Jon VII
''For a moment, I was convinced you might tumble from your steed.''
''You were the one who screamed like a frightened maiden; it would be a grievous shame upon the North if word spread that its future Warden displayed such cowardice over naught but a mere bird. Robb the Daring, indeed!''
''Fuck off!'' His brother said, though he was laughing. ''Wait until I tell Theon about it. He'll love this.''
Jon made a face. ''Lord Squid? He is likely to embellish the tale such that you are cast as Symeon Star-Eyes come again fending off a dragon, while I am portrayed as the weeping maiden in a corner.''
Robb laughed again, a sound that never failed to bring a smile to his face. They crested a small hill, and suddenly Winterfell came into view. The familiar sight filled Jon with a sense of both comfort and longing.
Robb Stark turned to him with a mischievous grin. ''Race you back to the gates!'' he said, not waiting for a reply before kicking his horse into a gallop.
Robb had already made it down the hill before Jon had fully understood what just happened. ''Cunt,'' he murmured. Jon dug his heels into his horse's flanks, urging it forward in pursuit. The animal sprang into motion, racing after Robb's trail. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and his cloak flapped wildly behind him as they sped through the open fields. Robb's laughter echoed ahead of him, so Jon pushed his horse harder, the gap between them shrinking with every beat. Then to his left, it appeared: a raven. Flying too close to him, and far lower than a normal raven usually did, with no care in the world. Jon's brow furrowed as he inspected it, flying gracefully with him. He shrugged, and shifted his gaze to refocus.
Jon's breath caught in his throat once he looked at what was in his front. A figure stood dead ahead, directly in his path. Jon had no time to think, only react. With a sharp tug on the reins, he yanked his horse to the side, just barely avoiding a collision. The horse whinnied in fear, stumbling on the uneven ground. The world spun as he flew from the saddle; the summer snow's rushing up to meet him. He hit the ground hard, landing face first to the ground. Yet the impact was surprisingly soft, with no pain shooting through his body. Jon thanked the gods for the boon, and despaired for the future. Robb is going to love this.
Jon's gaze shifted from the ground he had been riding on as he scrambled to his feet. He startled; Jon was no longer on a snowy road, but on a coast, and he no longer saw Winterfell, but a different castle, a very grim, yet awedropping-looking one. Built with black stone and decorated with what must be a thousand gargoyles. The man that had caused his steed to tumble was still there, unmoved—cloaked in black, with a milk-pale face, and long white hair.
Jon's hand reached instinctively for his sword, but his fingers were trembling, and felt numb. Then the raven started croaking; a second one joined him, then a third, before the sound became unbearable. ''Who are you?'' Jon managed.
The man did not answer, his one glowing red eye staring into his soul, much like Ghost always did. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the man vanished—gone in the blink of an eye.
''You abandoned us to our doom!'' A booming voice echoed from behind him; he turned around quickly, and desparied once he saw who it was.
Jon swallowed. ''I have already returned your sword; your kin refused to accept it! What more do you demand of me?'' Jeor Mormont said nothing in reply, but his judging look quickly broke Jon's resolve, and made him feel like a child once more.
''Jon,'' His gaze shifted, and he suppressed the tears from welling when he saw his uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne. His face was sad, and Dawn was as alive with light as ever.
''Uncle, I–..''
''What happened to the boy I helped raise?'' Ser Arthur's face soured, and before long it had the same judging look as Jeor Mormont. ''Fleeing like a craven, I was a simpleton to ever believe you might achieve anything of worth.''
''Traitor!'' Another voice boomed; this one was Lophand's. Jon drew back slightly, suppressing a gasp. Pus was leaking out of his now missing eye, his gut had been sliced open, and his hand had turned black with rot; it was a ghastly sight. ''I had deemed you a friend, yet where was Jon Snow when I fell?'' The clouds began to turn black as he spoke.
''I had no choice!''
A thunderstorm appeared out of nowhere, the sound of the thunder startling him as Lophand's one remaining eye narrowed. ''I see you have risen to lordship, and they sing ballads in your honour. Yet you are a fool to believe you merit such praise.''
''Please... '' Jon whispered. He could feel the salty tear making its way down his chin.
''Such is the song of life, I suppose. I am blackmailed and sent to the Wall for the crime of feeding a starving sister that I will never see again, and you?'' Lophand said, his voice quickly souring. ''You ungrateful cunt! You were in your father's pretty castle and wept for the absence of a grand inheritance. I perish for the realms of men, sacrificing all, yet no songs will be sung for me—only for the Wolf Who Fled! Jon the Craven!''
