15.Lurking Shadows

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

“Why is my presence required for something like this?”

Her father’s face was unreadable. “You’re no longer a child, Rhaella. Father decided it’s time to see the dispensation of royal justice in all of its grim glory.”

A punishment, then. At least she had spared Joanna the indignity, though Melony was by her side, and Genna was seated right behind Aerys on the other side of their parents, shuffling uneasily in her seat. 

The bells of the Great Sept tolled seven times, their solemn peals rolling through the streets and rooftops. The seventh toll was deeper than the rest, in honour of the Stranger. By the time the last echo faded, the crowd was already gathered at the base of the Great Sept of Baelor. There was no execution platform, though the marble walls of the Great Sept had been draped in banners of crimson and black, the three-headed dragon roaring at the wind.

Smallfolk pressed on the wooden barriers in the hundreds, craning up for a glimpse of royal justice.

Her mother was whispering something to the king, but it was too quiet for the princess to hear. Curiosity began to gnaw at her like a hungry dog at a bone. Rhaella closed her eyes and slid her mind into the cat lounging over the rafters, waiting for some tired pigeons to land. After shaking her head to overcome the dizziness that came with the shift of sensation, she rose, her little paws prowling forward until she reached the rafter just above her mother. Soon enough, she was close enough to hear. Where human ears failed, a cat’s sharp hearing succeeded.

“…You must deal with those heathens, Father.”

“I cannot arrest or expel every exotic priest from Essos, and you know this.”

Shaera’s reply was uncharacteristically heated. “Men of the Starry Church are not priests but vile blasphemers of the worst kind. Devil-worshippers—”

“Alas, alas. My own daughter speaks, and the High Septon’s words come out. For in the eyes of the Faith, all who do not follow the Seven are heathens and blasphemers who must die a most gruesome death to cleanse them of their sins. I’ll hear no more of this tripe now, it’s about to begin.”

Her mother crossed her arms together and pursed her lips.

Rhaella slid out of the cat’s mind and had to fight the rising urge to curl down and lick a tail she did not have. The world fell duller, too, for the senses of her body felt bland, weaker in comparison. Steeling herself, she tore away the thread still connecting the two minds together, letting all of those foreign feelings bleed out. Cracking her eyes open, she fixed her gaze on the platform below.

An unkempt man in rags that looked worse than what folks in Fleabottom would wear was already being dragged forward by a pair of gold cloaks. The moment his head was settled over the chopping block, Ser Morgan Largent pulled down the black headsman’s hood over his face, hefting his great crescent axe over his shoulder.

The herald unrolled a parchment and began to read the charges:

“Ser Addam Rosby has admitted himself guilty of the murders of Ser Emmon Frey, Septon Manton, and the woman by the name of Emerald. Furthermore, the Crown has also found him guilty of slander, contempt for royal authority, smuggling, and treason. For these crimes, by the decree of His Grace Aegon, the Fifth of his Name, the King of the Andal, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, his sentence is death by beheading.”

Rhaella’s eyes were fixed on the figure pushed prone to the oaken block. Ser Addam’s usually lively blue eyes were dull, empty, bereft of any emotion, as if he hadn’t heard his demise announced for the city to hear. Perhaps he had heard, and he no longer cared. That thought frightened Rhaella.

A nod from her grandsire saw the headsman’s axe rise, its cold edge gleaming. Yet her vision had been stronger than ever since Vhagar, and her eyes narrowed.

“Uncle,” she said, leaning onto the next row where Duncan sat. “Is the axe supposed to be so dull—”

Thunk!

Rhaella flinched, but the head did not roll off as she expected. Instead, the crescent edge had embedded itself into the middle of the skull, cracking it open like a ripe watermelon. Grey and red mingled together, and she tasted bile. 

The crowd stirred, pushing against the wooden fence.

“Boo!”

“You call yourself a headsman?”

“Aim better!”

The axe rose again swiftly, this time cleaving down at the neck. 

