16.Of Sunlight and Small Joys

259 AC, Castle Black

The Self-Exiled Prince 

Seated in a crude chair on the balcony, he basked in the thin Northern sun. 

Ravens croaked and cawed in a jarring symphony, but his ears had long grown used to the cacophony. Across the ledge, the yells of the drillmaster mingled with the clangour of steel and grunts of recruits and old rangers too bored to do anything but hone their skills. Once upon a time, that would have interested him a tad. Just enough to move to the ledge and observe, to appreciate the brutal simplicity of violence. No matter how clumsy or flowery the movements, there was something raw, something primal that made his heart beat faster and harder still to look away. 

“In every man hides a warrior and a killer,” his father had once said. Perhaps he was right. 

But Aemon had never been a man of the sword. Whatever warrior lay within him had hidden quite deeply. Ink and parchment had called to him more than steel and gallantry had, and even the grandest of views grew dull after seeing them a thousand times. The decades had seen much of his excitement wither. And the cold had long since frozen what remained.

Some days, he regretted leaving the warmth of the south, the thin garments of fine fabric and the wide, open rooms and lush expanse of verdant woodland and fields of gold sprawled across the Crownlands. A maester he might have been, but with a king for a father, he did not suffer much hardship. His mind recalled even the damp, dark halls of Dragonstone and the stench of brimstone and salt with fondness. Gods, how he missed the times when the wind itself could be warm. Not this day, though. 

‘Look how far you’ve fallen,’ he told himself. ‘A mere hour or two of blue sky and sunlight makes you happier than a drunken bard.’

Or perhaps… he had risen high instead. It was those far in the warm south who had no appreciation for the sun. The minds of men were mercurial, he reflected. Why had the gods fashioned men with minds that failed to appreciate a thing until they lost it? Or until they fought a bloody struggle to gain it. 

Boots echoed on the stone stairs behind him, growing louder and louder. It was a familiar sound, with a slight pause on every second step, betraying a slight limp. Aemon made no motion to turn. He knew that limp, the leg, and the man it belonged to—he had been the one to salvage it from what could have been an excision two decades past. 

“Lord Commander,” he said slowly. 

Andrick Royce let out a long, weary sigh. “Prince Aemon.”

“Not a prince. I swore off any names and titles that came along twice to avoid it.” Much to the disappointment of others. It was a small mercy that Ser Andrick only spoke of this in private. “I would have thought you’d have given up by now.”

“I have,” the Lord Commander rasped, face solemn. “The Warrior is my witness, I have. You were clever enough to strangle each chance, each possibility, before they ever ripened. And yet Prince Aegon—”

“His Grace Aegon,” Aemon reminded sharply. “The Fifth of His Name.”

The Lord Commander paused by his side, still a strong and tall man in his seventh decade. Thick grey hair framing a weathered face, brow heavy with worry. “His Grace Aegon is leading the realm to ruin, as many of us feared back then. Perhaps slowly at first, but the cracks in his reign have long deepened.” 

“Perhaps. And only the gods would know if I would have ruled for the better or for the worse. Or if any expressed desire for the Throne would have plunged the realm into a sea of blood and misery. It would have turned brother against brother, perhaps uncle against nephew, and for what?”

“You are a man of wisdom and learning, not some fool who consorts with peasants and smallfolk and discards his staunchest allies when convenient—”

“Enough.” Aemon turned to look at his former sworn shield. “Over two decades have passed, and you still have not let go of the folly in your heart. Not truly. The Watch takes no part, and you should know this, Lord Commander.”

Andrick ground his teeth, stubbornly holding his gaze.

“It would be easier to let go if the kingdom weren’t pushed into ruin. The Watch is no better. The order slowly dwindles as each year we get fewer and fewer recruits, and it eats me on the inside, Aemon. I have seen it with my own eyes how the rangings dwindle in size and number because we do not have the men for it. Just last month, we abandoned Deep Lake. After their commander died, only an old cook, a steward too frail to ride, and a handful of old rangers remained—far from enough to see the castle running. This is the second castle abandoned under my command. No other Lord Commander has lost as many castles as I have, nor so swiftly…”

‘Egg, dear Egg. You were too hasty, too eager, and now you cornered yourself.’

