Jon I
''Well, it is quite something.'' The brown-eyed man said simply.
''Quite something? Seven hells, you southerners are all the same," Jon replied incredulously.
The man chuckled, ''Well, I can see the charm.''
''Ahh, 'you can see the charm.' Good to know.''
They were standing atop The Wall; tomorrow he would be leaving with a hundred men, led by Jory. To find his uncle. Then, well, he would join the Night's Watch. Or would he? He had been so sure of it back in Winterfell, and yet...
''Your name mirrors you, Knight of Flowers. Squirming in excitement at meeting my uncle but indifferent to the beauty of all things The North has to provide.''
Ser Loras Tyrell hit him hard on the shoulder, laughing. ''What can I say? I've been on the top floor of the Hightower. I've already had a similar experience.''
He had come to know Ser Loras Tyrell but a fortnight past, and in that short time, a swift friendship had formed between them. He had ignored him at first, thinking him a southern pounce who would sneer at the mere thought of him like Ser Alliser Thorne. But to his surprise, he had sought him out willingly, asking about The Sword of the Morning, with so many questions of him that it had made Jon's head spin.
Jon found Loras much to his liking—an intelligent, spirited young knight who shared his own hunger for feats of arms and chivalric glory. He was a little, nay, he was very arrogant. Though he never condescended to him on account of his birth, such ready acceptance had done much for Jon to look past it and seal their bond.
On the morrow, Ser Loras was to depart as well, riding for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and taking ship south. He had confessed he longed to set eyes upon Highgarden once more—he missed his kin, a sentiment Jon knew all too well.
''Well, judging by the face you're making, you must be sorely vexed at having missed your sister's name day for all this,'' Jon remarked, sympathy softening his tone.
''Weep not for me, Snow.'' Ser Loras answered with a faint smile. ''I have seen two men brought to justice; stood in awe of a man I once revered as a child; forged the most unlikely of friendships; and, gods be good, endured the mortifying exchange I had with your lord father about the Night's Watch.''
At that, he clapped Jon upon the shoulder—though Jon could do nothing but guffaw when his mind recalled Loras' blunder during his first meeting with Lord Stark.
''I should toss you over this bloody Wall for that,'' Ser Loras added in a playful growl, smirking at Jon's mirth.
''Peace, Loras,'' Jon chuckled in reply. ''Come, let us go below.''
When Jon and Loras had made their way down to the wall, he saw Lord Commander Mormont with Ser Alliser Thorne talking to Uncle Arthur and Jory Cassel, presumably about the upcoming ranging on the morrow. He found that he respected Mormont, a strong and fierce man despite his age, with a shaggy grey beard covering much of his chest, with a hoarse speech. He was a true northerner. With a huge and old pet raven, always standing by his shoulder. He did not like Ser. Alliser, though. He was by all accounts the man that his father would say awaited him and Robb if we ever went south. A slim man of fifty years with sharp features, black eyes like a winter night, and a sharp voice, cold and flinty, bitter and mean-spirited. Loras was not fond of the man either, so perhaps his father was exaggerating what men south of the Neck were like.
His fellow recruits were, in truth, a sorry lot. Jon had hoped for more—much more. Uncle Benjen's tales of ranging with his sworn brothers had fuelled grand notions of warriors forged in steel and valour. Yet the first step he took into Castle Black's yard scattered those dreams like leaves before an autumn wind, for he saw only peasants and criminals in black.
Arthur had mocked his reaction outright—''Our new valiant brothers-in-arms,'' he had called, violet eyes gleaming with a sarcastic edge—and Jon's blood still ran hot at the memory. He had chosen not to dignify it with a reply.
''Are you nervous about the morrow?'' Loras asked beside him.
''A touch,'' Jon admitted. ''The stories tell of horrors lurking beyond the Wall. But what I truly dread is finding my uncle—'' He swallowed. ''—headless or worse.''
He felt the weight of Loras's arm around his shoulder then, a quiet comfort. ''How about a spar?'' the Tyrell knight teased, his lips curving into a smirk. ''You've yet to best me proper.''
''I've beaten you thrice,'' Jon retorted.
''Aye, but I've beaten you thrice more. Come now, pup—don't tell me you're frightened.''
Jon's heart quickened at the challenge, anticipation washing away his glum mood. "So be it, Ser Daisy,'' he said.
