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Jon Snow woke to the sting of cold wind biting his face and the rough scrape of bark against his neck. His wrists were bound tightly behind him, lashed to the trunk of a tree, the cords cutting into his skin. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the snow-dappled clearing. He blinked away the haze clouding his vision, his head throbbing from where something had struck it—during the ambush.
A figure stood a few paces away, her silhouette backlit by the fading light. The woman from earlier, her hair a vibrant red, as striking as the flames of a campfire. She leaned on her bow, her blue eyes watching him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
"Ah, you're awake, crow," she said, her voice lilting with the cadence of the Free Folk.
Jon shifted uncomfortably, the ropes biting deeper into his flesh. "Why am I here?" he croaked, his throat dry. "Let me go. I don't want to fight."
The woman tilted her head, her lips quirking into a smirk. "You don't want to fight? Strange words from a crow caught north of the Wall. What were you planning, eh? Sneak up on us with that little sword of yours and play the hero?"
"I wasn't looking for a fight," Jon said, his voice firm despite his predicament. "I came to the weirwood tree to think. That's all. Let me go, and I won't speak of this to anyone."
At this, she laughed—a bright, mocking sound that echoed in the quiet woods. "Aye, let the little crow fly back home to his brothers, is that it? No, you'll stay right here." She leaned closer, her smirk widening. "As soon as Tormund's back, he'll want a word with you and decide what's going to happen."
Jon raised an eyebrow, his black hair falling into his eyes as he regarded her. "Where is this Tormund of yours? And the rest of your party?"
Before she could answer, a booming voice erupted from the trees behind him. "Right here, boy."
Jon craned his neck as far as he could, watching as a massive man stepped into the clearing, his beard a wild tangle of red and his eyes gleaming with suspicion. He carried an axe slung over one shoulder and moved with a surprising lightness for his size. The man grinned broadly, revealing crooked teeth.
"We've been busy," Tormund continued, spreading his arms as though embracing the woods themselves. "Leaving false trails through the trees so your black-cloaked brothers can chase their own shadows. No one's coming for you, crow, not for a while."
Jon's stomach twisted at the thought, though he schooled his face into neutrality. "The Lord Commander sent men after me?" he asked, unable to keep the disbelief from his voice.
Tormund barked a laugh and slapped his thigh. "Oh, look at him! Surprised they'd bother, are you? Thought they'd just leave you to freeze up here, didn't you? A sad little crow, lost in the snow." He shook his head, then turned to the red-haired woman, gesturing toward Jon. "Look at this one, Ygritte. Pretty face, clean hands—doesn't look like he's spent a day in the wild. What are they teaching you crows now behind that wall of yours, eh? Washing dishes? Sewing?"
Ygritte chuckled, but Jon bristled at the insult. He pulled at his bindings, ignoring the sting as the ropes held fast. "I know how to fight," he said evenly. "If I wasn't attacked from behind I would have proved that well enough against any number of your men."
"Big words from a small boy tied to a tree," Tormund said with a laugh, before his grin faded. He stepped closer, looming over Jon, his face hardening. "But the question remains, boy: what were you and your fat friend doing north of the Wall?"
Jon met Tormund's gaze, his jaw tightening. "I told her," he said, nodding toward Ygritte. "I went to the weirwood tree. I needed to think."
"Think," Tormund repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. He crouched down, bringing his face level with Jon's. "What's a crow like you got to think about, I wonder? Whether or not you like living among only men? Or I debating whether you looked good in black? Or were you just looking for a quiet place to cry?"
Ygritte snorted, but Jon's face remained impassive. "My reasons are my own," he said carefully. "But I had no intention of fighting anyone. If you let me go, I'll leave. I won't speak of this to the Watch or anyone else."
Tormund studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as though trying to read the truth in Jon's face. Then he stood, shaking his head. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said. "But guts won't save you up here, crow. No, you'll stay put until I decide what to do with you."
Jon's heart sank, though he refused to let it show. "And what will that be?" he asked. "Kill me? Tie me to another tree and leave me for the cold?"
Tormund's expression darkened, but he quickly covered it with a smirk. "We're still deciding but we'll see," he said. "For now, you're our … guest. Ygritte here will make sure you don't go wandering off."
