11.Echoes in the Snow

258 AC, Beyond the Wall

The Lost Bastard

The end of the year was fast approaching, and some nights often saw snowfall cover the haunted forest with a quilt of white, no matter how deep south they ventured.

Nearly two moons had passed since the revelation, and he had thrown himself into the swing of training. Anything to keep his mind away from his mother, away from the wrongness of his own existence. The Children of the Forest or Earth Singers, as Brynden liked to call them, had withdrawn… as far as he could sense. Or perhaps they were still watching, but far from his senses. It kept Jon on edge for a time, but as sharp as his mind grew, he no longer caught that fleeting, leafy presence amidst the woodland.

Each beast he hunted had to be bent to his will, and each beast bent to his will had to be hunted. They had to be skinned, too, and Jon’s hand had gotten firmer when dealing with hides. “It severs your attachment,” Brynden had said. “And it teaches you to respect them.”

It really had. There was no act more intimate than taking another’s life—be it man or beast. Everything that could have been, cut short by your own hand. And it was twice as intimate after sharing a mind with the beast, where he would catch a glimpse of their emotions and desires, even a little bit of their past. When Jon failed to kill with one arrow, Brynden forced him to end them swiftly after looking at their eyes each time, so they did not suffer. The finality of ending a life so closely felt raw… did something to his mind. The more he killed, the more he could sense the beast bleeding over in his mind… and cast it away. 

It worked.

His hand grew surer when drawing the bow, and his arrows struck true at the eyes of his prey. One arrow, near instant death, painless. This was all the mercy he could give them, and it would be cruel to deny it. 

His collection of pelts, hides, and leather had started to swell, along with his skill with the bow and the mind, but he could not bring himself to feel pride. 

Today, his catch was greater than before. Today, he had conquered one of his previous failures, bending that old, cruel shadowcat to his will and hunting it after letting it loose. Though the moment their minds were apart, the vicious beast had immediately turned to pounce on him.

Jon swiftly ran the knife, peeling the striped black hide from the flesh. His arrow was sticking out of the eye of the shadowcat, the old beast nearing the size of a courser—a giant amongst shadowcats. Though most creatures in the haunted forest were half a size larger than their cousins down in the wolfswood, some were even larger still.

“A coat fit for a king,” Brynden rasped from the side. “The fur is long and soft from the cold, still. You can finally cast off that old rag you stubbornly cling to.” 

“Perhaps I will,” Jon said quietly, not moving his gaze from the skin. He had grown further in the last moons, and now his tattered breeches barely reached his ankles, and his own tunic no longer covered his wrists.  

Even the lord commander’s cloak that he had stubbornly patched up each time it tore was growing short on him. Perhaps it was time to cast it away for something better, and a well-made shadowskin cloak would last decades.

It was an odd consolation that brought him calm far more than any words could. To grow was to be still a man instead of a monster hewn from ice. 

As much as he wished otherwise, he was no longer a brother of the Night’s Watch. He was no longer the 998th Lord Commander—or any commander at all. Just like a kingdom could only have one king, the Night’s Watch could only have one Lord Commander, and Andrick Royce ruled the ancient order from Castle Black as its 995th commander.

Though what did that make of his vows?  

Jon did not know. He tried not to think of it, too, lest it drive him mad. You know nothing, Jon Snow.

Before long, the shadowcat was skinned, and it was his greatest work yet—not a single part of the pelt was cut or torn. It was the biggest beast he had slain at over five hundred pounds, too, easily a third heavier than the wild boar he had caught a sennight prior. 

Shadowcat was better than a fox in taste, though not by much, with its dense, tough meat, but Jon was loath to waste any part of the kill. According to Brynden, the neck, backstraps, and quarters of the wildcats could be a delicacy worthy of the royal table. The rest was given to the crows.

Nearly six stone worth of meat would see them both well fed for months—and busy divvying it up for the rest of the day.

Brynden was smoking the extra cuts in the makeshift smokehouse they had made near the cave, and Jon was roasting the finest portion of the backstrap over a fire. Midway, he felt a faint presence slither in at the edge of his awareness. 

It was a faint one, pawing closer and closer amidst the freshly fallen snow. Jon reached out with his mind and pushed it away. Instead of scaring the beast away as it always did, this only gave the little intruder courage as it dashed his way. 