Aemon gave him a wan smile. “Whatever rises must fall. The ebb and flow of all things is inevitable. Perhaps the Watch shall be reborn once the realm has a true need of it again. Perhaps it would wither in the annals of history regardless of our efforts. It is out of our hands. Some men will never be content, Andrick. The sin of temptation lies within all of us, and it’s easy to falter. It’s easy to forget yourself in pursuit of gold and glory, of wealth and beauty, or the pursuit of the more and the better, forgetting to cherish what you already have.”

Andrick closed his eyes for a moment. “And it is this wisdom that would have made you a king greater than most.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I can see things clearer than most because I am far away, untainted and untempted by honours and worldly possessions, far away from the Game of Thrones. For good or ill, I doubt that it would have remained the same if I had chosen to take on a crown. Let me pose you a question. Who is the poor man? A tired old peasant who feels blessed for an hour of sunlight, or a lord born and raised to wealth and grandeur, wishing to see his house climb higher?”

“The peasant,” Andrick said without hesitation. “Any man would be blessed to be born an heir of a castle. The bigger the better.”

The sun hid behind a grey, jagged claw, and Aemon felt a pang at the loss of the pleasant warmth as the crisp chill rushed to take its place.

He slid his hands deeper into his sleeves to shield his digits from the cold. “Harren the Black thought much of the same thing, undoubtedly. He ushered in the greatest castle in Westeros at the cost of the suffering and lives of many. It did not make him invincible and brought him even less joy or blessing. But I do not believe you’re here to chat with an old friend. How may I serve, Lord Commander?” 

Andrick’s face curdled, and his jaw clenched tight. 

“The guest still insists on meeting with you,” he said curtly. “I don’t like him. He brought us half a stone of cold meat as a tithe, aye. Just enough food so we can’t turn him away, and not too much to raise a brow for a man with a squire. It only makes me more suspicious.”

“Still hasn’t given up after a fortnight?” 

“The bastard is persistent. He’s no wildling as I feared—he knows things about Winterfell, Wintertown, and the surroundings in intimate detail that no wildling could. His shadowcat fur cloak is of fine make that only master tanners can match. He knows heraldry and history better than most men of noble birth. And yet his squire, the supposed Skagosi boy, fights like a savage, but so do the Skagosi. It’s the man that worries me, with those crimson eyes, deathly pale skin, and snowy hair…”

“He looks like my great uncle writ young,” Aemon murmured, “while claiming to be fathered by a Stark. An ambiguous claim that cannot be proven or disproven either way. As for his squire… well, that cold, dreary rock of an island produces men who are half-savage at best.” Or more savage than most wildlings when provoked.

Andrick eased himself into a chair beside him. “I’m not blind, Aemon. The bastard carries himself with the tutoring of a noble-born, but with none of the pride or arrogance. Good, polished courtesy, but bearing that is neither humble nor servile. His eyes are razor-sharp, his gaze edged with that authority I’ve seen in commanders and captains, yet he surrenders nothing. No anger, no disappointment, no irritation—never a hint of emotion, even when he gets trounced by a veteran ranger. He just gets up and tries again. It’s like that face is carved from ice. His gait is as graceful as a shadow-cat. Gods be good, he unnerves me more than Bloodraven ever did. Something about him makes my skin crawl. Fuck.”

The maester rubbed his sparse stubble. A Stark bastard seeking out a maester-prince in self-exile.

Was it true… or was it false?

But Winterfell did not concern itself with the crown or royal affairs. The wolves of the North loved their cold and ice and snow too much for it. Unlike most of the realm, the North had fondness, if not love, for his elder brother. A Stark bastard. Supposedly. Perhaps not someone to solicit a former prince’s favour or try to drag him into the Great Game for his own ends. It had been near a decade since the last such visitor had come.

“What has he done while waiting?” Aemon asked instead. 

The Lord Commander let out a snort. “You would know if you peeked past your shutter or over the ledge.”

“That’s precisely why I didn’t.”

Royce made a face and muttered something suspiciously sounding like ‘too clever for his own good’.