Jon glanced at Ygritte, who was leaning casually against her bow, her smirk unwavering. "Aye," she said. "Don't worry, Tormund. I'll keep our little crow nice and cozy."
Tormund clapped her on the shoulder, then turned back toward the trees. "I've got a conversation to have, but I'll be right back," he said over his shoulder. "Keep an eye on him, Ygritte. Don't let him sweet-talk his way out of those ropes."
As Tormund disappeared into the woods, Jon let out a slow breath, his mind racing. He looked at Ygritte, who was now examining one of her arrows with a casual air.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he said.
She grinned, not bothering to deny it. "Aye. It's not every day we catch a crow alive. Most of you lot are too stubborn to surrender, even when you've lost."
"I didn't surrender," Jon said, his voice sharp. "I was attacked from behind."
Ygritte's grin widened as she shrugged. "Whatever helps you sleep, crow."
Jon leaned his head back against the tree, closing his eyes for a moment. He needed a plan, but with his hands bound and the Wildlings keeping watch, his options were limited. For now, all he could do was wait and hope that the Night's Watch hadn't given up on him yet.
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The sun dipped lower, the shadows deepening as the clearing fell into twilight. Ygritte moved to stoke the campfire, the flames casting flickering light on her face. Jon watched her silently, his thoughts turning to his direwolf and the friends he'd left behind at Castle Black.
"Why do you call us crows?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
Ygritte looked up from the fire, her expression amused. "Because that's what you look like, all dressed in black, flapping about behind your Wall. Like a murder of crows, squawking about honor and duty."
Jon frowned but said nothing. The fire crackled between them, its warmth a small comfort against the encroaching cold. He shifted against the ropes, the cords biting into his skin, but Ygritte's gaze snapped to him like an arrow finding its mark.
"Don't even think about it, crow," she said, her tone light but her eyes sharp.
Jon sighed and leaned back against the tree, his breath misting in the cold air.
The forest had grown still except for the crackling of the campfire and the whisper of wind through the pines. Jon sat slumped against the rough trunk of the tree, his wrists chafed raw by the ropes. Ygritte had settled a few feet away, whittling a piece of wood with a small knife, her sharp blue eyes occasionally flicking toward him as if to remind him she was watching.
Eventually the sound of heavy footsteps broke the quiet, and Tormund reappeared in the clearing, his broad form emerging from the shadows. He carried a sack slung over one shoulder and a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.
"Well, crow," Tormund began, tossing the sack onto the ground with a dull thud. "Looks like we've got a little gift for you to deliver to your Lord Commander."
Jon frowned, his body stiffening against the ropes. "What kind of gift?"
Tormund walked towards him, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small, weathered piece of parchment sealed with a glob of black wax. He waved it in the firelight before tucking it into the folds of Jon's cloak. "A letter from Mance Rayder himself."
Jon's eyes widened in surprise. "You're letting me go?"
Tormund threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing through the trees like a bellowing bear. "Letting you go? Oh no, boy. We're not that foolish. Free a crow, and the first thing he'll do is fly right back to peck at us. Or worse, trail us back to our camp. No, no, you'll be staying right here."
"Then how am I supposed to deliver the letter?" Jon asked, his voice tight with frustration.
"We've got a plan for that," Tormund said with a grin. "We're going to build you a fire. A big one. A blaze so high, your brothers won't be able to miss it. They'll see it and come running, and when they do, they'll find you—with the letter."
Jon stared at him, a knot of unease forming in his stomach. "And if they don't see it? What if no one finds me before the fire dies out?"
Tormund shrugged, his grin never faltering. "Then you'll freeze, crow. But don't fret too much. We're close enough to your Wall that eventually, one of your brothers will stumble upon your frozen body. The letter will get delivered one way or another. However ..." He leaned in, his grin turning wolfish. "If I were you, I'd be hoping they find you sooner rather than later."
Jon opened his mouth to protest, to argue against being left to the whims of chance and frost, but the look in Tormund's eyes silenced him. The wildling's humor had vanished, replaced by a steely resolve that brooked no defiance.