''Jon the Craven! Jon the Craven! Jon the Craven!'' They all sang.
Then he heard a loud croak; he turned around, and saw the crow, the one with three eyes, rushing toward him. It attacked his face, and suddenly, he awoke with a gasp, rising from the bed. His heart was pounding, so he took a moment to catch his breath, looking around his tent in a daze. Yet he calmed down fairly quickly. It had just been a dream, though this one had been different. He had had one before that was quite similar, but then it had been Jeor Mormont and Qhorin Halfhand who haunted him.
He sat up, pushing the tangled mess of blankets away from his body, and rubbed his face with both hands. A light pain shot through his body as he did so; he had sustained a bad bruise on his shoulder, but it had mostly healed as the days have passed, and the Maester had assured him that it would be fully healed by the time of the finals. He felt Ghost nudging his leg, seemingly checking in on him, before trotting away. He had dreamt of him as well—dreamt of him hunting, lurking, and tasting his victories; he quickly found that he greatly preferred those dreams.
He stumbled towards the small basin of water that was set up near the small dining table of the tent. The water was warm, barely colder than the air both out and inside, but it was refreshing nonetheless. He splashed his face, the droplets shocking him awake and chasing away the last remnants of the dream. He glimpsed The Seven-Pointed Star laying on the table, fully opened. Lord Sunglass had told him all about it during his meeting, so he decided to pick it up and give it a read. Ser Wendel had approved when he noticed it; it was one of the dryer reads he had stumbled upon, though.
He turned to his clothing, which was neatly folded on a nearby crate. He dressed methodically, in black and white. As he fastened the buckles and adjusted his cloak, he tried to focus on the day ahead. There were duties to attend to; first off was the joust; he had promised Loras to show his support, and it would be fun to watch besides, he had never seen a true joust. Then he would have his lessons with Ser Wendel Manderly. The lessons with him becoming somewhat of a daily routine now, he was truly thankful for it. Ser Wendel had a booming voice and was almost as fat as Robert Baratheon, but he was a patient and kind teacher. He never thought one could learn so much about the art of the water, yet he knew much now. Ser Wendel insisted that he had much more to learn, though.
Finally, it would be a jousting feast on the eve. Another thing that he quite looked forward to. He had seen and participated in feasts before, of course, but never a royal one. King Robert was famous for them, if word was to be believed.
Jon pulled on his boots, the leather creaking softly as he laced them up. He cast one last glance at the small mirror of polished metal that served as his reflection. With a final, steadying breath, Jon stepped out of the tent. He was immediately met by an amused Olaf.
''I was beginning to think that you might never awaken from your slumber.''
Jon frowned, but started to catch on once he saw the sun, shining brightly up in the blue sky. ''I overslept.'' He murmured.
Olaf grinned. ''Quite right. Your father made every effort to rouse you, yet you appeared resolute in your slumber. The jousting has most likely already commenced by now.''
Jon heart skipped a beat; arriving late would not be a good look in front of all the nobles. He mumbled a curse before he started to walk toward the tourney grounds, picking up pace once he noticed the absence of folk. The joust, to his dismay, had already begun, and Jon could hear the roars and cheers as well as the clash of metal from the arena as he neared.
The guards thankfully allowed him entry, and they opened the door to the backside of the arena. Any hope he had for a quiet and graceful entry was destroyed once he noticed some men conversing; he hoped everyone would be in the stands, watching the joust.
One man turned around to find out who was entering—a short and slender man, with a small pointed beard. ''Lord Jon,'' the man said, with an inclined head.
''I'm sorry, I never had the privilege.'' Jon said as the man approached him.
''Indeed, Petyr Baelish. Master of Coin.''
''Well met, Lord Baelish.'' Jon said firmly, offering his hand. Lord Baelish took his time before clasping it.
''I understand you've climbed quite high in so brief a span.'' Lord Baelish said, smiling.
''Indeed, King Robert has bestowed upon me many honours.''
''Dragonstone is no easy fortress to govern, yet our king seldom errs in such judgments. I am confident that you are well deserving of the task.''
Jon felt his face heating at the praise. ''They sing ballads in your honour. Yet you are a fool to believe you merit such praise.''