They headed to the courtyard, thick with men. The recent influx of recruits had overrun the old keeps, leaving the Lord Commander and Lord Steward Bowen Marsh scrambling to billet them all. Most would set out on the morrow for the other castles along the Wall, but for tonight they crowded underfoot.
Jon snatched up two blunted practice swords, tossing one to Loras. The Knight of Flowers caught it in a graceful arc, flashing Jon a grin that promised to make him earn his victory.
''First to yield?'' Loras asked.
''Aye,'' Jon answered—and no sooner had the word left his lips than Loras rushed him, sword swinging in a flurry meant to send Jon sprawling. Jon struggled to parry the lightning-quick strikes and lost his footing, crashing to the ground. He caught himself on his palms, a sharp tingle coursing through his right hand, but he paid it no mind. Rolling clear of Loras' next blow, Jon whirled around and sprang to his feet.
They circled each other, eyes keen for any sign of weakness. At last, Jon spotted his opening and closed in. Loras met his first few blows with deft parries, then spied a gap in Jon's guard. He moved to exploit it—only to find that Jon had baited him. As Loras lunged right, Jon spun left and slipped behind him. In a moment of desperation, Loras whipped his sword around in a wild arc, hoping to ward Jon away, but Jon deftly dodged the swing and slashed at Loras' flank.
A pained groan escaped the Knight of Flowers, and his practice sword clattered to the ground. Jon pressed the dull edge of his own blade to Loras's throat.
''Yield?'' Jon demanded, a little smirk on his own face.
Loras' eyes flickered with annoyance, but he managed a curt nod. ''I yield,'' he conceded. ''Well fought.'' Yet his irritation swiftly turned to alarm when he glimpsed Jon's right hand. ''Your hand, Jon.''
Jon lifted it to see blood smeared across his palm—he must have cut himself when he fell. The hand was already stiffening, setting a spark of worry in his chest. He couldn't afford a useless sword hand on the eve of his first ranging.
'''Tis nothing,'' he said, trying to sound sure. ''I'll see the Maester. Save me a place at supper?''
''Of course,'' Loras replied, his smirk replaced by genuine concern. ''Go on, then.''
Later, during the night. Jon found himself alone in a desolate Winterfell, a purple star blazing across the night sky. The courtyard lay silent, the stables bereft of horses, the rookery cleared of ravens, and no living soul to be found for leagues.
''Robb?'' He cried, standing at the courtyard's heart, his own voice echoing back to mock him. Gentle snowflakes drifted down, melting against the warmth of his cheeks.
''Arya?'' he tried once more. But in the hush of that empty keep, no answer came. Fear knotted his stomach; Jon dashed through every doorway, climbed tower after tower, and flung open the doors of the sept—he had saved the sept for last, dreading that Lady Stark might be the only soul left. But not even she waited there. Father, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Sansa… all gone.
''Uncle?'' he shouted into the whipping wind, but only silence answered. In the space of a heartbeat, the snowfall became a howling blizzard, wind and ice lashing his face. He glanced downwards to shield himself from it; that was when Jon noticed the sword clutched in his arms. Had it been there all along? It was long yet uncannily light, with ripples in the dark steel and a white wolf's head adorning the pommel. Ghost...
He made to lift the blade for a better look, but the steel turned to mist before his very eyes, vanishing like breath in the cold. Then came a cry from somewhere behind him, halting the storm as swiftly as it had begun. Jon knew that sound; he had heard it a hundred times in the godswood. A crow—nay, a crow with three eyes—perched upon an abandoned cart beside the Library Tower. When it turned its head, its third eye bored into him, and Jon felt a chill deeper than any winter wind. Again the crow cried, then spread its wings and rose into the air, heading north. Jon followed, though dread tugged at him with every step, guiding him beneath the bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep.
''Father...?'' he whispered, the word echoing through the stillness as he passed the First Keep. The three-eyed crow sat perched by the great ironwood door leading to the crypts. It cawed again, beckoning him closer, as if urging him to descend into that cold darkness.
''Please,'' Jon pleaded softly, dropping his eyes to his feet. ''I—I do not wish to go down there.''
But a faint voice stirred in the wind, ''Promise me, Ned.'' Jon's head snapped up. His father? The blizzard returned in a rush, white winds billowing so thick he lost all sight of the crow and the courtyard. He ran blindly, then the wind carried another voice—Bran's voice—''Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?''
