Jon III

''The man's half-mad, I won't deny it, but you'd be the same if you'd spent your life in these damn woods. Even so, he's never turned a ranger away from his fire, nor does he have any love for Mance Rayder. He'll give us good counsel.'' Jon heard Thoren Smallwood, the acting First Ranger, tell Jeor Mormont when they had arrived at the small compound.

''We don't need his bloody council; we want a roof atop our heads. And he can provide that for the night.'' Quorin Halfhand butted in.

''Get the men settled down for the night; Jory and I shall talk to Craster and see what he knows.'' Jeor Mormont commanded. Smallwood obeyed and was soon enough barking orders out to the black brothers.

''Ser Arthur, get our men to start with the tents. And make sure they get fires started; it'll be dark soon. I'll be with you shortly.'' Jory Cassel added.

Jon Snow followed his uncle to the Stark camp, just a few yards outside the main compound. As they drew near, he noticed members of the Night's Watch—men dressed in black—already starting to set up. Although he had plenty of chances to watch and speak with his soon-to-be brothers, Jon remained unimpressed. He had grown up hearing tales of the brave men of the Night's Watch, stories filled with glory and honour. Yet, the men before him seemed more like rogues, outlaws, and farmers.

Because of this, a frown settled on Snow's face as his gaze met Dirk and Ollo Lophand, with Dirk attempting, though somewhat clumsily, to raise his tent. A rapist and a thief... Is this truly the only path to honour and glory here? Resentment began to rise within him, and he didn't look away when Dirk and Ollo caught his stare.

''What are you staring at, Lord Snow?'' Dirk snarled. Lord Snow was what Ser Allister had called him during his stay at Castle Black, no doubt a mockery of his status. And his 'followers' and 'unfollowers' alike had taken the name to heart, to his deep annoyance. He hated that nickname.

''I'm looking at you, failing at the most basic task.'' Jon answered, deadpanned.

Dirk's face took a deep red, of anger or embarrassment Jon did not know nor care. ''You little bastard, you think yourself better than us? We'll see how long you fare when you are no longer sucking at The Sword of the Morning's teat.

Jon began to stride toward them, poised to strike. Yet his uncle interposed himself, his violet eyes boring into Jon's like a master seeking to rein in a violent hound. Jon felt his blood simmer as he caught Dirk snickering behind Ser Arthur, likely amused that his recent words had been proven true. With a groan of frustration, Jon turned away from both his uncle and the two brothers clad in black. He made his way to the outskirts of the Stark encampment, a few yards from Craster's Keep and the spot where his temper had flared, calling out for Ghost. He needed his companion now; he longed for his steadiness. However, it seemed the Old Gods had set him on a path of vexation when he heard the crunch of packed snow approaching from behind.

''Not fond of your brothers to be?'' He discerned his uncle's Dornish accent, yet somewhat supplanted by the northern speech he had adopted during his time in the North.

''Leave me alone.'' Jon offered in a calm manner.

''Don't say I didn't warn you, Jon. Your father and Uncle Benjen chose to leave out this part about the Wall.''

''The Night's Watch is a noble calling.'' Jon said, although more to himself than anyone else.

''I am certain that it may befit some men, yet I had believed I had instilled better judgement in you. The Night's Watch is also a midden heap for all the misfits the realm has to offer.''

''Stop it! I know your desire—you'd have me skulk back home with my tail tucked between my legs. Or am I mistaken?'' Jon snarled.

Arthur frowned. ''I only want...''

''Just shut up! I have no need for you to shadow my steps as if I were Rickon, nor do I require you to defend me like some innocent maiden!'' Jon let out.

Dayne's eyes narrowed. ''I see. You allow the words of a rapist to sway you—to get to you. Have my words always been so easily cast aside by you?'' Arthur asked coldly.

His words, gods, there had been so many of them. Arthur had guided him in a lot, both martial and otherwise. But he knew what words he meant; Jon knew what he talked about.

''Do not avoid your bastardy, Jon; recognise it. Because men like Greyjoy will not forget it. Start letting it be your breastplate instead of their dagger, and you will notice how words are wind.''

Those were the words Ser Arthur had told him, that one time after he had found him in the godswood alone, weeping after Theon had cursed him as a bastard the first time they met. Words are wind, but Jon had let it become more than that.

At that very moment, Ghost emerged from the treeline, advancing toward Jon with bared teeth and growling directed at his uncle. Even a knight as brave as Ser Arthur Dayne heeded the warning and withdrew. Grey met Violet, and Arthur's visage softened slightly as his gaze lingered upon his direwolf, weary. His uncle remained silent as he turned to depart, leaving Jon alone with the wolf. He cursed the tears that had streamed down his cheeks. Robb and Theon were to inherit a castle, while the bastard was left with this.