Jon turned around, only to be met with an odd pair of eyes. One was a blue that reminded him of the summer sky, while the other was milky white, crowned by a claw scar. The mismatched eyes belonged to a black ball of fur so thin that he could count all of its ribs. 

A direwolf pup. 

It must have been abandoned shortly after birth. And gods, it was looking at him piteously from the tangle of sentinel roots. It’s one good eye glanced at the roast of backstrap over the fire for a short heartbeat, only to return to Jon, full of pleading. Its legs were so painfully thin that they trembled under the beast’s own weight, as if it had spent all of its strength to come here. 

The bastard pushed it away with his mind again, but the pup only pawed forward, only to crumble down in the snow with a whimper. It tried to stand up, but its shaky legs gave out again, and Jon’s heart broke a little at the sight. 

He dared not bond with the beast, no matter how his heart longed for it. Brynden would force him to sever the bond and slay it as part of his training. Jon had killed scores of beasts like that, but this one… it felt wrong. There was no challenge, and all he had to do was reach out, and the pup would open his mind with no resistance. Even so, it felt wrong.

It would be a kindness to kill it. Such a weak, abandoned, half-blind direwolf would never survive in the wild. Its budding teeth were barely good for tearing meat, and without a bitch to wean it…

Sighing, Jon stood and approached the fallen pup, picking it up in his palms. It was bigger than Ghost, and perhaps half a moon older—a miracle that it had survived so long. It immediately leaned into his touch. The bastard had no milk, even if he wanted to give it some, so instead he tore a good piece of meat from the roast, blew on it until it went cool enough, and chewed it into paste, only to give it to the pup. 

It greedily swallowed everything Jon placed in its maw, letting out soft keening cries. 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Snow,” Brynden’s voice came from the smoke house. “Direwolves are the kings of the cold forest, and having one under your command will make half the nearby woodland your domain.”

“I have not bonded with it,” Jon bit back, sharper than he intended.

Bloodraven’s eye was fixed on the fur ball curled inside his tunic. 

“I would be telling you to wring its neck if you had,” he said, voice harsh and merciless as the north wind. “Young direwolves might come easily to a Stark, but others would struggle hard to win their loyalty or bend their mind. So easy it might be that you would never learn its value. So easy that you might never sense as the wolf bleeds into your mind and deeds. Perhaps you ought to bond with this and sever it clean to learn.” 

Jon’s hand froze as it hovered over the black fur. 

“No,” he said with a clenched jaw. 

“It would still be kinder than to let it struggle until it expires soon enough. It’d be a mercy—a mercy that would spare it some suffering.” 

Jon let out a hollow laugh. “Then I am a merciless man.”

Standing up, he tore one last piece of the roast and walked out of the camp, sliding over the snow. He only stopped when the camp was half a mile away, and left the whining pup nestled in a dry, warm burrow at the roots of a towering ironwood, placing a chewed mouthful of meat before it.

“You soft-hearted fool,” said Brynden once he returned to the camp, but there was no heat in his words. “Now get to the hide if you want that cloak—it won’t flesh itself.”

He said nothing when Jon left another mouthful of chewed meat in the same place each day—and it was gone within half an hour, even though he could no longer sense the pup. 

A moon passed, and the snowfall thickened, blanketing the whole forest with white as far as the eye could see, even though it was the swing of summer. One morning, the chewed meat remained even in the morning. Perhaps the direwolf had perished… or had left. Jon hoped it was the latter.

One day, Brynden snatched the weirwood recurve Jon had been using, placing a beast of a bow at least seven feet long and carved from a single piece of black bone in his grasp. 

“From now,” the old bastard said, “you’ll use this one to practise. You’ll use it for any archery you do, too.”

The bow was smooth between his fingers and half as light as it looked. “Won’t bone be swift to crack and splinter?” 

“Not dragonbone. Hot or cold, it will never crack, no matter how much you punish it. The string will never snap or grow loose either—it’s made from Tessarion’s tendon.”

Jon swallowed his retort. The most powerful bows were hewn from dragonbone, and even he had never heard of dragon tendon used as a string. Dragonbone was priceless, even before the dragons died off more than a century past. Yet such things meant little for a man who ruled the realm in all but name for decades. 

This had to be Brynden’s personal bow—

“Go on, string it,” the old bastard said, something heavy settling in his voice. A long leather belt-like strap with two loops was thrown at Jon’s feet. “You’ll need a stringer—unless you’ve got a giant’s strength.”