''Bran!'' Jon howled, tears burning his eyes. Snow covered the ground in drifts that nearly swallowed his feet. Again the wind spoke, but it was his father's voice now—''That is the only time a man can be brave.''
Jon's knees gave way, and he collapsed in the snow, despair etched on his face, his warm tears falling freely. I am a Northman, he told himself, a wolf in all but name. I will not cower. Yet he could not still the terror in his heart as he lifted his head and beheld a figure looming before him, gaunt and tall, its flesh the colour of freshly fallen snow. Cold blue eyes, bright as winter stars, burnt into his soul. The creature raised its eerie, crystalline blade, poised to end Jon's life in a single stroke. Jon shut his eyes and screamed—and woke with his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, lying in his bed. When he realised that he was safe, he took a deep breath and calmed himself. A dream, gods, it was merely a dream.
His bandaged hand throbbed in pain, distracting him from the nightmare he just had. He would have to hide it on the morrow. They would not allow him to go with his hand being the way it is. He had to find Benjen. Ghost was lying a few yards away from his bedside, eyes closed. I wonder what he is dreaming about.
Ever since Jon left Winterfell, he had been cursed with quite peculiar dreams. This was definitely one of them; there were other ones though, ones where he would be Ghost, feeling what he felt, smelling what he smelt, and tasting what he tasted.
Ghost awakened suddenly, agitated.
''Ghost, what's wrong?'' He whispered worriedly to his direwolf, getting himself to a sitting position on the bed. Ghost was about the size of a large dog now, with sharp fangs growing ever bigger. Ghost started scratching on the door to his chambers, making a rare whimper. He did not want to wake Loras or Uncle Arthur. So he got dressed as quickly and quietly as possible before opening the door to his chambers.
Ghost bolted through and ran alongside the wooden bridge that connected the housing castles. Jon ran after him, the cold seeping into his bones as he did so.
When Jon noticed the wolf scratching the door to the Lord Commander's chambers, he grew even more worried; he trusted Ghost's intuition; something was wrong. He opened the door to the chambers, leaving a silent command for Ghost to wait outside before making his way inside.
''Dead! Dead!'' He heard what must have been Mormont's raven croak. Standing by the table at his solar.
''Lord Commander?'' Jon tried, but he received no answer. He was inside of what could only be his solar, with a door to the left and to the right of his office. He picked the door to the left, slowly and carefully making his way there. When he opened the door, he was startled. A pale body was lying on the floor, with eyes closed. The man looked peaceful.
Jon was about to examine it further when he heard a noise behind him, making him draw his sword as he turned around. It was coming through the door to the right of his office.
''Lord Commander?'' Jon asked, growing agitated.
He moved slowly across his room, the floor creaking as he did so. His hand was pulsating, and his head felt heavy. He reached for the door handle, taking a deep breath as his hand met the knob.
''ArghhhHH!''
The sound was so loud it must have shaken Castle Black's foundations. He turned around toward the shriek and saw that the pale man was now standing on his feet, charging toward him. The raven bolted from the table and started flying wildly across the solar, dropping black feathers everywhere it flew.
''Burn! Burn!'' The raven croaked.
The pale wight lunged, its grasping fingers near enough to clutch him, but Jon answered first. He spun to his left before striking at his right hand. The sword bit deep, shearing through the dead man's hand as if it were naught but soft cheese. Yet no blood flowed from it, nor did the man give voice to any cry of pain. Instead, with an unnatural swiftness, the pale man's other hand came forth, cold and unyielding as iron, to seize Jon by the throat. Jon clawed at the hand, his chest heaving as he struggled for air. Just as the shadows deepened around his vision, the door to the Lord Commander's chambers flew wide, and Ghost was upon the wight.
The direwolf leapt at his throat with a savage fury. The creature shrieked once more, a sound as dreadful as the ice wind, and collapsed to the floor as Jon, free from his grasp, clutched for air.
''Snow?!''
Jon wheeled about and espied Lord Commander Mormont standing stark naked, lantern in hand. Newly roused from slumber and plainly bewildered. Jon, with Ghost close at his heels, darted to the Old Bear's side. The Lord Commander's expression fell in utter dismay as the pale man rose again, eyes icy blue, and fixed Mormont with a dreadful stare.
''Rykker...'' the Old Bear murmured, eyes widening.