It only went two-thirds of the way. 

The boos grew louder, and rotten fish, shit and mud started flying towards the platform.

The wooden fence holding the crowd buckled, but a motion by her grandfather had the royal men-at-arms fan out, swords and halberds drawn, and the smallfolk pressing on the barrier backed down, though the boos continued echoing off the walls of the Great Sept.

“No, niece,” Duncan said, twisting himself in his seat to face her with a lazy smile. “A headsman’s axe is supposed to be always razor-sharp. Enough to shave a septon bald without drawing blood. But those who harbour animosity are wont to bribe the king’s justice. Not for mercy, of course, but for a painful, more humiliating death.”

Her eyes found the Freys in the lower stands, vicious smiles plastered all over their faces. It all made twisted sense now.

“Some even bribe the headsman to get a cleaner cut, so they die with dignity, too,” her father added with a wheeze. 

As if there is any dignity in death. The knight was dead with the first strike, but the execution had yet to conclude until the skull was parted from the shoulders.

For the third time, the headsman’s axe rose, and this time the head rolled down the marble stairs. Yet what remained couldn’t truly be called a head, but some grotesque mix of bone, brain, and blood. 

Bile rose to her throat. Yet she had not voided the contents of her belly as Genna had—the princess had seen Vhagar do crueller things. She had been in the bird’s mind, doing those cruel things more than once. 

“Why is grandfather suffering such unseemly practices?” she asked, voice hoarse.

Jaehaerys let out something between a snort and a laugh. “He replaced six headsmen in five years for this. When the seventh did it too, father simply gave up.”

This was not justice. It did not feel just; it did not feel fair. The thought prickled at her mind like a dagger. 

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of her heart. “Father. Was Ser Addam Rosby truly the murderer?” 

“Yes—” Her father descended into another coughing fit. Her mother cast her a cold glance, her silver brows knitted together.

“Do not disturb your father—“

“It’s fine,” Jaeheaerys wheezed out, not sounding fine at all. “There’s no harm in indulging her in this. The sole Frey guard in the manse had fallen asleep, and Addam Rosby was found drunk and with hands still squeezing the silken shawl used to strangle the Frey boy and his whore. The stains on the carpet inside match the shape of his boots. His wine flask was found, thrown in a corner, and the man himself confessed.”

Uncle Duncan gave a low laugh. “He confessed to a lot more, hoping for a pardon.”

“Then why keep him for so long in the dungeons—”

“Blackfyre,” her father said, face grave. “Because he claimed himself a loyal man of Blackfyre, and each last morsel of knowledge had to be squeezed out of him, though it had been of little use…”

“What about Septon Manton’s murder and the death of all those whores?”

“Whores?” Her mother gasped, looking at her with horror. 

Rhaella folded her hands to hide her unease. “Just something I heard from my ladies. Whores have been dying mysteriously in the city.”

Even her father gave her an odd look.

“They take their lives,” her uncle said. “I’ve seen it happen before. Someone new is plying a concoction named the Touch of Pleasure amongst the brothels, hurling whoever tastes it into the throes of passion. Of course, their mind only craves more and if they don’t have the coin to buy it…” 

Her mother cleared her throat loudly. “Those are not suitable things for a maiden to hear.”

Duncan had the decency to look ashamed and quickly turned away, gaze fixed on the platform. Indeed. It sounded terrible. Rhaella wished she had never heard of it. And yet, the tightness of her chest did not go away. “What about Septon Manton—”

“And now, we have the lower cases of crime.” The herald’s loud cry echoed, calming the crowd. Two rows of murderers, rapers, those bold enough to steal from the Great Sept, and even repeated smugglers, hands and wrists clasped in iron, were pushed into the lower platform.

They didn’t receive the dubious honour of the dull headsman’s axe, but were given a brigand’s treatment—the noose. Seeing men twitch until they grow limp on the gallows did not make Rhaella feel any better. Nor did the fading of the light in their eyes.