Even with a stringer, it was half a challenge to string up the dragonbone bow. Jon cautiously tugged at the string and found it barely budged. He firmly curled three fingers around it and tugged with all of his strength, and it shifted an inch. Teeth gritted, Jon stood in position as he pulled with all of his strength, yet the bow only surrendered another inch.

“This has to be heavier than a yew warbow,” Jon said, exhaling slowly as he released the string with a twang. 

The corners of Brynden’s mouth curled. “By a whole half. It’s thrice as strong, too—dangerous even to knights in the finest castle-forged suit of plate… if you can get a clear shot at it. This bow let loose the very arrow to pierce my brother’s neck, even though the best smiths of King’s Landing had forged his gorget.” 

Bloodraven’s eye grew distant as Jon felt the bow grow far heavier in his grasp. 

Gods.

“I… can’t pull it all the way,” said Jon very slowly, even though it shamed him to say it. Of those in Winterfell, perhaps only Hodor would have had the strength to do it.

The old man regarded him with a smile that sent shivers down his spine. “You will learn.”

“What about skinchanging lessons?”

“I’ve taught you all you need to know. Now it’s time to let it rest and ripen in your head while you get a proper hang of real archery. It’s time you learn to curve arrows, too.”

The hunting had stopped. 

The next moon saw his fingers pricked raw—even through gloves, and his back growing sorer by the day. Brynden Rivers was a taskmaster more demanding than Ser Rodrik, harsher than Ser Alliser Thorne, but it worked. Jon could pull the string further each week, even though Bloodraven forced him to repeat each pull with his left hand. Some nonsense about not twisting the spine and shoulders over time. He kept telling Jon to eat more meat and boiled bone marrow—and that somehow helped Jon draw the bow more. He obediently ate, as the training also stoked his hunger, forcing him to devour enough food for two, sometimes even three.

As much as he wanted to beg for some rest, his pride would not let him—not when Brynden’s gnarly hands tirelessly worked over arrows and firewood all day. Jon did not need the firewood or any warmth, no matter how pleasant it felt to his skin, but he was going through arrows with frightening speed, and not all could be retrieved.

The old bastard even started loosening arrows with his slender hunting bow, trying to teach him how to ‘snatch’ a coming arrow from the air and loose it back at his foes. “No proper marksmen will be killed by some stray arrow!” His accuracy was so frightening that not even a single arrow did as much as graze Jon’s skin, but his cloak and garments suffered for it.

Soon, his lessons swelled even further, though this time it was the obscure matter of the Higher Mysteries.

“All sorcery comes from the mind or the blood,” Brynden was saying. “The most powerful sorcerers wield both, and while many thought magic to be a dying ember in the world, it’s everything but—especially since you pierced the thickening veil.”

Jon blanched. “Why tell me of this?” 

“You have the blood for sorcery, Jon… even before the heart of winter.”

“I’m a—”

“A bastard?” Bloodraven let out a sharp scoff. “Aye, but you’re half Stark, and they loved folding magic into their bloodline since the Age of Heroes. Bastard or not, sorcery runs through your veins stronger than mine, and you must recognise it enough to shatter it… or bend it to your will. As with skinchanging, the pivot is yourself. A strong mind will bend powers to its will, and a weak mind will be bent or even broken”

“…Very well, then.” So this was why he had to master his mind.

Brynden cleared his throat. “The first lesson is how to deal with creatures of sorcery and the elements. Some of them use magic to sense, while others bend the elements and the world to their will or at least tap at it… like the singers of the earth and the Others. The former tap into the very breath of the forest and hear the rhythm of the air itself, while the latter bend cold, darkness, and death to their will. But if you can sense them and your mind is greater, you can slow them down, and even twist it all…”

Jon swallowed his questions and hung on to every word as if he were in a lesson with Lord Stark again. It made him feel much the same, too, like a young boy so green he could piss summer grass. 

“…Now clear your mind. Let the world and your feelings bleed out, and feel everything flow around you.”

Obeying, the young bastard sat down, letting his thoughts drift.

…It almost sounded like he was being taught the weaknesses of Children, as if he were about to hunt them. Or perhaps they were used as an example, as they were the creatures of magic that Brynden knew best. Jon remained silent and listened, keeping his suspicions close to his heart. Though he added a crude, makeshift wooden shield to his back everywhere he went, joining Dark Sister’s sheath that hung from his belt. 