Quick as thought, the man charged at Mormont. Jon, thinking swiftly, seized the Lord Commander's lantern, though the searing flame within scorched his already throbbing hand, and with a cry of pain he hurled the lantern at the pale man. The creature screeched with an unearthly wail as the flames consumed him. Jon and Mormont both recoiled in horror, while Ghost stood silent and watchful by Jon's side.
''By the Old Gods,'' the Lord Commander breathed, watching the pale man succumb to the fire.
Jon found no rest or peace for the remainder of that night, and soon the sun rose upon men readying themselves for the day's task. They were to venture beyond the Wall, seeking any hint of Benjen Stark, and now perchance discovering if more such 'pale men' prowled the north. The very notion set Jon's skin to prickling. Word of the previous night's happenings in the Lord Commander's solar had flown through the castle like wildfire. The intruder had been a wildling spy, creeping in under cover of darkness to slay Mormont. It was a Black Brother gone astray. Stark men had gotten into a drunken brawl with the Old Bear himself.
Before Jon took his leave last night, Mormont had made him swear to keep the matter secret, to not tell another soul, not even his Uncle Arthur. They had discovered the body north of the Wall only the day before, setting it in Mormont's solar for Maester Aemon to examine in the morn. That could be done no longer; Jon had put the thing down himself.
Now the Lord Commander had summoned him anew, just as he and Jory were saddling their horses. Jory gave him leave, promising his mount would be ready upon his return. Ghost, restored to his customary hush, padded alongside Jon as he crossed the courtyard. Ser Alliser Thorne fixed him with a cold, measuring stare, black eyes glinting like obsidian.
Jon climbed the steps leading to Mormont's solar. The dark oak door stood before him, heavy with memory. He hesitated, recalling with a shudder the horrors of the night past, then steadied himself with a breath and knocked.
''Come in.'' A muffled voice said to him through the door.
He opened the door and saw Mormont sitting behind the desk some yards in front of him; he noticed a black spot on the wooden floor where the wight had succumbed to the fire from Jeor Mormont's lantern. The large raven was by his shoulder, like always.
''Lord Commander,'' Jon acknowledged.
''Sit.'' Mormont commanded simply, and Jon obeyed. His feet dragging him to the empty chair in front of the desk. There was a long pause, as Joer Mormont's sharp eyes stared at him for some moments before speaking.
''Is everyone ready?'' Mormont asked.
''Aye.'' Jon answered simply.
''And are you afraid? After what you and I saw last night?''
Jon opened his mouth to deny being afraid but hesitated as he saw Mormont's eyes scanning him. Looking for all the details on his body language and face. Is he testing me? Would he deny me going beyond the wall if I say anything wrong?
''Aye.'' He said, telling him the truth.
Mormont did not say anything, looking at him intently before rising from his seat. And leaving through the door to his chambers. Returning not long after with a sword inside a black leather scabbard.
''Good. It means that you're no fool.'' Mormont eventually said firmly, pausing when the raven interrupted him.
''Fool! Fool!''
Jeor ignored the raven and continued. ''And that you're ready for this.'' He finished as he laid the blade at the desk. Jon grabbed the scabbard and noticed the wolf pommel at the top, white with red stones as its eyes. Ghost, just like the dream. Jon pulled the sword up a tiny bit out of the scabbard, looking for the dark ripples that the blade in his dream had, and to his awe, it had.
''It's Valyrian steel. The Mormonts have carried it for five centuries. It was meant for my son and heir, Jorah, but he brought dishonour to our house and people before he fled from Westeros.''
''I... I can't,'' Jon managed after hearing the history of the blade.
''You can, and you will. I wouldn't be standing here today if it wasn't for you and your beast. So you'll take it, no matter if you decide to join us or not. And I'll hear no more about it.'' Mormont said firmly.
Jon did not know what to say. He felt himself warming up, full of pride. He had dreamed of carrying his own Valyrian blade, like the Dragonknight or King Daeron. Valyrian steel was a blade of warriors; he wanted it desperately, so he was happy that Mormont was insistent on this matter. He equipped the back scabbard; the blade was too big for him to carry on his hip. Mormont, who knew the blade well, must have known that already.
''Thank you, my lord,'' Jon said, eyes full with gratitude.
''None of that, Snow. You earned that sword. I'll be out shortly.''