Tormund straightened, barking orders to a handful of others who had followed him into the clearing. The Wildlings sprang into motion, gathering branches and kindling from the forest floor. Jon watched helplessly as they built the fire, piling logs and debris until the heap stood taller than a man. It would burn hot and bright, but not forever.
As the pile began catching, Tormund approached Jon one last time. "Remember, crow," he said, his tone almost jovial again. "This is mercy. Could've just slit your throat and been done with it, but instead, we're giving you a chance. Don't waste it." He clapped Jon on the arm with a force that made his ribs ache, then turned and strode toward the woods.
The Wildlings began to disperse, melting into the shadows like ghosts. Ygritte lingered, standing at the edge of the clearing with her back to Jon. Just when he thought she would leave without another word, she turned and walked back toward him.
She crouched beside him, patting the part of his cloak where the letter had been tucked. Her touch was almost gentle. "Don't forget about that," she said, her voice low.
Jon frowned, unsure whether her words were a warning or a reminder. Before he could respond, Ygritte straightened and glanced out at the forest, her expression unreadable.
"For your sake," she murmured, "I hope your friends are fast. There are much worse things north of the Wall than us Free Folk."
Jon raised an eyebrow as he looked up at her, "Like what?"
She looked at him and shook her head before replying simply, "You know nothing."
Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the snowy woods, her red hair fading into the dusk like a wisp of flame.
Jon was alone.
The fire roared larger and larger, its heat licking at Jon's face completely masking the biting cold. Shadows danced wildly across the trees, and the clearing was bathed in flickering orange light. It would be visible for miles, a beacon in the dark wilderness.
But would it be enough?
Jon shifted against his bindings, his shoulders burning with the strain. The ropes held firm, and he knew better than to waste his energy struggling. Instead, he turned his thoughts inward, replaying Tormund's words.
A letter from Mance Rayder.
What message could he have for the Lord Commander? And why risk sending it through Jon?
Jon's jaw tightened. Whatever the contents of that letter, it was clear that Mance Rayder had plans that stretched far beyond the wildlings.
The fire cracked loudly, startling him from his thoughts. He glanced up at the sky, now a vast expanse of black, pricked with cold stars. His breath fogged in the air, and he noticed that the chill began to seep through his cloak.
Ygritte's parting words echoed in his mind.
There are much worse things north of the Wall than us Free Folk.
Jon's heart pounded in his chest, not from fear of freezing but from the unspoken threat in her words. He had heard the stories—the White Walkers, the wights, the ancient evils that haunted the wilderness beyond the Wall. Stories meant to frighten children ... or so he had thought. Was this what she had been referring to?
The firelight danced around him, casting long, twisting shadows. The woods seemed to close in, the silence oppressive. He couldn't help but wonder: was he truly alone?
As the fire burned lower, Jon's resolve hardened. He wouldn't succumb to fear or despair. He was a Stark, and Starks endured. Whatever lay in store, he would face it with the same unyielding determination that had carried his family through generations of hardship.
He leaned his head back against the tree, staring up at the stars. The fire crackled, its flames licking hungrily at the dark. Somewhere out there, his brothers in black might already be on their way. Or they might not. He could only hope.
As the hours wore on, the flames of the wildlings' fire which had once roared high, crackling with defiance against the encroaching cold had dwindled into embers, its warmth slipping away like water through Jon Snow's fingers. He shivered, his body pressed tightly against the tree trunk, his breath fogging the frigid air.
The fire was no longer big enough to keep the cold at bay, and the icy chill of night crept closer. Jon clenched his teeth, his mind racing. Was this how it would end? A beacon meant to save him turning into a flickering epitaph? He shifted against his bindings, but the ropes held firm, biting into his wrists. He forced himself to focus, trying to stay awake. Falling asleep in the cold would be as dangerous as any wildling blade.
For your sake, I hope your friends are fast, Ygritte had said. The thought haunted him now as the fire sputtered and hissed.
Jon's head throbbed, the result of a blow he'd taken during his capture, and exhaustion gnawed at him. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment before snapping open again. Stay awake, he told himself. The pain in his wrists and the ache in his head were the only things anchoring him to the waking world.