Petyr Baelish looked around, seemingly checking if they were alone before continuing. ''I must confess, your appointment has stirred some discontent, and you'll need allies in the capital if you are to succeed.''
Jon hesitated slightly as a booming cheer echoed throughout the arena. ''What do you mean?''
Baelish's smile widened. ''Throughout its storied history, Dragonstone has seldom been a bastion of profitability. In these times, it primarily relies upon economic support from King's Landing. Rendering Dragonstone cost-effective would indeed be a formidable challenge—difficult, though not beyond the realm of possibility—drawing from my own experience as Master of Coin.''
''I see.'' Jon answered, though he had not truly seen it. He would have to talk to Ser Wendel about it.
''Should you find yourself in need of financial assistance, do not hesitate to seek an audience with me. I am here to offer my service and support.'' Jon could smell the mint coming out of Lord Baelish's mouth.
He smiled, a little relieved. Then let the smile drop as he stroked his chin thoughtfully. ''Coin holds little weight in my thoughts at present. Truth be told, my mind has lingered more on the matter of replenishing Dragonstone's household guard, for most followed Stannis to Storm's End, leaving the keep wanting. Still, my thanks to you, Lord Baelish,''
Lord Baelish inclined his head. ''I have taken up enough of your time, my lord. Please, enjoy the tourney.'' He said, before turning and gracefully making his way back to the men he talked with.
Jon's gaze shifted to the staired to his right, and he took a deep breath before climbing them. Another cheer from the crowd seemed to shake the very foundations of the arena as he made his way up.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he was greeted by the sight of two men guarding a small door; the guards opened the door once he made it close enough. The first thing he saw was two knights lances clashing, and one of the knights falling of his horse, to the roar of the crowd. He turned his head to make his way to his seat silently, but halted once he saw all the nobles seated.
He felt his ears go warm when he noticed so many eyes on him. The closest to him were the Martells. Prince Oberyn and Princess Arianne mearly gave a bored glance before resuming to watch the joust, while Quentyn Martell's brows furrowed.
He thought it would be a heavy burden to pass the Tully's and Arryn's, but it had only been Lysa Arryn who had given him a queer look; Jon Arryn smiled, though his eyes looked disappointed. He quickly spotted his seat, furthest right of all his family. He saw Eddard Stark looking grimly at the falling knight below them, but once he noticed him, he gave him a hard glare. He deserved it, he supposed. Luckily, the royal family was seated further up and did not seem to have noticed him. Bran and Arya lit up once he quickly took his seat, next to them.
It had only been when he sat down, and gave a reassuring look to Bran at his right, when he noticed Lady Margaery looking at him, though she shifted her gaze gracefully when he noticed her.
''Where have you been?'' Jon heard Arya ask.
Jon shifted in his seat. Luckily, it was his father who spoke. ''He was otherwise occupied.'' Eddard said, before giving Jon a pointed look that said a thousand words.
''Father, I-..''
''We'll speak on it later.'' Eddard said sharply, making Jon wince.
''You missed The Bold; he unhorsed Ser Robar Royce after two tilts,'' Bran said excitedly.
''Loras? Has he taken the field yet?'' Jon asked, hoping for a no.
The gods obliged. ''Nay, not as of yet.''
Jon nodded, before shifting his gaze toward the field. The crowd stirred, and Jon leaned forward as the steward of Harrenhal stepped out onto the field.
''The next match shall see Ser Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun, against Ser Lothor Brune!'' The steward's voice boomed, to the cheer from the crowd, as well as Bran and Arya.
Jon could see both of them preparing. Edmure sat tall on his horse, the trout of House Tully emblazoned on his shield. Across from him, Ser Lothor sat with a noticeable composure; his armour was plain but well-worn, with a bearpaw painted on his shield. The crowd quieted as both men lifted their lances, saluting each other and the stands before wheeling their horses into position. A tension settled over the arena, and even Jon found himself holding his breath. The horn blew once, and the two knights spurred their horses forward. The first tilt was over in the blink of an eye. Jon watched as Ser Lothor's lance struck true. Edmure swayed in his saddle but kept his seat, with his lance mearely glancing off Lothor's shield.
