused, his blood roaring with the thrill of the kill. He sent the tip his sword hard across Ser Godry's hand, disarming the knight in a spray of blood and bone. Godry roared with pain as Longclaw went spinning across the yard. He clutched his mangled stump of a hand. Two bloody fingers lay limp beside him.

Jon knelt beside his fallen foe. "Let's see you slay a giant now," he whispered darkly. Jon threw his cracked longsword to the ground in disgust, and walked over to where Longclaw lay. He picked up the Valyrian sword, its blade still as sharp and shiny as the day Commander Mormont had gifted it to him. It felt good to hold it once more.

Several squires had rushed across the yard to the groaning Ser Godry. "Bag the fingers," one of them was saying. "Maester Lorrik may be able to re-attach them."

I should probably get going before the King hears of this duel. Jon sheathed Longclaw and motioned towards Ser Devan. "Get the garron's saddled and ready," he told his young squire. "And fetch me some hot breakfast. We ride out within the hour."

The gates of Winterfell gave a laboured groan as they were wheeled open by the men on the ramparts. The winter sun streamed into the castle yard, and Jon kicked his garron into a canter. A column of Baratheon soldiers, Manderly knights and Ironborn prisoners followed him into the bracing cold that stirred beyond the walls. The white fields of the North opened up before them, a mist of snowflakes raining down upon it. The sky blushed a gorgeous shade of pink. Winter has its own beauty, Jon thought. Though we'll be cursing it soon enough.

"Lord Snow," a woman's voice called from behind him. He turned his head to see Lady Melisandre riding along beside the column. A red fur-lined cloak hung about her shoulders, and her hair flickered like flame against the snow. He slowed his garron to a light trot.

"Come to see me off, your grace," he said, trying to sound cheerful.

"Come to join you," she replied, smiling. "The King has asked Ser Manderly's knights to escort me to White Harbor. He feels that Winterfell is no longer a safe place for his precious Queen…"

That surprised Jon, though he saw some sense in it. "So you're to seek the royal comforts of the Merman's Court."

She slowed her horse as it sidled up alongside Jon's. "Until this northern threat is dealt with."

"That may take longer than you think, you grace."

She nodded. "The war between ice and fire has raged for thousands of years. It will rage for thousands more."

"That's disconcerting." Jon did not doubt that it was Melisandre herself who'd decided to travel to White Harbor. What is she planning? Does she want me to take her to the Wall? To Hardhome?

"R'hllor has blessed us with your presence, my Queen," Ser Devan piped in. "Your fires shall surely warm us through the cold nights ahead." The Queen nodded graciously.

They rode for a while longer, before Jon turned to have one last look at Winterfell. From this distance, the castle was a sad old thing. The grey towers seemed to hunch, like feeble men ready to keel over. It looked so weak, so fragile. But it wasn't weak. It wasn't fragile. It was Winterfell, and its roots went deep. It had stood since the beginning of time and would still be standing at the end. It was the House of Stark. It was the heart of the North.

Suddenly, Jon noticed small, black dots flittering out of the towers. There were only a few at first, tiny things dissolving into the fog, but more came soon after. Scores, dozens, hundreds poured out. They filled the sky, blotted out the sun. They rose and spun and mingled like sprites, before racing off into the horizon. They cawed loudly as they flew overhead, and Jon soon realised what they were. They were ravens, off to every corner of Westeros, to proclaim the realm under attack, to command every noble house of the Seven Kingdoms to cast down their banners, pick up their arms, and defend the lands of men.

Dark wings, dark words, Jon mused. Doubtless, most of the southern lords would laugh at Stannis, mock the Night's Watch, and cast the letter into their bronze hearths. But maybe one or two would listen. Maybe help would march up the Neck, or sail up the coast, a few honourable men, those who remembered their ancient vows and their ancient foe.

Winter is come, and the dead come with it, Mormont had said once. Jon patted Longclaw, turned his back to Winterfell, and urged his garron on. The Wall is my place. My post, he told himself. There is nothing left for me here. But then he thought of Arya… the last of his pack. Watch or not, I will see her again. Even if I have to slay the Great Other himself, I will see her again…

"Snow!" a voice called from above. Jon felt feathers flutter by his ears and a set of talons lightly prick his neck. He turned to see the raven perched on his shoulder. It was Mormont's raven, the one Arya had used to deliver her message from Hurrik's Perch.

"Hello," Jon said. "Are you coming as well?"

"Hello!" the bird replied, bobbing its head. "Hello! Hello!"