The sound of movement snapped him out of his haze. At first, he thought he imagined it—a rustle, faint and distant, like the whisper of a ghost. Then it grew louder. Boots trampling through the snow. Branches snapping. His heart raced.
He craned his neck, shouting hoarsely, "Help! Over here!" His voice cracked, raw from the cold and disuse. "I'm here!"
The sounds grew closer, and then shadowy figures emerged from the woods, silhouetted against the dying firelight.
"Who's there?" one of the men called, his voice rough and wary.
"It's me—Jon Snow," Jon called back, his voice trembling from relief and the cold.
The figures approached cautiously, their weapons drawn. As they stepped into the light, Jon recognized their black cloaks and the hardened faces of men sworn to the Watch. They were not from those he was intimately familiar with but recognized several of their faces among those he had seen within Castle Black.
"Snow?" one of them muttered, his expression skeptical. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing tied to a tree?"
"Let's get him loose first," another grumbled, crouching to cut the ropes binding Jon to the tree. Jon groaned as the tension left his limbs, his shoulders screaming in protest as he was finally freed.
He tried to get up but staggered as he got up, luckily catching himself against the tree with a shivering hand. The men eyed him warily as one handed him a thick fur cloak. "Here. Wrap yourself in that before you freeze to death."
Jon pulled the cloak around his shoulders, its warmth seeping into his chilled bones. "Thank you," he managed, his voice still weak. "I thought the fire wouldn't last."
"It almost didn't," the older man said gruffly. "So what are you doing tied to a tree with a fire burning down to embers? And why'd the wildlings leave you alive?"
Jon straightened, trying to ignore the suspicion in their eyes. "They ... they said they had a message for me to deliver to the Lord Commander."
"A message?" one of the men echoed, his eyes narrowing. "And they just let you live to deliver it?"
Jon hesitated. He could feel the doubt radiating from them, the unspoken accusation that he might have struck some bargain. "I don't know why they spared me," he said honestly. "But I swear I didn't betray the men of the Night's Watch. I was brought up among the Starks, I'd never betray the Watch."
The men exchanged glances, their skepticism clear. Finally, the one who had cut Jon loose jerked his head toward the trees. "We'll sort it out back at Castle Black. You're lucky we spotted this fire. Let's move before you freeze solid."
Two of them grabbed Jon's arms to steady him as they began the trek back through the woods. Jon's legs felt like lead, each step an effort, but the promise of warmth and safety spurred him on. The older men stayed vigilant, their eyes scanning the darkness, hands never straying far from their weapons.
By the time they reached the Wall, Jon was barely able to stand. His head throbbed, and his body trembled violently from the cold. The towering Wall loomed above them, a sheer slab of ice glowing faintly under the moonlight. The small gate through the Wall creaked open, and Jon was ushered through, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Maester Aemon was waiting in his chambers, his blind eyes turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps. "Bring him here," the old man said, his voice calm and measured.
Jon was helped into a chair by the fire, the warmth almost overwhelming after so many hours in the cold. Aemon approached with slow, deliberate movements, his hands steady as he examined Jon's head wound.
"You've taken quite the beating," Aemon remarked, dabbing at the wound with a cloth soaked in some pungent liquid. Jon winced but said nothing.
"He claims the wildlings spared him to deliver a message," one of the older brothers said, his tone heavy with doubt.
Aemon paused, his sightless gaze seeming to pierce through Jon. "Is that so?"
Jon nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "They gave me a letter from Mance Rayder. It's in my cloak."
One of the men retrieved the parchment, handing it to Aemon. The maester ran his fingers over the wax seal, his expression unreadable. "We'll see what the Lord Commander makes of this," he said, setting the letter aside.
For now, Aemon focused on tending to Jon. He wrapped Jon's head in clean bandages, then handed him a steaming bowl of broth. "Drink this. It will help with the cold."
Jon accepted it gratefully, the warmth spreading through him with each sip. His trembling began to subside, though his exhaustion remained.
"You're lucky to be alive," Aemon said softly. "The wildlings are not known for mercy."
Jon met Maester Aemon's gaze, though he knew the old man couldn't see him. "I don't know why they spared me," he admitted. "But I swear on my honor, I've done nothing to betray the Watch."