The second time, both men struck each other with perfect precision—Lothor's lance crashed into Edmure's side, while Edmure's lance struck Lothor squarely in the chest. The sound of wood splintering filled the air, but again, neither knight fell. The crowd drew their breath as the knights threw away their broken lances to pick up new ones as another charge began. Jon decided to follow Lothor closely this time, watching his form, but as they closed the distance, something went wrong. Lothor's lance veered just slightly, missing Edmure by mere inches. Edmure, however, struck true, his lance hammering into Lothor's side. The blow was solid, and even though the knight did not fall, Jon could see him sway slightly in the saddle. The crowd roared, excited by the closeness of the contest.
They both quickly grabbed a new lance from their squires and charged once more, with all that could be heard being the sounds of hooves. Edmure's lance shot forward like a bolt of lightning, striking Lothor high in the chest. The knight tumbled from his horse, crashing to the ground in a heap of dust. The crowd erupted in cheers, their voices deafening as Edmure raised his lance in victory and circled the field. Ser Lothor struggled to his feet, brushing dirt from his armour before offering a respectful bow to Edmure.
''He won! Uncle Edmure won!'' Bran cheered.
''That he did.'' Jon answered. Bran was grinning heavily, so it was hard for Jon to not ruffle his hair, though once he did so, Bran's grin quickly turned into a scowl.
Jon raised an eyebrow at his scowl, to which Bran replied. ''I'm not a boy anymore!''
''My apologies, you lordship.'' Jon said with a mummers gasp, before ruffling his hair harder. To Arya's giggles.
''For the twentieth match of the day,'' the steward boomed. ''Ser Loras Tyrell, The Knight of Flowers, is riding against Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard!''
The crowd cheered once more, with Jon clapping for his friend as he dipped his lance before rising it. Ser Meryn looked like a formidable rider, yet Loras was ever more graceful and quick. Ser Meryn fell after three tilts, to Jon's excitement.
Hours seemed to pass as numerous knights dipped their lances, and rushed to push each other off their opponents steeds. Lord Jason Malliser unhorsed Osmund Kettleblack, only for Lord Jason to lose against Ser Jamie Lannister. There was even some representation from the North, with 'Ser' Harwin of Winterfell. How he had managed to convince the bookkeeper and the steward that he was a knight; the gods only know. It was for naught though, as he lost in his first tilt against Lord Beric Dondarrion. His father, Eddard Stark, looked only truly interested when Lord Yohn Royce was titling. He had won both his matches, unhorsing Ser Horas Redwyne and Ser Hosteen Frey.
''For the next tilt of the day, we witness Ser Jaime Lannister, the Golden Man himself, against Ser Baelor Hightower. Let the Warrior decide their worth!'' The steward boomed, his voice echoing throughout the arena.
Jon sat on the edge of his seat as the Kingslayer rode onto the field, his golden armour gleaming, casting flashes of light as he guided his white horse with effortless control. The crowd buzzed with excitement. Jaime Lannister was as skilled as he was infamous, and Jon could not help but gaze at him. That is what a king should look like. The horn blew, and the knights spurred their horses forward, charging down the list with a thunderous roar of hooves. Ser Jaime struck first, his lance colliding with Hightower's shield in a splintering crack of wood.
That's when he saw him.
A man, standing in the middle of the cheering commoners and lesser nobles, untouched by the noise or the movement of those around him. His attire was dark, as a night sky without stars. Yet it was his face that stopped Jon cold. Pale, gaunt, with an eye that glowed a deep, unsettling red. The man's gaze was fixed on Jon, piercing and unwavering, as if he could see straight through him, straight into his very soul. Jon's stomach twisted; he felt as though the blood in his veins had turned to ice.
He had seen this man before; he was certain of it. But only in dreams, never when awoken. The world seemed to tilt around Jon. He felt trapped under the man's cold gaze, the chaos of the tourney fading to a dull hum in the background as the red eye bored into him. His chest tightened. Am I still dreaming? Trapped inside a nightmare?
Then, suddenly, the crowd roared. Jon jerked, startled back into the present by the deafening cheer. His head snapped back to the tilt just in time to see Ser Baelor Hightower crash to the ground, his silver armour clattering as his horse veered away. Jaime Lannister reined his mount in with practiced ease, his lance raised in victory.
''Jon?'' He heard a voice. He turned his head, and saw Brandon Stark, blue eyes like a summer sky looking at him with concern. ''What-... What's wrong?''
Jon turned back toward the stands, scanning the faces for the man who had haunted him just moments before. Yet it was for naught. The man was gone. The spot where the man had stood now occupied by nothing more than cheering common folk, as though the man had never been there at all.