Her query received a curt, “We’re still looking for the culprit,” from her uncle, but his tone was dismissive. They… no longer cared about the murder of Septon Manton. Neither did the High Septon, who had gotten royal concessions, it seemed. No, their attention was fixed on the looming threat of Maelys Blackfyre and the Nine.

Haggling for baser interest and other, distant dangers were worth more than justice, Rhaella thought bitterly. 

When her brother rose from his seat, he gave her a fleeting glance, face unreadable. It wasn’t as cold as before, making Rhaella happier than she should have been.

Her mother then invited her to give alms and food to the poor and the orphanages and the motherhouses, but Rhaella declined. All she wanted to do was lie down, close her eyes, and forget what she had seen today.

Later, her wheelhouse on the road back to the Red Keep was deathly silent.

“Death is such an ugly thing,” Rhaella said at last, “isn’t it?” 

Ser Gerold stirred from his seat. “Ugly but necessary, princess. Few men would ever follow laws if there were no crown to enforce them.”

Her eyes flickered to the Lyseni maiden, who looked lost deep in thought.

“Melony?”

“Pardon me, princess,” she said, rubbing her temples.

Rhaella frowned. “You’ve scarcely eaten in the last two days. And your mind seems to be elsewhere.”

That only earned her an apologetic smile. Even so, the maiden’s eyes looked… lost. “My sleep is uneasy as of late, and my dreams are filled with death and screams and green fire.”

Her skin crawled. She opened her mouth, but her throat already felt dry. “Wildfire?”

Melony’s eyes flickered with something dark. For a moment so brief that Rhaella might have imagined things, they looked ruby-red, and she reared away. Upon a closer look, her eyes were cerulean blue.

“Perhaps,” Melony whispered, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s just dreams, though. I often dream of fire, princess, and you should not pay it much heed. We can pray together on it, if you wish.”

“If I were eager to pray, I would join my mother in the Great Sept.” Rhaella merely closed her eyes, allowing her mind to sink into Vhagar, bringing another offering of flesh and blood to her weirwood. 

Melony still unnerved her. Not only because of the sorcery she might keep hidden. The girl was like a Qartheen puzzle, confusing and contradictory on equal measure. Some days she was kind and sweet and helpful, while others she was coy and indulgent with a whiff of mockery as if the whole world was an amusing mummer’s play. Rarely, a different mask slipped on her face, one of distant coldness and piousness. 

Which one was the real Melony?  

The princess couldn’t tell, and it vexed her to no end. But then again, she was vexed by her own kinsmen, by the uncertainty hanging on the horizon and the coming of the royal tourney. That and the desire to send her ‘fostering’ into Sunspear. A betrothal in all but name. Perhaps it was not a terrible idea. Wed Doran Martell, get an heir and kill him in an accident—an easy feat for a skinchanger—and rule over Dorne.

Yet something deep down in her felt revolted by the very idea. It felt very much like a defeat. Loreza was her friend, even though she had spent the last few weeks bending Rhaella’s ear with talk of the splendour of the Water Gardens and the wonders of the Shadow City.

Her grandsire had made no mention of Summerhall, but she knew he had yet to give up on hatching eggs, so that danger hung over the head of House Targaryen like a headsman’s axe. Perhaps wildfire would not burn through the royal family and their closest of kin so cruelly this time. And yet… a sense of danger was prickling at the back of her mind, something she knew that could not be ignored.

“Those with the Greensight possess the strongest sense of premonition,” Whitedream had told her once.

How could she ever guard against something she could not see coming? How could she prevent the unknown?

Rhaella wished for her teacher’s aid now more than ever, but she knew that even if he were not in deep slumber, Whitedream would simply tell her, “Rely on her own skills to overcome adversity.”

Later that night, sleep did not come easily, and Rhaella spun in her feathered bed for hours, wide-awake, much to the chagrin of Joanna.