The maester sat in silence for a moment, his sightless eyes closed as if in deep thought. Finally, he nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "I believe you, Jon Snow. Rest now. Word has been sent to the Lord Commander, and he will be here shortly."
Jon exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and sank back into the chair. The warmth of the fire wrapped around him as he took another sip of the hot broth that had been prepared for him. The ache in his head dulled, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to relax.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed like that, but at some point, exhaustion won out. His eyes drifted shut, the crackling of the fire a lullaby that pulled him into a restless sleep.
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The slam of a door jolted Jon awake. He sat up sharply, the empty bowl of broth tumbling from his lap and clattering to the floor. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont stood in the doorway, his heavy cloak dusted with snow, his face a mask of fury.
"Just what did I tell you, Snow?" Mormont barked, storming into the room. "I didn't want to risk any men north of the Wall! I knew this idea was foolish from the start!"
Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again, guilt washing over him. Finally, he found his voice. "I didn't mean to get captured, Lord Commander," he said, his tone quiet but firm. "I was trying to make sure Sam made it to the Wall safely."
At that, Mormont paused, his scowl softening just slightly. "And did he?" Jon asked hesitantly. "Did Sam make it safely? Was anyone hurt during the search?"
The Lord Commander's gruff exterior wavered for a moment as he nodded. "Aye, the Tarly boy made it to the Wall and told us what happened. But by the time we rode out, you were gone. We spent the better part of the day searching the woods before you were found. Luckily no one had been hurt."
Jon swallowed hard. "Thank the gods," he said quietly.
Mormont's bluster ebbed away, leaving behind a man who was clearly relieved but still carrying the weight of his responsibilities. He nodded once before his expression grew serious again. "Now, what's this about having a message from the wildlings for me?"
Jon pointed to the parchment Maester Aemon had set aside. "They gave me a letter," he said. "From Mance Rayder. That's all I know."
Mormont strode over to the table, his boots heavy against the stone floor. He picked up the parchment, examining the wax seal before breaking it. His eyes scanned the contents quickly, his brow furrowing deeper with each line.
Finally, he looked up, a short, incredulous laugh escaping his lips. "Are they serious?"
Jon shook his head. "I don't know what the letter says. They didn't tell me anything—only that it was from Mance Rayder to you."
Mormont huffed, glancing back at the letter before shaking his head again. "Mance Rayder," he muttered, as though the name itself were a curse. "The man was once a brother of the Night's Watch before he broke his vows and fled north. Now apparently he styles himself the King-Beyond-the-Wall."
He turned toward Maester Aemon, his expression grim. "He wants a meeting."
"A meeting?" Aemon asked, his white eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Mormont nodded, his tone laced with disbelief. "He claims the so-called 'Free Folk' are seeking peace and passage south of the Wall. Says there's a greater threat waking in the far north."
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of Mormont's words hanging heavy in the air.
Aemon broke the silence, his voice calm but filled with curiosity. "A greater threat? Did he say what kind?"
Mormont growled, pacing back and forth like a caged bear. "No specifics. But what else could he be talking about? This is a ploy, plain and simple. A trick to lure us out or lower our defenses."
"Perhaps," Aemon mused, his tone contemplative. "But perhaps there's some truth to his words."
Mormont stopped pacing, his expression skeptical. "You think Mance Rayder, deserter and traitor, is suddenly an honest man?"
"I think," Aemon said slowly, "that the world is full of truths most choose to ignore. Years from now, people in Westeros may disbelieve there were ever such things as dragons. But as surely as I sit here in front of you, dragons existed. Who's to say that the threats Mance is alluding to are not similarly grounded in fact?"
Mormont let out a long breath, his hands on his hips. "You are telling me that I should entertain this? Open a dialogue with wildlings who've killed countless of our brothers?"
"I think," Aemon replied, "that it is not my place to tell you what to do. But if Rayder speaks the truth, ignoring him could be a costly mistake."
Mormont resumed pacing, muttering under his breath. "The lords of the North would never accept it. They'd see it as weakness—or treason. And what if it is a trap? If I send men to meet with Rayder, they could all be slaughtered. Or worse, captured and used against us."