The lessons in sorcery continued, and archery tutoring grew harsher still, though Bloodraven was never satisfied, no matter how much Jon’s skills swelled. 

Soon, their supply of smoked meat began to dwindle, and Jon was back on the hunt again, this time for meat. True to his word, Bloodraven only let him take the dragonbone longbow that was both cumbersome to carry and hard to draw.

Snow had seen much of the wildlife hide, though otters, beavers, and mink still prowled around the half-frozen rivers and streams. 

With Dark Sister, he could always cut a hole in the ice and fish, but Jon needed a bigger catch. Something large enough to last him and Brynden a moon or two, and the old bastard had already found himself a small, cosy lake to fish, but it would be far from enough to sustain them through the cold months. 

The first day saw Jon with a small harvest. He had caught a single white hare which had served him for dinner, and had seen a young doe which had been let go. On the second and third day, he had even less luck; on the fourth, the gods smiled upon him by midday. He spotted hooftracks in the snow, large enough to belong only to a great elk buck, a beast that would see him well fed deep into the winter. It was alone too—the bark of some new branches was eaten clean, and the snow was ploughed for lichens and roots, but not too much to indicate a herd. 

Jon followed for a whole hour, spreading his senses as far as his mind allowed him, and froze when he sensed something else in the snow, beyond the crest of the nearby hill.

It was no beast, but a man. Three of them, their boots sinking deep into the snow. Either a wildling forage party or black brothers on a ranging—small rangings always went in groups of three. It was the latter, judging by the weight of their steps. Rangers were bigger than most wildlings, and ringmail alone weighed another twenty pounds, and one of them was near twice as heavy as usual.

‘I am the watcher on the walls.’

A part of him was overjoyed, but that joy quickly perished, and not because he remembered the betrayal. They would not know of Jon Snow. His gaze settled on the tattered black cloak flowing down his shoulders. At most, they would consider him a deserter or a wildling who had pilfered some nameless ranger.

Before, Jon would have proudly named himself a brother of the Night’s Watch and its Lord Commander, or even the bastard of Winterfell—or as proud as a bastard could be. But now, he could not name himself either. There was no Jon Snow of Winterfell. There was no Jon Snow in the Watch either, let alone as a commander, and if someone bore the name, they were not him. He could scarcely recognise himself, with his deathly pale hair and eerie red eyes—a look that was unlike House Stark.

Just as Jon was about to turn, he sensed another; those weighted steps lightened, and another form fell onto the snow amidst the other three. A far lighter form—either a child or a woman, yet both had little to do with the Night’s Watch. It was none of his concern. 

Not a child, he decided. The men of the Night’s Watch cared little for children. Women, on the other hand…

I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. 

The words burned in his mind like a torch. He had no power to enforce those vows—and even if he did, his own broken vows weighed on his thoughts. This was a wild, lawless place with no lords or kings to put order, where the only law of the land was the size of your fist.

‘You are here to find food,’ he reminded himself darkly, ‘not save some half-wild maiden who just might be willing and eager for a tumble.’

Even if unwilling, she would be stolen as proper by wildling customs. If wildlings heard of it, they would scoff, calling it right, for she was too weak to fend off her attackers. Even the woman would not expect a rescue, even if she struggled. Nobody would stand for her. 

Stiffly, Jon turned around, forcing himself to look at the elk tracks and pulling in his awareness close. Yet each next step forward felt hard, the tightness in his chest grew, and his hand squeezed the dragonbone bow until his own knuckles cracked.

Cursing inwardly, he wheeled around. 

‘I’ll only throw a glance to make sure she’s willing,’ he told himself. ‘Or that it’s not some cannibals eating some poor child.’

His legs almost flew up the snow, and within a long moment, he scaled the steep snowy hill and peered down the valley at a large glade. Jon Snow cursed under his breath again. It was not some hungry cannibals eating a hapless child. It was not some willing maiden stolen by a trio of eager wildling brothers.

Something dangerous coiled into his belly. One moment, it was as hot as glacial frost, while the other was seething and burning like a raging pyre. 

A man in a dark hauberk and a black cloak was tearing a patched fur gown off a wild woman, and two others like him were holding her down—a deed for which a Stark of Winterfell would have taken their heads in the North. But there was no Stark of Winterfell here, and this was not the North.