The Wandering Bastard

The sun dipped into the horizon, bleeding crimson into the cloudy sky and the lashing waters. A deep voice echoed over the sound of waves clashing. It was raw and beautiful, but it brought Jon no joy. He could not sense a thing from the dark water, even though he had seen plenty of fish leap and jump over. Perhaps he had no connection to the sea.

It was easy for his mind to wander in a vast expanse with blue stretching in every direction. He would think of Bloodraven… not the old man bleeding out in his hands, but the mentor who kept him sane and taught him far more than he should have. His thoughts even drifted to Briar and her little shadowcat. But by now, the shadowcat would have grown into a lean and dangerous beast, and Briar would have little to fear.

Even Nala appeared in his mind, with her soft smile and wide silvery eyes. Jon preferred not to think of her or her ilk. Just as he preferred not to think of the future that would no longer be. Yet the loss of his kin lingered in his mind still.

“Never thought I’d go raidin’ so quickly. It will be glorious, har!”

“I’m not going raiding,” Jon said with a patience he no longer felt. “And there’s no glory in terrorising hapless smallfolk, nor any great purpose.” 

The words felt hollow in his ears. The North had been nearly scoured clean by Ironmen, the Lannisters had plundered and burned through the Riverlands far more than any wildlings could ever do, and they had called it war. 

“Then what are we doing in the Great Bay?”

“Stop whinging and keep rowing with me,” Jon bit back, whacking his newest companion over the shoulder with his makeshift paddle. “And you can always return to wherever you came from if you wish.”

Tormund just shrugged his shoulders, stabbing his own paddle back into the cold waters of the Bay of Ice. “Me old man is already dead. And well… you stole the bear I was trackin’.” 

Jon let out a snort. “Stole?” He glanced at the crude white bearskin cloak draped over Tormund’s shoulder with exasperation. “Suppose I stole it, then.”

“My brother, Torleg,” Tormund smacked his lips in displeasure, “can’t stop bragging about the bronze helmet he brought last time he went raiding. But I wasn’t fooled! It was clearly a soup bowl o’ copper strapped with leather too large to fit over his tiny pate. I’ll steal a helmet o’ true bronze and show him…”

The bastard merely shook his head as his newest companion continued chattering at length, far more wordy than his older counterpart. His voice wavered between boy and man, rough one moment and cracking the next, as if it couldn’t quite decide which it wanted to be. Jon welcomed it regardless. The presence of another that was not a beast soothed his mind… even with all the loud clamour that a young Tormund was. Wildling to the bone he might be, but the young Tormund was as loyal as the old one, and that meant something.

The Seven Kingdoms scarcely thought the wildlings human, and they were often right. But as the subjects of the Iron Throne could be liars, cheats, oathbreakers, and murderers, so could wildlings have a strange sort of honour. 

“We should’a climbed the Wall,” his young companion was complaining again. “My ma always said real raiders climb it both ways, with a maiden over the shoulder on their way back.”

Jon’s mouth twitched. “We can still row back, and you can make the climb you wish.”

“Perhaps next time,” Tormund murmured.

His thoughts drifted to the Wall, the great expanse of ice and dirt he would have once sworn to protect. Even now, when he glanced eastward, he could see it glimmering in orange and grey like some dirty gemstone in the dying sun. Jon had been eager to make the climb, but his body would not let him. Not for the lack of strength, but something in the Wall itself did not let him draw nearer, let alone touch the ice. 

It was as if the air itself had thickened the moment he neared it, growing even thicker than water at a yard and as solid as steel at a foot’s length, rejecting his existence.

In the Watch, the black brothers said the Wall protects itself. Jon knew it to be true when great shards of ice had tumbled down, burying many a wildling raider in the Battle of Castle Black more than once.

And now, the Wall deemed him a threat enough not to let him pass.

It stung more than Jon would like to admit. Perhaps there had been some truth in the words of the Dreaming Eye.