"Those are risks," Aemon acknowledged. "But consider the alternative. If this threat Rayder speaks of is real and we dismiss it outright, we may find ourselves unprepared when it comes for us."
Mormont's pacing grew more agitated. "There's also the matter of appearances. If word gets out that the Watch is negotiating with wildlings, we'll lose what little support we have left from the realm."
Jon sat quietly, absorbing the conversation. He didn't know what to think. The wildlings had spared his life and delivered this message, but their motives remained a mystery.
Finally, Mormont stopped pacing and turned to Aemon. "If I do this—if—I need to tread carefully. One wrong move, and it could cost us everything."
Aemon inclined his head. "Then tread carefully, Lord Commander. But do not dismiss the possibility that Rayder's words may carry weight."
Mormont sighed, running a hand through his thick beard. "I'll think on it. For now, Snow," he said, his tone shifting, "there's something else we need to talk about. How went your private moments of thinking north of the Wall before they were ... interrupted?"
Jon froze, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. His mind raced, as he looked up at the Lord Commander unsure where to start.
"I—" Jon eventually began, but Mormont cut him off.
"Let me save you the trouble, boy. The truth is, your survival might've made things a little more complicated for you."
Jon frowned, confusion knitting his brows together. "My survival?"
Mormont nodded, fixing Jon with a piercing gaze. "Already, there's talk spreading through Castle Black. Whispers about how you managed to survive an encounter with the wildlings with nothing more than a bump on your head when so many of our brothers have died at their hands."
Jon's jaw dropped open, disbelief giving way to anger. "They'd have preferred I died?"
Mormont held up a hand, his expression unreadable. "It has less to do with you and more to do with their experiences. The brothers of the Watch have fought and bled defending the Wall against wildlings. Many have lost friends, brothers, and kin to them. Your survival, under these circumstances, is … unexpected. And not everyone trusts what they don't understand."
Jon shook his head, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "I didn't ask to survive," he muttered. "And I sure as hell didn't ask to be captured."
Mormont sighed again, heavier this time. "I've put a stop to the rumors where I could, and I'm sure in time, if you join the Watch and prove yourself, they'll die out. But I thought it best you know now what you'd be walking into. Better to make the decision with your eyes open than be blindsided later."
Jon nodded slowly, his hands curling into fists. The idea that his potential brothers-in-arms might see his survival as a cause for suspicion stung more than he cared to admit. "Thank you for telling me," he said at last, though the words felt hollow.
Before Mormont could reply, Maester Aemon's soft voice cut through the tension. "Perhaps, Lord Commander, it would be best if Jon Snow were allowed to rest on his decision. He's been through much today."
Mormont opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again, grumbling under his breath. Finally, he nodded. "I suppose that's fair. We'll talk more in the morning. I'll summon you early to hear your decision." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on Jon. "And perhaps it'd be better if you stayed here for the night. Fewer chances to feed the rumor mill."
Jon nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. "Yes, Lord Commander."
Mormont turned to leave, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. At the door, he glanced back. "Think on everything, Snow. And get some rest."
When he was gone, Maester Aemon remained seated for a moment, his hands folded in his lap. He regarded Jon with an expression of quiet understanding. "You have a good heart, Jon Snow. But the world is rarely kind to such hearts."
Jon had no reply.
"Good night," Aemon said at last, standing slowly and making his way toward his chambers. "May your dreams bring clarity."
And with that, Jon was left alone.
Jon eventually drifted into a fitful sleep, his exhaustion finally overtaking him. Yet, sleep did not bring peace.
At first, his dreams were simple, almost comforting. He was walking with Ghost through the dark forests surrounding Castle Black. The snow crunched softly under his boots, and the wind whispered through the trees. Ghost moved beside him, a white shadow against the darkness, his presence steady and reassuring.
But then, the dreams began to shift.
The forest grew darker, the trees gnarled and twisted. Death surrounded him, creeping in from every direction. He saw faces—his family, his friends, the men of the Night's Watch—all pale and lifeless. The dead called to him, their voices hollow and accusatory.