His uncle had the right off it; he wanted to leave this place and never return. Yet it hurt deeply to admit as such. When he himself had been so adamant, when he had told everyone in Winterfell his plans, that he would not return without that black cloak. He'd be mocked as a coward, the Bastard who ran, for all eternity. But there was no honour here, no glory and valour.

I could go visit Starfall, then join a sellsword company, like The Golden Company. Yet he could not leave Benjen now—not when he needed him, not with what is out there. He would find him and bring him back where he belongs. He felt the resentment and anger leave him as his hand made its way around Ghost's back, his white fur bringing a sense of inner calm.

''Hello! You there!'' Jon heard a voice, and his gaze met a man a head taller than Jon approached him. He had blonde hair and was wearing all black, signalling to Jon Snow that he was a man of the Night's Watch. He looked at age with him; he also noticed.

''Um, could you help us with the sticks? I can't figure them out.''

''Sticks?''

''Yes, sticks. You know, the sticks that hold the tents all together.''

''You mean the tent poles?''

''Aye, whatever they are called.''

Jon observed the young man for a moment; he had not seen him in Castle Black. A man from Eastwatch, or the Shadow Tower. ''Alright, lead the way.'' Jon answered finally; he did not have anything else to do, so he figured he would help the man. Keeping himself occupied was surely a good way to make the night come faster so they could be out of this place. He followed the man, and eventually he arrived at the site. Tent poles everywhere, scattered.

''Only my luck to be stuck with a man this stupid. You're brave though, asking the wolves for help. Aye, you're to stupid to be a craven.'' A thin grey-haired man said.

''I am not.'' The young man replied.

''Yes you are.'' The thin man retorted; he paused before looking at Jon. ''I'm Edd Tollett, and this dullard who brought you here is called Addam. He makes up for it in determination, though.'' Jon did not doubt Edd somehow. Addam looked slow and heavy of weight but carried a determined look as he grabbed the poles.

''I'm Jon Snow.''

''Yes, we know who you are. I just told them about you some moments ago, when you were ready to pounce on me and Dirk.'' Lophand retorted. Jon's eyes met Lophand's; he had only one arm and did not look like he was of Westeros.

''Well, now that you are here. I'll help you with the tent; Addam and Edd can start the fire. You know how to do that, do you?'' Lophand continued, the last question directed at only Addam.

''I grew up in a farmhouse. I know my ways around a fire.'' Addam replied.

''Come on, the faster we get the fire started, the faster we can drink the wine. There are worse ways to die than warm and drunk. I knew a brother drowned himself in wine once. It was a poor vintage, though, and his corpse did not improve it.'' Edd said to Addam as they made their way to collect wood.

Jon and Lophand started to get the tent up; he had experience with it. The tent quickly went up, and he stood by the side as Lophand went around the tent to inspect it, making sure no error was found. ''There is no need to be so cruel.''

''Cruel?'' Jon responded.

''Yes, life is too short to carry so much anger, boy.''

''I'm not a boy!''

''Yes, you are. A boy who is mad at every man and the world. Why?''

Jon had no desire to confide his troubles to this thief. What could such a man possibly know of his life? Yet, despite himself, the words escaped his lips. ''I have no path in my life, no purpose, while everyone I know has it all figured out. It's not fair.''

Lophand actually laughed. ''Fair? You grew up in a castle, with servants attending to your every need. Yet you are angry because you are a bastard who does not get to inherit his father's fancy titles.''

Ollo paused to meet his eyes before continuing. ''This woman was looking in my direction for as long as I could remember; she wanted me. For so long she wanted me. And one day she approached and caught me trying to steal some food for my little sister; she threatened me with telling her fat husband about it and having my hand chopped, or I could join her in her bedchamber for one night. I agreed, and the knight caught us in bed the very same evening. They chopped my hand anyway, and then I was sent here. Do not talk to me about 'fair', boy.''

Jon was left dumbfounded by his words and somewhat embarrassed. ''I'm sorry.'' He managed.

''I'm sure you are; that won't bring my life back, though. Or make me see my sister again. She is probably dead now or suffering the loss of her innocence at the hands of some highborn fucker. I don't know, and I never will.'' Lophand said before he walked towards the fire Addam and Edd had made.

''Do not talk to me about 'fair', boy.'' The words cut deep, and Jon couldn't help but wonder if Lophand was right. Shame clawed its way up his spine and settled heavy upon him. He had come to the Wall seeking glory, but all he had found was bitter cold, criminals, outcasts, soaked socks, festering resentment, and now this unwelcome shame. With that shame in his core, he made his way toward the three black brothers, resolved to join them by the fire that night.