It was why he had spent over four days assembling this makeshift raft of undressed pine, a feat only possible with the aid of Dark Sister. It had been hard to chop down trees with a sword at first, but by the second day, he had gotten the hang of it.

His mouth twitched at the memory—many would be outraged to see Valyrian steel used for such a baser purpose. But if he wanted to return to the Seven Kingdoms, he had no choice but to row so deep into the Bay of Ice to bypass the protections of the Wall that seemed to extend far more to the side than they did to the front. The raft was nothing more than eleven logs tightly tied together with sinew and crude hemp ropes. Two short stubs were tied as makeshift seats for them, and in the middle, all of his supplies and trophies of fur lay over a small platform of straw and wood.

As the last embers of daylight were dwindling, Tormund ceased his chattering, and a look of concern came to his face.  

“How will we tell the way in the dark?”

“Don’t fret your head over it,” Jon said slowly. “We won’t get lost.” 

Not with an owl’s sharp eyes in the sky, guiding his way in the dark. Jon had severed his thread with the snow eagle once the white bird had found itself a mate. It was the first beast he had let loose without slaying it, though he had only dared to do so after making sure its emotions hadn’t bled into his mind.

A pair of dark eyes squinted at him, laden with suspicion. “So you have eyes in the sky? I knew it!”

Jon said nothing. There was nothing to explain; the presence of an untamable beast like a direwolf by his side spoke louder of his talents than any excuse he could ever offer. Perhaps that was why Mance and the rest had been so wary of him back then. That and his father being the Lord of Winterfell. But Eddard Stark was yet to be born now.

Darkness loomed over them for hours, and the nightly chill even quieted Tormund for once, forcing him to huddle into his bearskin cloak and pull the hems tighter. Soon, the only sound was the beating of the waves and their laboured breathing as they rowed and rowed. The moon rose and fell off, disappearing over the Frostfangs’s jutting form, and even his arms started to burn from the endless rowing. The sea was trying to pull them deeper, cast them further west, but Jon would not have it.

But exhaustion seeped in, and he felt his eyelids drooping. But he couldn’t. A glance through the grey owl’s eyes saw sharp, triangular fins circling around his boat from above. Sharks. And his mind finally felt something in the water, and knew it wasn’t the sharks when all his hair stood on end. It was vast and cold, dark and malicious, looming in the depths further west. It made him feel small, like an ant before a mammoth. A deep-sea behemoth, perhaps, or a kraken. The only reason it had not come closer… was perhaps that the waters were too shallow. 

It prickled at his mind and kept Jon wide awake, no matter how weary his limbs grew.

Even Tormund had felt something, his eyes wide in alert as he glanced about the darkness. “What is it?”

“Trouble,” Jon said. “Give me some pemmican.”

Wordlessly, the boy gave him a pouch, and Jon undid the straps, broke a chunk, and tossed it into the waves.

“Why’d you do that for?!”

“Quiet,” Jon said coldly. For good or ill, Tormund swallowed his retort, glaring at the water as if it had stolen his hard-made ration.

Meanwhile, the bastard drained his mind of all emotion, casting out his awareness. He saw them first, a band of vicious fins streaking through the waves to race for the morsel of fat and meat. His mind felt no presence, but Bloodraven had taught him a trick around that, too. 

Like a blanket, he sank his awareness into the waves right where the fins had clustered, and he finally felt them. Cold and hungry and oily. 

They were slow to obey, trying to gnaw at his mind and awareness through the thread. Jon let out a cold snort, slamming everything he had into them. That slowed them down for a heartbeat. He did it again, and again, and again, until all signs of malice were beaten out of them. Most straight out fled, tearing away from his control, but by the end, he had reined in six of the sharks.

Before long, they were pushing his raft back to the shore with their snouts, tails tirelessly whipping underwater.

“What the fock?” Tormund shrieked the moment the speed of their raft shifted.