His gaze was already measuring the distance—five hundred yards. Too much to loosen an arrow with any accuracy. Before he knew it, Jon’s feet slid through the snow, soundlessly and with deathly grace, as his hand plucked three arrows from his broadhead quiver. 

Four hundred yards shortened into three hundred, two hundred and a half, and the broadheads felt hot in his hand. His mind stretched out, blanketing the snow-bound forest, and for a long moment, Jon Snow felt like a god. His thoughts found the snowshrike above and burst into its mind, giving him a bird’s eye view.

An arrow was nocked into the string, aiming down at the man unbuckling his belt. A pull that saw him struggle felt near weightless, as if the bow itself bent to his mind.

‘A master marksman can loosen four arrows within two heartbeats and have them all strike true, Jon, no matter the bow.’

The arrow whistled through the snowy forest, and two more followed, just as eager as the first. 

But Jon Snow was not a master marksman just yet. The raper’s head exploded like a ripe melon, but the second nailed the man in the thigh, while the third missed its target entirely.

One ranger roared, rushing for the nearby tree with sword drawn, while the second man heaved over, roaring with pain as he clutched his leg. 

It did not matter. Jon swept forward, though his boots remained silent over the snow, not even rising a single speck. Nock. Draw. Loose. 

The broadhead pierced the ringmail like butter, and the puffing ranger’s chest exploded. 

A hundred and fifty yards.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

The arrow glanced across the tree where the last foe was hiding. 

“Come out, coward!” a furious howl echoed through the trees.

Seventy yards. Jon could feel the man hiding behind the tree, glued to the trunk as if it would save him; he could feel him in the snow as he shifted his weight from one leg to another. He could see him too, through the eyes of the snowshrike above.

A common archer would be stumped here. Even shields and walls can not stop a true marksman, for he can make an arrow twist and turn at will. 

Jon dared not call himself a master marksman, but he had learned how to curve arrows from Brynden well enough.

This time, his nock slid up his string. Draw, but gentler this time. Loose. 

The arrow whistled, curved around the tree, glancing at the arm of the ranger. 

He howled with pain, but Jon was already fifty yards, nocking another arrow. This one sang through the woodland, skewering him through the neck, and the ranger crumpled on the ground, gurgling in his own blood.

The moment passed, and Jon let loose the breath he had been holding. He cut loose the thread with the snowshrike above, too. The moment of crystal focus drained away, and all of his senses whiplashed as his body jolted. A hiss escaped his clenched jaw as pain lanced through his wrists up his arms and all the way through his back. His whole body felt like one giant bruise. Deep down, Jon was still surprised he had managed a full draw of the dragonbone, though this was not the first time his rage had granted him strength beyond his means. 

But never like this, not like this… cold fury that could be easily controlled.

If Bloodraven were here, he would call his marksmanship sloppy and ‘barely’ passable. But the old bastard wasn’t here, and his foes were dead. 

Numbly, Jon walked into the glade, eyes fixed on the raper’s corpse. It was broad of shoulders, muscled beneath the cloak of wool and the ringmail. The dragonbone bow had launched the arrow with such strength that bits of skull and brain were scattered all over, and the reddish snow was eagerly drinking in the dribbling blood where the ranger had fallen. That one had died swiftly, unlike the last one, who was still clawing at the arrow lodged in his throat.

Soon enough, his wheezing gurgles stopped, and his limbs grew slack. 

A part of him was sickened at the sight. These men were supposed to be his sworn brothers. The vows to the Night’s Watch were meant to wash away any sins and misdeeds they had committed, and to do away with previous burdens and names weighing down men of nobility. 

These men had broken no law of men, yet Jon Snow saw no brothers of the Night’s Watch, just rapers who were too lusty to rein in their baser desires. Perhaps if those men had been under his command, they would have turned their knives on him, too.

Perhaps he should have felt something at the sight of those corpses dead at his hands, but the only thing he felt was numbness. No guilt stirred in his chest, no shame, or anger, or anything… as if he had just killed a squirrel or a fox. No, he felt gratitude at such deaths, for they saw him well-fed and clothed, but this… this did not elicit anything. A part of him told him this was wrong and he should be frightened… but he did not feel fear either.