Jon tried to turn away, but the visions persisted. He saw Robb, his sword clutched in his lifeless hand. Arya, her small body curled in a corner, her Needle snapped in two. Sansa, draped in the crimson of a stranger's cloak, her eyes filled with silent despair. Bran, unmoving, his face frozen in pain.
And then came the brothers of the Night's Watch—men he had met over the last little bit of time. Grenn and Pyp lay sprawled in the snow, their blood staining the white ground. Sam cowered behind a crumbling wall, terror etched on his face. The weight of it all pressed down on Jon, suffocating him.
But what struck him most deeply was not the sheer volume of death—it was the feeling of helplessness, of being unable to save those he cared about.
He remembered Harry's words, spoken not long ago: "You're not alone. You have a family that cares for you. You're a part of the Starks."
The dream shifted again. This time, Jon stood alone at the top of the Wall, the world stretching endlessly before him. The wind howled, and a single raven circled overhead, its cry echoing in the emptiness.
At first light, Jon sat on the edge of his cot, exhausted but resolute. He didn't have all the answers, but one thing was clear: he would not falter in his duty, no matter the cost.
When the knock came at his door, Jon stood, straightening his back despite the weight of fatigue.
"Come in," he called.
A page entered, bowing slightly. "The Lord Commander requests your presence in his solar."
Jon nodded, smoothing his tunic before following the boy through the cold stone corridors of Castle Black.
The Lord Commander's solar was warm, the hearth ablaze, but Mormont's expression was anything but welcoming. He looked up from his desk as Jon entered, his face as stern as ever.
"Have you come to a decision, Snow?"
Jon nodded, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions within him. "I have, Lord Commander."
Mormont leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes fixed on Jon. "Good. Let's hear it, then. What's your decision?"
Jon took a deep breath, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "I will do my duty. But despite having to have come all the way here to discover it, I believe my duty is to my family. My place isn't here."
Mormont studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gave a single nod. "I suppose that's fair, though it doesn't please me to lose a promising recruit, especially one who was willing to voluntarily take the black."
Jon inclined his head. "This doesn't mean I'll never come back, but I can't shake the feeling that things are changing in Westeros." He thought of the Starks heading south, Bran's injury, and Harry's arrival. "I need to be with my family."
Mormont's gaze softened, though only slightly. "It might be for the best anyway, considering the current … distaste some of the brothers are showing you. This could give time for feelings to cool."
Jon was silent, unsure how to respond.
The Lord Commander rose, pacing behind his desk. "I'll arrange for provisions for your journey south. You'll be heading back to Winterfell, I presume?"
"Yes, Lord Commander," Jon replied.
Mormont nodded. "When you get there, tell your brother—who is looking after Winterfell in your father's absence—that the Wall always needs supplies and men. Remind him of the importance of the Watch."
"I will," Jon promised.
The Lord Commander paused, his gruff voice softening just a fraction. "You're a good lad, Snow. Don't let the world beat that out of you."
Jon bowed his head. "Thank you, Lord Commander."
Before leaving Castle Black, Jon sought out Sam.
He found him in the library, surrounded by books and scrolls, his face lighting up when he saw Jon approach. But the joy was short-lived.
"You're leaving?" Sam asked, his voice tinged with sadness.
Jon nodded. "I have to, Sam. My family needs me."
Sam looked down at the book in his lap, his shoulders slumping. "I'll miss you."
Jon placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I imagine at some point I'll be back. And in the meantime, you should stay close to Grenn and Pyp. They'll look out for you."
Sam nodded reluctantly, his eyes glistening. "But what's in store for me? I'm no fighter, Jon. I'll never be like you or Grenn or Pyp."
"Then don't try to be," Jon said firmly. "You're smart, Sam. Smarter than any of us. Work with Maester Aemon. Learn from him. The Watch needs men like you just as much as it needs swords."
Sam swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "You'll come back?"
Jon managed a faint smile. "I will. And when I do, I expect to find you running this place or at least helping Maester Aemon in advising the Lord Commander."
Sam laughed weakly, wiping his eyes. "Take care, Jon."
"You too, Sam."
As the gates of Castle Black creaked open, Jon mounted his horse, his pack of provisions strapped securely behind him. Ghost trotted alongside him, a silent sentinel.