''Do not trouble yourself, little brother. 'Tis nothing.'' Jon said, trying his hardest to not sound equally concerned. It seemed to have worked, as Bran's face began to calm.
The man did not return for the duration of the day's joust, no matter how much Jon's eyes kept travelling to the spot. Loras' second match had been the last tilt of the day, and nothing extraordinary, with him going against another Frey, unhorsing the man after just one tilt. Judging by the whispers and murmurs as the day's riding closed, the surprise seemed to have been Ser Lyle Crakehall, who managed to unhorse Ser Cobber Fossoway and Sandor Clegane, the latter who had been one of the favourites to win.
A storm had started to broom during the jousting, and by the time Jon was back in his tent, the storm had begun to roar, casting sounds of thunder and heavy droplets falling on silk. Jon found that he did not mind the storm, even though many probably would. He sat on his bed. The Narrow Sea and All Who Endured It rested on his lap, pages in, trying to dispel the dread that clung to him like a shadow. Perhaps it had been nothing—just his mind playing tricks on him, still rattled from his earlier dreams. Yet he could not seem to escape the lingering, unsettling feeling that he had been watched—truly seen. Jon shook his head, and kept reading.
The book had been a gift from his father, Lord Eddard Stark. Given to him after he had received quite a scolding for arriving late. Yet Jon could not truly recall much of what he said; he had still been in a daze. The book was a lot more 'colourful' though, and Jon found it no burden to read. He was reading about the opening stage in 'The Battle of the Gullet', when Admiral Sharako Lohar divided his ships into two squadrons before entering the Gullet to the north and south, when suddenly, he saw Ghost in his eyesight.
Jon tilted his head as he examined the white wolf. ''I suppose you have been couped up in here for long, haven't you?'' Jon asked. He received no reply from the wolf, but he was fairly certain that he could feel his answer.
''Very well, a mere shower of rain has claimed no lives yet.'' Jon said as he closed the book and rose.
Jon exited the tent and walked alongside Ghost toward the woods where he had left his companion so many times before. The rain had calmed slightly, he noticed. Yet it still poured enough for nobles to remain inside their tents, as he saw very little activity. Jon was grateful for it. He felt that he needed moments of calm, a respite from the constant din of the tourney. They reached the treeline, the dense woods stretching out before them. Jon paused, and began to scratch Ghost's neck with a familiar, comforting rhythm. The direwolf leaned into his touch.
''Go on, Ghost,'' Jon murmured, his voice soft.
He watched as Ghost bolted into the woods, his movements swift and silent, disappearing into the undergrowth with practiced ease.
''My Lord, a moment of your time, if I might?'' Jon heard a voice from behind him.
Jon turned to see a tall and thin man walking toward him, wearing humble steel armour, with a face that was stern and solemn. A face that quite reminded him of his lord father.
''I am Ser Bonifer Hasty,''
''Ser Bonifer,'' Jon greeted, nodding in acknowledgement. ''What brings you out here?''
Ser Bonifer gave a curt nod in return. ''I heard talk of the current situation at Dragonstone—particularly the absence of men.''
''From whom?''
''Lord Baelish sought me out just before the final tilt of the day. It appears that the Crone has revealed to me a path I am destined to follow.''
Jon's brow furrowed slightly. ''A path?''
''I have a hundred men,'' Ser Bonifer said, his voice firm and direct. ''We are prepared to offer our service to you as The Lord of Dragonstone.''
Jon was hesitant, yet his interest was piqued. ''A hundred men? And who are they?''
Ser Bonifer's expression softened ever so slightly as he spoke. ''The 'Holy Hundred'. We are well disciplined, devout followers of the Faith, and pious to the protection of our lands.''
Jon considered this, nodding slowly. He had a respectful understanding of the Faith, even more so than before after reading a bit of The Seven-Pointed Star. Yet it was not his true following. ''I am grateful for your offer, Ser Bonifer, yet you should be aware that I am more attuned to the Old Gods. Should this present any inconvenience, I would prefer to hear so at once.''
Jon could see the subtle shift in Ser Bonifer's demeanour—a mere shadow of discomfort crossing his face. Yet he remained largely composed. But before Hasty could reply, Jon spoke once more.
''Yet, do not mistake me for a fool. I am well aware of the faith that holds sway over the land upon which I shall take my seat; even now I read and study The Seven-Pointed Star. I shall not deny the Faith's deep roots in the hearts of the people.''