His eyes settled on the wildling woman, who had grown as still as a corpse. Wide amber eyes were watching his every motion, as if expecting him to take the raper’s place. She made no sound either, though that was probably because of the torn rag stuffed in her mouth. He swallowed as he studied the wildling—she did not have the sharpness of a spearwife, though lean enough to pass as one with a freckled face and a tangle of wild hair the colour of rust. Jon’s eyes slid lower and froze at the sight of her bared chest. 

Averting his gaze, he plucked the man’s blood-soaked cloak and threw it over her bare form. Ignoring the ache in his wrist, he drew Dark Sister and sliced through the rope binding her feet.

“I will not harm you,” Jon said hoarsely. “If you promise not to struggle and scream, I will free your hands and mouth. Give me a nod should you agree.” 

She gave him a shaky nod, stiffly turning sideways to offer him the arms tied behind her back. Jon slid Dark Sister through the rope, and her hands flew up, yanking away the rag tied across her mouth. 

Within the blink of an eye, she leapt to her feet, jumping away from him. She had yanked one of the ranger’s swords, awkwardly clutching it with both hands, halfway raised as she met his gaze. 

A low, throaty voice slipped from her lips. “Are you some wayward crow or a pale ghost?”

Jon opened his mouth to answer, once, twice, but no words came out. Who was he?

What was he?

He had been a crow once, in another life. He still felt like a crow, yet not quite. Perhaps he was half a ghost, a shade of what could once be, but not quite.

Jon swallowed, his eyes straying down to her pale, perky teats that rose and fell with each breath—the cloak had fallen off when she had leapt away. Worse, the wildling maiden made no move to conceal them, and he could feel his breeches tighten painfully.

“I… am Jon Snow,” he said at last, forcing himself to look straight into her amber eyes. 

“Name’s Briar, kneeler.” A small smile bloomed across her freckled face. Her gaze lingered on his cloak and then his face. “First time I see hair kissed by the snow, but gods, it’s prettier than mine.”

Her smile widened so much it threatened to split her face as she traced his gaze. “Don’t be shy—you can look at me all you want. You can come and touch, too.”

Yet her sword was pointing at his groin. When she puffed up her chest, heat rushed to his face, making him feel like the green boy teased by Val again. But he was a young boy of summer no longer.

“Are you well?” said Jon instead, kneeling to retrieve what was left of his arrows, keeping enough distance to react and eyeing Briar at the edge of his vision. Iron and steel broadheads were priceless treasures beyond the Wall, no matter how chipped and twisted they grew.

Briar snorted, finally lowering the sword. “Doin’ better than I thought I’d be. Never thought I’d meet a decent kneeler. Ma said they’re all killers n’ beasts.”

Jon stifled a snort—how often had he heard much the same from the mouths of the black brothers? 

Before long, she kneeled to his side, eagerly stripping away boots from the fallen and pilfering their belts for knives, murmuring something about damned crows and shy kneelers. She took two, while the other three were handed over to him. Jon declined their slender longswords while snatching the sole bearded axe that could be used to chop wood—or wildlings.

For good or ill, Briar liked the sound of her own voice and was eager to talk. Or perhaps she craved closeness and understanding after coming so close to tragedy.

Jon was content to let her bend his ear with easy chatter, be it about the poor weather, or the cold, or some irritating wild hog scaring away the hares or even about her aching legs. Even those kissed by the cold were mentioned, with pale skin like ice and hair as white as freshly fallen snow, though it sounded like a curse on her tongue. 

Was it albinos like Brynden she was speaking of… or something darker, something colder and far more dangerous?

At last, the cold took a toll on her, and with a long, tired sigh, she took one of the black woollen cloaks and tightly fastened it over her shoulders—enough to keep her chest covered.

Then, she began to tell her own tale. Chased out of her village two years earlier by her father after killing the chieftain’s son who had tried to steal her, she had wandered in the wild alone after taming an owl. 

As most wildlings, the maiden had no sense of shame, and once she liked the padded doublet of the gauntest of the three rangers, she stripped it off the corpse and pulled it on, not minding the bloodsplatters. Even their breeches were pulled off, though not before she gave each corpse a good kick between the legs. Perhaps the gods were tempting him, but the ranger who had hidden behind the tree was the same height and shoulder weight as Jon was, and he invited himself to his quilted coat and mail shirt. 

The newfound weight gave him a sense of comfort he had not sensed in a while. It was not a great protection… but it was better than his tattered garments.

“I think their black crow steeds ought be near.” As soon as everything of worth was looted from the corpses, Briar motioned southward. “They came that way.”