“Beyond his refusal to speak with anyone but you… he’s been challenging my rangers,” he said at last. “Each and every one of them. Victory or defeat, it didn’t matter. Tirelessly, he’s eager to fight each man who could swing a sword here. He’s using my men as a bloody whetstone.”

Judging by the irritation slipping from Andrick’s tone, Jon Snow was winning far more than he had lost. It would explain why so many veterans and recruits were sporting so many bruises, coming to him for treatment and soothing salves. More than usual, that was.

“Perhaps it’s time I sent Bloodraven the younger and his savage squire away. Guests they might be, but my damn steward won’t stop whinging how they’re eating enough food for two, some days three men each.” 

“Not yet.” Aemon rose from his chair. “Seeing this Jon Snow wouldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

“Aemon—”

“Come now. It’s been decades since Aemon Targaryen mattered. The realm has forgotten the bookish prince who fled to the edge of the world. Even the most ambitious lords unhappy with the Iron Throne would rather seek a Blackfyre than a prince twice fled. It’s been near a decade since my royal brother last wrote to me. And if this bastard’s my granduncle’s son, I must still meet him.”

Perhaps it was a whim, an old itch, but Aemon found himself atop the Wall for the first time in years. The clouds had dispersed, the winds had died down, and the sunlit rampart was more pleasant for it. Threading through the crushed stones was half a pleasure even, and his ankles did not groan in protest today.

Jon Snow had been reluctant to meet him here, but he had come regardless.

Something seemed to unnerve the bastard once they climbed atop the Wall. Still, he kept his composure, though his already pale complexion paled even further.

Despite the uneasy shuffling from one leg to the other, the first impression the maester had of his new visitor was… sharp. The same sharpness Valyrian steel boasted, and in a man who looked younger than twenty. And yet, none of it was aimed at Aemon. If anything, the newcomer was surprisingly polite and respectful—more so than most would be to a maester or a prince in self-exile. The crimson eyes were as unreadable as they were unnerving. Unnatural, some would call them, though those same souls would claim the purple eyes of Valyria much the same.

“I thought Commander Andrick would never allow the meeting,” Jon Snow said. His voice was quiet, calm, and with a faint Northern brogue Aemon would have missed without the countless days spent amongst Northmen.

He let out a long sigh. “Andrick Royce is a cautious man. Steadfast, and with no love for surprises.” A man better than most, a warrior of no small renown and commander of loyalty and enough charisma to rise to a Lord Commander. Egg needed such men under his service badly, the more the better, and yet… he had chosen self-exile with Aemon instead.

“I understand.” The bastard’s voice sharpened. “A Lord Commander must live and breathe caution. I know… my appearance here is suspect. And my colouring too.”

“Suspect is one way to say it,” Aemon let out a low laugh. “Some mistook you for the long-missing Lord Commander. Even though my vision isn’t what it once was, I can see the source of their confusion.”

The resemblance to Bloodraven was uncanny, though the bastard bore a faint scar on the face rather than a wine-stain birthmark. Everything else was the same—deathly pale skin, reddish eyes, and pale hair that looked like all colour had drained away, white as freshly fallen snow. Even the weirwood recurve, and the great bone warbow on his back were exactly as Aemon remembered…

The bastard’s eyes slid down the haunted forest, staring down the endless expanse of trees with something akin to longing. But the moment had passed, and an eerie, emotionless statue stood before him instead.

“Bloodraven trained me for a time.” His next words were too raw to be a lie or some made-up story. “He helped me at my lowest, and I owe him a great debt for it.”

Aemon’s heart skipped a beat. Was his grand uncle still alive? The implications…

“You have seen him recently, then?”

“…Somewhat. I held the old man as he breathed his last,” was the quiet reply. He lifted his gaze, and red eyes met purple. “It was the third day of this year. And aye. He deserted.”

Those two red eyes were crystal clear, untainted by deception. Aemon knew when men lied—and Jon Snow was not lying. Now, the presence of Bloodraven’s favourite bows made all the more sense.

“So even the mighty Lord Bloodraven has a time when he falters. In truth, we all thought him dead when he split from his ranging band to seek some old tale and never returned.” A thousand questions swirled in his mind, and yet, it no longer mattered. The realm had forgotten Brynden Rivers as surely as it had forgotten Prince Aemon the Maester, and even the most dogged justiciar would care little to pursue the law for a dead man. “How did he die?”