Any doubt Bonifer Hasty had before, disappeared in an instant. ''I have no doubt you speak true, and I am not unaccustomed to you or your family's faith. All we would ask for is respect for the Faith of the Seven; if that could be achieved, then I believe it should not stand in the way of our duties.''
Jon nodded, acknowledging the knight's compromise. ''Then you shall have it, Ser.'' He said, yet he remained hesitant. He did not know this man, nor his motives. ''Yet I must ask—what compels you to offer your service, and the service of your 'Holy Hundred'?''
Ser Bonifer's face grew contemplative, his gaze drifting towards the distant treeline behind him, as if seeking the right words. There was a shadow in his eyes that Jon thought spoke of meloncholy, perhaps despair. ''You strike me as an honest man, so I shall answer in kind. I hold no desire to return to Dragonstone, yet there are foreign heathens and slavers gathering just beyond the Narrow Sea, poised to bring harm upon us. I cannot sit idle while such a threat looms ever closer.''
''The Triarchy, I presume?''
Bonifer nodded. ''The safety of our lands, our people—it is paramount. If we can help fortify Dragonstone, we can better protect the realm from those who would seek to invade or disrupt the peace.''
Jon felt a surge of respect for the knight's dedication. It was a selfless commitment, driven by a sense of duty that transcended his apparent personal desire. ''I am grateful for your offer, Ser Bonifer. Yet, I shall require some time to consider it fully.''
A look of satisfaction crossed Ser Bonifer's face, yet Jon thought he could still see some sorrow. ''Of course, my lord. I thank you for your time and your consideration.'' He said, before giving a curt nod. ''May the Crone light your path.''
Jon kept looking at Ser Bonfier Hasty as he walked back towards the sea of tents. He was unsure on what to do; one hundred men would be a boon. Yet his reasons did not give him the satisfaction he wanted; he seemed dutiful, yet Jon did not know him. Jon sighed; he would speak to Ser Wendel about it, perhaps even Lord Stannis.
He did not have anytime to further contemplate it, as Ghost suddenly bumped into him. The distress his direwolf felt was overwhelming.
''Ghost, what's wrong?'' Jon asked.
Ghost merely trotted back towards the treeline, but halted after a few steps to look back at him. Jon knew then that he wanted Jon to follow him; he did not have a sword with him, but he had a dagger. It will have to do. Jon began to follow Ghost, past the treeline and into the woods. The woods were dense, and the trees were towering. The ground beneath his feet was soft and damp with the moisture the rain had brought, but Ghost moved through it with the grace of a house cat. He hurried to keep up, silently cursing the wetness that made it's may inside his socks.
After a short while, Ghost slowed, his nose lowering to the ground as he sniffed, Jon's senses were suddenly heightened as they stepped into a small clearing, where something big and motionless lay amidst the tangled roots of a great oak. Jon's stomach twisted once more as he saw it.
A wolf, larger than most but smaller than Ghost, lay dead, its body half-consumed. The stench of decay filled the air, and Jon's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene. The wolf's bones had been crushed, and its fur was coated with blood. The remains of the beast were scattered with dark feathers—evidence that it had been a feast for crows here long before Ghost had led him to the scene.
What could have done this?
The wolf hadn't been dead long, but the savagery of its death was unmistakable. Ghost began to growl softly beside him, the sound low. Then, movement caught Jon's eye. A single crow was perched atop the dead wolf, its beak tearing at the flesh of what remained. Jon's breath hitched in recognition—it wasn't just any bird. It was Mormont's raven. How?
The bird looked up, its black eyes meeting Jon's grey ones, and called out in a hoarse, familiar voice, ''Price! Price!''
Jon frowned, unsure if the bird was calling for him or repeating some phrase it had learnt long ago. The raven then continued to peck at the wolf's remains, seemingly indifferent to Jon's presence. Ghost sniffed the air around the wolf, circling it slowly. Jon crouched down beside the wolf that was now in the firm hands of the Stranger. His hand was brushing the crushed bones. Whatever had killed this wolf had done so with immense force.
Before he could ponder further, the raven cawed again, louder this time. ''Corn! Corn!''
The bird flapped its wings, leaving the remains behind and flying straight towards Jon. He lifted an arm instinctively, but the raven landed on his shoulder with surprising weight, its talons gripping his leather jerkin as it settled.
''Price!'' it croaked again. ''Corn!''