They followed the footsteps through the snow. Soon, Jon could sense four garrons tied up to a young pine at the far end of the valley. That alone was more meat than any buck could give him.

He generously gifted Briar the youngest garron and the crudely tanned bear hide, while Jon took the other three beasts and split up the month’s worth of dry supplies with her. He kept the five quivers of arrows for himself and left her a small pewter pot and the rest of the ranging supplies.

“The crows and kneelers take everything they want, and then some,” she said, eyes darkening as she regarded him. “Yet you’re not a cunt, and instead give, Jon Snow. I have never seen someone so open-handed amidst the free folk. Even my ma wouldn’t give me half as much before an elk gored her open.”

Jon shrugged. “Giving away things I have no need or want for comes easy. Don’t think much of it.”

As he turned to leave, something tugged on his cloak. 

“It’s getting dark,” she whispered. She regarded him with a pair of scared eyes that told him that the earlier bravado had been a fragile facade. “…Do you have a camp or a hut?”

He let out a long sigh and raised his hands apologetically. “I don’t.” Those who don’t fear the cold and the snow have no need of one. 

Her reaction was not at all what he expected.

“That’s great,” she said in a small voice. “Err…you look bone-weary, and I have a dry, warm place to spend the night nearby if you wish.”

There was almost desperation in those amber eyes. And gods, she looked small and fragile then. Living alone in the haunted forest was no mean feat, but it was clear it had taken a great toll on Briar. 

He knew he should have walked away. But his wrists felt stiff, his back ached too much to leave, yet he could have gritted his teeth and still walked away… if not for his heart feeling so hollow. Gods, it felt like an eternity had passed since he had heard a voice different from Brynden’s croaking or old, leathery face. He did not dislike her swift chatter, and her presence felt soothing.

“Perhaps… for the night,” Jon said at last. ‘Just so she could calm down,’ he told himself.

Swallowing, he led the horses after Briar, following her to a stretch of hills westward. She kept quiet for once, as if she had grown tired of talking. Within an hour, they arrived at her place—a turf hut in a small clearing under a ragged cliff, with a heavy pelt stitched from fox fur to keep the chill from slipping in. It was as warm and dry as promised, though the crude timber logs inside were too thick and too old to be hewn by Briar, who looked no older than Ygritte was.

The first thing to greet him was the faint scent of moss and smoke, and sweat mingling between the two.

From the corner, A pair of small yellow lanterns glowed, and then they blinked at him cautiously. At the sight of a shadowcat kitten, no larger than the direwolf cub he had found, everything clicked. Shadowcats were harder than direwolves to tame, and this one was unnaturally obedient.

Briar was a skinchanger—that’s why the presence of her mind was so… different. So heavy yet fleeting. That’s why she had been chased out of her village. 

His eyes flicked to the sole bed in the corner, an old rug lined with straw could even be called one.

He rubbed his face. Why had she invited him to sleep the night, if there was no second bed?

Just as Briar turned and he opened his mouth to ask, her lips smashed into his mouth. It was an awkward kiss, but the suddenness surprised him. In fact, his tongue met hers with eagerness. He did not resist when she stole a kiss or her hands reached for his buckle. His hands were hesitant at first, but before he knew it, his fingers grew bold, hungrily pulling her worn garments aside and exploring every inch of her pale, freckled skin. 

His mind tried hard to find some reason to rebuff the advance, but his mind came blank with an eager maiden draped over him.

He felt like a fool for not seeing the invitation for what it was. 

Gods, a woman’s touch was sweeter than any wine could ever be, and Briar had been soft and loud but no less eager than Ygritte. She had been hesitant and awkward in her advances, but a hungrier lover for it, and it made him feel more alive than anything since the betrayal. Yet this time had not been done out of desperation.

It would be easy to get lost in it, the way whoremongers got lost between the bosom of some harlot. 

Any vows that chained him to his post were long broken. A part of Jon had dreamed of staying with that turf hut and playing the bastard husband to the wild woman and their collection of beasts. Briar had stolen him easily enough as the custom of these savage lands dictated, and she had given him her maidenhead. Though their children would be bastard… but most, if not all, babes beyond the Wall were bastard-born. Jon could drag her before the weirwood and give vows before the gods. It would be a fitting end for a bastard like him, a happier end than he could hope for.