The cold wind bit at his face as he urged his horse forward, the Wall shrinking in the distance behind him.
Jon's thoughts turned to Winterfell—to his family. He thought of Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon.
Ahead, the Kingsroad stretched endlessly, the way south both familiar and foreign.
As he rode, Jon glanced up and spotted a raven circling high above, its black wings stark against the pale sky. The sight sent a shiver down his spine, a feeling of unease settling over him.
He urged his horse onward, the faint cry of the raven echoing in his ears as he began the long journey home.
Kind Regards,
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If you like this content do not hesitate to smash that like button and subscribe. Haha but seriously if you do enjoy the story - do favorite it, other than messaging me or leaving a comment it's the only way I know if you are enjoying the stories and chapters.
Story Note 1 – Well looks like Jon did not end up joining the Night's Watch. Felt that the way this was handled would have fit within canon and certainly made for a more satisfying occurrence than him just running to the wall to hide. That being said Jon already met Tormund and Ygritte who I'd imagine have the potential to become important characters. And has been partially responsible for potentially opening dialogue with the wildlings … free folk. While this had obviously not been done in canon I felt that there was the potential for it to have happened but the situation just never arose as the wildings who had the message never bumped into anyone who they had been able to "talk to".
Story Note 2 – Hope you all enjoyed the chapter part of why this chapter was done separately was because Harry was obviously not included but also, and I think more importantly, for the sake that these chapters will include several date skips that will overlap with what is happening with Harry. SO rather than write a several chapters comprised of both Harry/Jon events that will take place over several chapters though it more appropriate and concise to put them all together.
Story Note 3 – Looks like Jon is heading back south to Winterfell. Any guesses on what is in store for him?
Story Note 4 – I hope that everyone who is enjoying Harry's journey through Westeros (specifically since he just arrived in King's Landing) is not worried. His adventures shall soon resume. These chapters are merely setting up the world and laying the foundation for some of what is to come that will directly and indirectly affect the world and Harry specifically. As a teaser the next set of interlude chapters will involve a certain individual across the sea. Any guesses?
A large thanks to those of you out there who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you all are enjoying them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or have reached out to me directly.
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BioHazard82, Gues x 3 - Thanks so much for the feedback and I hope you continue to enjoy the story as it progresses!
Blaze1992 - Haha thanks! I guess we will find out ...
Rosier1389 - The other way to look at it is that they were probably pretty good hunter/gatherers so they certainly would have tried to avoid contact with 'civilization' or people as long as possible.
Nova Sana - Well Varys is definitely 1 out of the 3 options as to who it could be ... seems possible. If only Harry was quicker!
Fenrir070 - The reason for this will be looked into later! Haha I had never looked at Ron that way. But made me laugh. And I certainly agree that Syrio's style certainly fits Harry better! I guess we will find out who it was. Well Jon Arryn is dead by now. Cersei would be the other option. Unless of course there is someone else in play ... But the book is a good catch. Glad you are enjoying the story!
et-reader97 - I'm with you 100% the style sword fighting style certainly fits him better. There will be a reason for why it was seen but a small part of it is that the plan wasn't for Harry to just sit in King's Landing doing nothing but watching. This will certainly cause stuff to happen and is probably pretty realistic as I have not doubt people were running through the walls. It was just Harry's bad luck someone happened to be right there when he pulled the wand out. And certainly not negative, I really appreciate constructive criticism! Thanks!
rmw5763 - Cliff hanger indeed! The not so itsy bitsy spider ... I guess we will see.
Monkey D. Conan - If I had been in a new location in medieval times my first guess wouldn't have been to worry about secfret passages in the wall. But I guess we shall see what comes of this! Knowing Harry I certainly dont imagine he'll stick his head in the ground and knowing the people of King's Landing I certainly expect something to come of this.
Ferdiad - If indeed it was Varys I have no doubt that Varys wouldn't be fond of Harry ... of all the people who might be cautious of Magic Varys certainly has legit reasons.
Vansmoke - That is certainly a fair point. Some chapters are certainly more of building chapters but almost everything is there to portray something. Even if it is just setting something up that will appear in a couple of chapters.