“Rest for now,” Jon ground out through gritted teeth. “I have it under control.” 

But it was not nearly as easy as he made it sound. Forcing beasts to do something they disliked may result in consequences they could not afford in open water.

It was the crack of dawn by the time they neared a rocky shore. Two more of the sharks had torn from his grasp, leaving him with four. 

“Get up,” Jon said warily, poking the snoring Tormund in the ribs with the butt of his paddle. 

“Wuzzat?” he let out a loud yawn. “We there yet?”

“Aye.” The bastard cast the paddles aside, his fingers clenching around Dark Sister’s hilt. “We’re in the North proper.”

His mind ached with the exertion, and so did his body, and he could taste iron on his tongue. Two more of the sharks tore away from his control, whipping back into the depths as if scared, and even the remaining two stirred against him with renewed vigour once he forced them into the shallows. But the dark, rippled blade already slashed at them, and crimson bloomed amidst the waves.

Shadow was already waiting by the shoreside, his black tail wagging eagerly. It had been easy for him to sneak through the Gorge beneath the Bridge of Skulls—whatever halted Jon’s passage in the North by land did nothing to stop the direwolf.

As if reading his mind, Shadow was already in the water, dragging out one of the slain sharks by the tail.

“Skin and fillet the beasts,” Jon commanded, stepping into the shallow waters. His feet felt stiff from hours of sitting in one position, but he was too tired to care.

Tormund wiped the drool from his mouth and tore his gaze from the shark fins. “What’ll you do?”

“Rest,” Jon muttered, allowing himself to collapse on a tuft of grass up the shore.

For good or ill, nobody found them. No band of Black Brothers came riding from the Shadow Tower, and even the mountain clansmen would be busy sowing and working their fields and orchards at this time of the year. They had slipped into the North undetected.

Roasted shark tasted like ‘sweet hen’ according to Tormund, and Jon was inclined to agree. The next thing they did was push the raft back into the water and wrap Dark Sister’s hilt with strips of tanned leather to cover the gilded ruby.

Cautiously, they ventured deeper inland. For once, Jon was glad not to be alone, as a grumbling Tormund carried all of his supplies—minus the bows and the quivers that were strapped to his back.

“It’s so warm here.” Tormund’s eyes darted around as they eagerly drank in everything. “No wonder the kneelers grow so soft.”

“I’m not here to raid,” Jon said flatly. “You can go on your own, if you wish, but I shall have nothing to do with it.”

“You keep speaking like a kneeler.”

“For the hundredth time, I am a kneeler, Tormund. And I can make one out of you, too. There’s more to life than struggling in the cold wilderness and being proud of living in the whims of the wind.”

For once, the boy did not blurt out whatever was on his mind and instead glanced around warily, as if expecting a band of black brothers to jump out of the nearby rocks.

Then, he spoke in a small voice, “I heard the crows cut off our ears when they catch us on this side o’ the Wall. Maybe we should… just take a cow and go back.”

“And what shall you ever do with the cow?” Jon tilted his head. “Try and climb the Wall with it over your shoulder? You can always row back on the raft… or you can stay with me.”

Tormund hesitated for a long moment. 

“…I don’t know how to be a kneeler, Jon,” he murmured at last.

“Stay silent, observe, and learn.”

Tormund groaned, murmuring something suspiciously like “Pah, I hope we keep at least one ear,” under his nose. Eventually, he gave a tight nod, and they were soon on the move.

His companion looked like his name-day had come early at the sight of large herds of cows and aurochs grazing on the sloping green hills. Then, his expression wilted. “How’d they keep so many beasts at once?”

“Easily, when nobody dares to steal or kill them,” Jon said pointedly. “The shepherd must be near.”

Tormund just scrunched up his brow. 

Smiling, the bastard took out his knife. “Time to shave that peach-fuzz you call a beard and trim your hair short.”

“Peach fuzz?” he mouthed, blinking in confusion. “Pah. I’m not shaving me beard. It makes me look manly!” 