Later, when night had truly struck and the camp had gone quiet, he was running.

He could feel the wind grazing his face with a tiny force because of how fast he ran. He needed to catch this kill; he did not know when he became so hungry. But he was hungry nonetheless, and the deer was so close to him now he could smell his prey. He stopped and hid quietly between two bushes when he heard the deer screech.

There it was, his prey, with two bearded men wearing heavy furs walking towards the dying thing. No, my kill. Mine. He launched himself out of the bush and rushed the two men, leaping on the man with an axe, quickly ripping his throat out. The man tried to scream, but the sound was muffled by the sea of crimson coming out of his mouth.

He felt a sharp pain on his side, and when he turned around, he found the second man with a bow some yards away; he had hit him with an arrow. The man tried to fire a second arrow, but he gracefully dodged it, closing the distance between them and jumping him in seconds. When the fight was over, all three things lay dead, and he made his way towards the deer. It was covered in snow; yes, there was so much snow on it. Despite that, he licked his mouth before feasting on his victory. He could taste the blood, taste the snow? Nay, not snow; he could taste the raw meat, taste the triumph. Snow, why was he thinking about snow?

''Snow!'' He heard a loud voice call suddenly, and when he closed his eyes and opened them again, he was in his tent once again.

''Gods, you're a deep sleeper, aren't you? I near had to shout your name straight into your ear. Is that some curse highborns get, or just your own?'' He saw Lophand standing, his only hand offered for him to take. He accepted it and was soon on his feet, barely awake.

''The wolves are looking for you. We are leaving soon.''

''Where are we going?'' Jon groaned.

''You think they told me?'' Lophand chuckled.

He walked out of the tent and welcomed the cool air penetrating his skin. Just a day ago, he had hated this harsh climate, but when he awoke, he felt boiling hot for some reason, so he welcomed it. Lophand claimed that Jory and his uncle had looked for him and that they were at the keep as of now. He thanked the man, and he called for Ghost before he started to make his way towards Craster's Keep.

It was not an actual keep though; Jon could not help but think. It is a daub-and-wattle hall that is long and low, made with logs and roofed with sod, and big enough to hold thirty to fifty men at best. A small gate outside, decorated with skulls of bears and rams, some washerwomen outside doing laundry and some other women skinning animals. Edd had told Jon that they were all Craster's daughters, or his daughter-wives. Nine and ten of them he had as wives, as well as other daughters he had considered too young to marry, to Jon's gratitude. He married all his daughters, who would give him more daughters. But he quickly noticed the remarkable absence of any boys. He marries his daughters; what does he do to his sons? Jon felt the need to empty his already empty stomach just by thinking about it. It was all vile, an abomination.

When Edd had told him about Craster and his wives, he wondered why the Night's Watch even chose to deal with the man, much less drinking and eating with him. It was not right. Why do they let this monster live? It is neither noble nor any honour in allying with such a man.

The thought of ending Craster's life as honour would surely demand made his mind drift to his dream he had, when he had killed those two men. He had many strange dreams, and they only seemed to have increased since he had left Winterfell. Dreams where he had been Ghost, dreams about Winterfell, about the crypts, dreams about that three-eyed crow.

He tried to call out for Ghost again as he crossed the skull-decorated gate. His direwolf had made it a habit of going missing for some time ever since they had crossed the Wall. He was growing as well and would only grow larger with time.

Arthur does not trust the wolf; he told him sometimes about a wolf's true nature and that Ghost would not hesitate to turn traitor if the situation calls for it. And he couldn't be more wrong; Ghost is more than a wolf, so much more. He could feel him at all times, his needs and moods. He even dreamed of him now. He wasn't sure what that bond was, only that it was strong and that nothing could ever break it; he was sure of it.

When Jon crossed the two flaps of deer hide—that was the door—he saw Smallwood and the Halfhand sitting with the Lord Commander, talking with the vile creature men called Craster.

''Who is this boy? He is prettier than half my daughters.'' The vile man roared as he noticed him.

''Snow, state your business.'' Jeor Mormont commanded firmly.

''Lophand said that Cassel and Ser Arthur were looking for me and told me I would find them here.'' Jon answered simply.

''You must've missed them. Cassel left some time ago, getting his men ready. You didn't see them at your camp?''

''No, I spent the night at the Night's Watch camp.''

''I see, well, you best get something to eat. We're marching soon.'' Joer answered.

''Soon!'' Mormont's raven added.

''Yes, my lord.'' Jon said before he left the keep, making his way towards the Stark camp. He needed to break his fast before they left, he thought as he heard his stomach growling. Then they would be out of this wretched place. Hold on, Benjen, we are coming.