''Yes, my lord.'' Jon replied before exiting Mormont's solar.
After last night's incident, a few things had happened, and one of them was that the Lord Commander, with a hundred other men of the watch, would be joining Winterfell's hundred men in the ranging. He wanted to personally further assess the wildling threat he and the Night's Watch would no doubt face and to secretly discover further information on what caused the pale man that once had been Ser Jaremy Rykker to rise from the dead.
As Jon walked down the stairs down to the courtyard, Ser Arthur was walking up the stairs. He noticed the sword and smiled before he gave Jon a clap on the back.
''Well done, son." Arthur said.
Jon hesitated, his mind battling with his heart on what to do—to ignore him, to thank him, to tell him that he was right and that they should ride back to Winterfell, to tell him about last night.
''Thank you, Uncle.'' Jon answered, his tone low.
Arthur Dayne laughed at his tone and answer. ''Only Jon Snow could earn himself a Valyrian steel sword and remain so sullen.''
Jon said nothing, his gaze drifting downward. Memories of the previous night still weighed upon him, and he dared not speak. He had sworn to the Old Bear to keep what happened secret. Would Mormont deem me an oathbreaker if I told?
''You need not stay,'' Ser Arthur said, more gently now. ''We could yet ride south to Winterfell. No one would fault you for it—your father, brothers, and sisters would be relieved. I would be as well.''
Oh, how Jon longed for Winterfell's warmth, the hearth he had spurned in pursuit of valour and glory. Yet that path south lay closed to him now. He could not do so, not anymore, not after last night.
''I must go,'' Jon said, determinatly. "While Benjen remains lost, I must.'' Roaming the wastes, grey eyes turned blue. Nay, he would not allow it. Could not allow it.
''And afterwards?'' Ser Arthur pressed.
Jon blinked. ''I... I do not know.''
Ser Arthur offered him a sad smile, resting a hand on his shoulder. ''You know my thoughts, lad. There is more to life for you than this dark place, if only you would see it. We might venture south, behold Starfall and Dorne, or sail across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities.''
I have never seen Starfall, Jon thought suddenly. His mother's home—how had such an idea never crossed his mind before? The thought brought him great shame.
''Think upon it,'' Ser Arthur said. ''I understand your wish to find your uncle. But I'll not suffer you to don the same black cloak these men wear. Not truly.'' There was humour in his tone. Yet Jon suspected a large chunk of truth was upon it.
It made Jon laugh as he nodded.
He made his way to his horse in the courtyard, men of Winterfell already going through the gate inside the Wall. Jon spotted Jory far up at the column atop a horse. While Loras stood holding his horse by the stables, he walked up to meet him, chuckling as he saw Loras gaping when he noticed the weapon he now carried at his back.
''By the Seven, he gave you his sword?'' Loras gasped as tried to close the distance between them, but Ghost's red eyes staring at him made him hesitate.
''Longclaw.'' Jon answered, smirking. He lifted his arm and grabbed the handle at his shoulder and pulled the sword from the scabbard; the dark ripples of the blade were more than enough for Loras to feel brave enough to close the distance between them. He had told Loras many times that Ghost is harmless, but it seemed that his instincts always got the better of him. I have to get used to that, I suppose.
''Lucky sod.'' Loras said, laughing as he examined the blade.
Jon offered his arm, and Loras took it. ''Have a safe journey back to Highgarden, Ser Loras.
''Don't get killed, Jon. I still want you to visit Highgarden.'' Loras replied, reserved.
Jon rolled his eyes as he jumped up on his horse, though a great feel of dread sneaked upon him. ''Thank you for your confidence.''
''I mean it, Jon.'' His eyes were worried, but he managed to hide it quite quickly, replacing it with a mummer's amusement. Not quick enough for Jon, though; as a bastard, he learnt to be very observant.
''I'd hate to lose a friend I made so quickly,'' he finished.
By the time he and Loras had finished their farewells, the Lord Commander and Ser Arthur had joined the column. Together with ten other rangers. He recognised one of the rangers as Quorin Halfhand. Benjen had talked a lot about him; he would be a welcome addition to their force.
He was in the middle of the column beside Arthur when they reached Whitetree, while Mormont and Cassel led the march. Jon felt the true cold winds on his face yet remained as warm as ever. He was determined. I will find you, Uncle. Alive. With grey eyes instead of blue.