“Makes you look like a wild beast. A savage.”

“Are you going to trim that silvery mane of yours, then?”

When Jon nodded, Tormund’s shoulders slumped. Auburn fuzz was soon sheared clean, revealing a baby-like face underneath that had Jon stifling his laughter for a good hour. He himself shaved off his budding beard and felt better for it. A face that was halfway between sinister and handsome greeted him from the reflection of a nearby pond, and Jon nodded with satisfaction. That was good enough—wildlings did not go clean-shaven.

“Let’s go,” he urged, dragging away Tormund, who was still gawking at his own reflection in the water.

The boy was wide-eyed as they walked into the village, and Jon bargained with the alderman to exchange an elk fur, a bear hide, and the two fleshed shark hides for two older garrons that had at least two or three years left in them, a bag of hardtack, and salted fish. 

The crudely made saddles cost him three fox furs.

The moment they walked out of the village, Jon’s ears quickly grew numb under the assault of an array of eager questions.

“Why’d they trust you despite looking mighty frightened by your snow hair?” 

“How’d they even believe you’re a hunter who went Beyond the Wall for prey?”

“Why’d they have so few spears and bows?”

“Does every kneeler village know the secret of steel to boast so much iron and bronze?”

“How’d they work stone into the huts and roofs…”

It was the same childish curiosity that Bran and Arya had once possessed, and he couldn’t bring himself to begrudge the wildling boy for it. Jon answered each query little by little as best as he could. He told Tormund of the North and the Seven Kingdoms, of laws and customs, of lords and kings and smallfolk, and how the civilised world worked. 

“So…” Tormund rubbed his chin. “Even I can become a knight?”

“Aye. If you do a feat of valour worthy of it, you can become a knight. If the deed is grand enough, perhaps even a knight with land to his name, and if you merit climbs higher yet, even lordship would be possible. Why, interested in becoming a kneeler lord?”

Tormund’s brows were knitted together. “It doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Suppose I can make a passable knight out of you.” A smile crept to Jon’s face. “But you must first learn to ride that garron properly, then.”

*

Ten days of hard riding saw them pass through hills and fields and forests and the length of the Gift, though not without Tormund groaning about his aching arse and legs. “Stop whining like some maiden,” Jon said once his ears grew numb, and that quickly had his new ‘squire’ clench his jaw shut and endure any aches in silence. Shadow trailed in their wake but stayed out of sight and away from most roads, chasing after deer, rabbits, and even boars when he caught a scent of them. 

They met company on the road only twice. The first was a band of Norrey huntsmen from the hills, and the second was a wandering crow with his new recruits, all clasped in irons.

Both sides avoided them as if they were lepers after taking one glance at his face. Jon didn’t know whether to curse or be grateful for the peace. But it was certainly better than being mistaken for marauding wildlings or deserters.

“Must we go to the crows?” Tormund murmured, glancing at the looming Wall before them with no small measure of wariness. “With gifts, too. Makes me feel like a deer walking into the wolf’s den.”

Jon’s lips quirked despite himself. “There’s a man I must meet in the Watch.”

Soon, Castle Black was finally in sight, growing closer by the minute. Tormund was wide-eyed, face filled with awe, even though there was nothing grand in the motley collection of towers and halls that looked more like an ugly blotch at the bottom of the dust-covered wall rather than a castle proper.

Tormund hesitated for a long moment, eyes darting back and forth from him to the castle.

“So, you know a crow?” he asked at last. 

Jon’s fingers found Dark Sister’s hilt, but it brought him no solace. For the Watch!

Castle Black was no longer his home. Perhaps it had never been, and it would never be. 

With a weary sigh, he rubbed his brow. “I thought I knew some, long time ago. Today… I come here to borrow some wisdom from an old man by the name of Aemon. Return a family relic while I’m at it, too.” 

Author’s Endnote: That chapter got me distracted more times than I could count.