But why did the idea bring him no joy? It did nothing to fill the void in his chest. 

Was it because he had to abandon Bloodraven and his lessons? The old bastard would let him leave easily enough, but would never surrender the name of his mother if Jon left before his training was complete. 

Or perhaps the elusive shadow of some mad god that hung over his head like a headsman’s axe?

No, that did not weigh on his mind as much as he thought it would. As pretty as Briar was, she did not make his heart race. Her smile was prettier than Ygritte’s, yet when she smiled, all he saw was a pale, round face and crooked teeth of a spearwife that was dead. A spearwife that had yet to be born. The haunted forest was grand enough, and the cold kissed his skin instead of biting it, yet Jon felt like a stranger here.

It was cruel to leave, though it would be crueller to stay, so he had slipped away the second night together. Snow was thick in the air, the white quilt veiling any trace he left. To Jon’s dismay, Brynden Rivers felt more like an uncle than Uncle Benjen ever had been, and that hidden glade with the cave felt more like home than Winterfell ever did. 

Bloodraven’s gaze flickered between the pair of quivers, far fuller than Jon had left with, and then to the garrons trailing behind him. If he had any thoughts on the matter, it did not show on his face, and he did not speak of it, and the young bastard was grateful for it.

“It’s been a while since I’ve feasted on horseflesh,” Brynden said instead, regarding the three garrons with his crimson eye. “Though those will probably be quite chewy.” 

“Chewy meat fills the belly as good as any other,” Jon murmured absently. 

A gloved hand rubbed that pale chin. “It’s handier to kill the beasts one by one and get the meat dry and salted and smoked. I trust the owner of these fine garrons will not come looking for them?”

“Hard to look for something when you’re half-torn in the belly of some shadowcat or grey wolf.” The young bastard palmed the weirwood beads on his neck. “Say, I met a skinchanger who mentioned a gathering of wargs near the Antler River.” 

Brynden sneered. “Just a band of savages groping in the dark. The old ones are dangerous enough when they tame some great beast, but their skinchanging is clumsy and worse than crude. I’ve slain over a dozen of these fools when I was a Lord Commander—half of which were when they tried to ambush me. Forget about such wretches, and focus on the lessons.” 

Two moons passed in a blur as Jon threw himself into the endless training. He could even pull the dragonbone bow all the way once without any anger, though it took all his strength. Bloodraven slowly returned to the lessons in skinchanging, though his hunts for skins came twice a moon at most. Before he knew it, year 259 of Aegon’s Conquest settled in, or so Brynden claimed. 

Even so, Jon Snow would never forget that day. 

As he was deep in the woodland, wrestling with an old elk with his mind, something whistled through the trees, scaring away his prey. Perhaps it was the countless hours of training that left Jon bone-tired by the end of each day, but his hand leapt like a viper and plucked the arrow before it could pierce his chest.

His brows furrowed at the slender shaft crowned by a ridged arrowhead hewn from dark glass. Obsidian. And then, he stretched out his senses through the snow and the woodland, seeking his foe. 

“Show yourself,” Jon growled out, though that did not stop him from nocking the small arrow on his dragonbone bow. 

All he got was a second arrow, this one aimed at his head. Jon jerked out of its way, and his eyes found his attacker. It was not a wildling or a brother of the Night’s Watch, but a small, child-like figure up a tree branch, wrapped in a cloak of leaves, glaring down at him with a pale weirwood bow clenched in its claws.

“There’s no need for a fight,” he called, lowering his bow. “Were you not supposed to watch—”

Evidently, the Singer disagreed, judging by the third arrow that whistled at his throat. Jon barely managed to duck away. 

Something hot and bubbling rose in his chest.

Did they think him a fool?

Nock. Draw. Loose. Countless hours of practice saw him do it in one smooth motion, and Jon had scarcely needed to aim. 

The leaf-cloaked figure made to move, but the arrow came too swiftly, nailing it clean to the oaken trunk behind it.

It let out a soft, pained gurgle, and as soon as it grew limp, Jon felt the whole forest quiet down even further, as even the trees now felt hostile. 

“This is going to be trouble,” he muttered, cursing inwardly.

Chapter’s Endnote: Jon gets used to Brynden™ bootcamp, but his little moment of cosiness meets some upsets. Would have finished the chapter far earlier, but I kept getting more ideas to write, and I might have grown distracted by videos on bows, archery, and skinning.