A shadow passed through Jon Snow’s face. “He found those old tales he was chasing… and he got too close, too involved. Trying too hard to save his foolish disciple.”

The bitterness there said more than words ever could. There was a caution there too, a wariness that did not belong to a face so young. Disciple. Why had Bloodraven taken a disciple, of all things?

A man who had ruled the realm for over a decade and had kept many ambitious lords through hook or crook had plenty of things he could teach, and each was more dangerous than the last. Dangerous to wield and dangerous to know about it. And the most dangerous of it all would be the old tales. And yet, Brynden Rivers had never taken squires, nor had he taken any apprentices, no matter what honours and wealth many had offered in return. 

Why now?

Was it some delving in the Higher Mysteries or…

Aemon knew better than to pry into the arcane. 

“What do you seek to accomplish by seeing me, Jon Snow?” he asked instead, not unkindly. 

“I…” The young bastard shuffled uneasily. “I’m not sure.”

A low laugh slipped from Aemon’s lips. “Think on it and tell me, then. I’m in no hurry—in fact, I’m quite enjoying the sun. Today is a splendid day.”

The bastard only pulled his hood tighter. “Gods,” he murmured. “I used to love the warmth of the sun. And yet what was once kind to my skin bites into it instead. It can even burn.”

‘Not born an albino, then,’ Aemon mused. “How peculiar. Bloodraven was much the same, always cloaking himself away from the light. Many wanted to serve and learn from him, yet he never taught them a single thing. Are you certain you’re not his son?”

“Dead certain,” the Bloodraven look-alike said with deathly calm. “My sire… was of Stark blood—or so the man who raised me claimed.” His voice cracked at the end. “But my kinsmen are long gone, and Brynden Rivers was the last thing I had resembling a family. Suppose I… I came here for advice.”

Resembling family? Aemon stifled a laugh. A sire with Stark blood… after thousands of years, at least half the North had, though said blood would be thinner than water.

Was this some plot by Bloodraven?

No, for all of his quite numerous faults, Brynden Rivers never turned his schemes against the House of the Dragon.

“I’m afraid my advice would not do you much good, Master Snow. I am merely a man like any other, with my fair share of mistakes and failures under my belt. But I’ve heard speaking your grievances and giving voice to your doubts can be a remedy of its own.”

That did not make the bastard open up, nor had Aemon expected it to work.

Instead, Jon Snow unstrapped the leather-wrapped hilt on his belt and offered it up. “I mean to return Dark Sister to House Targaryen. While the journey to King’s Landing is quite long, there is a son of the dragon here, who can be entrusted with the honour of wielding it.”

Curious. The bastard had managed to keep this sword’s presence a secret. The hilt and pommel’s wrapping was cleverly done, easily overlooked… if it were the real thing. The maester reached out, wrapping his fingers around the hilt. With a tug, the base of the blade was revealed and dark, smoky ripples glinted in the sunlight. 

He recognised the pattern well enough after seeing it hundreds of times. All his doubts drained away.

Aemon shook his head, sheathing the sword. “Keep it, Jon Snow. An old maester like me has no use for sharp swords, Valyrian steel or not. It has been away from the House of the Dragon for too long, yet my younger brother would be delighted to see the blade. Aegon is many things, but a miser is not one of them. Dark Sister’s return shall see you endowed with honours and royal favours, which will help you go far in King’s Landing should you wish.”

The red-eyed bastard hesitated for a long moment, neither strapping back the sword nor attempting to return it. “You would trust me with returning the sword so easily?”

“You wouldn’t have come to me if you meant to steal it away,” the maester hummed. Yet the young warrior remained as still as a statue. “You seem to have some apprehension about King’s Landing.”

Jon’s pale mouth twisted. “…Some of my kin met great tragedy there.”

“King’s Landing is the city where tragedies are born and made, so it’s wise to be cautious. And yet,” Aemon gave the bastard a reassuring smile, “you strike me as a young man with ambition, cunning, and no small skill at arms. With great danger comes opportunity. In King’s Landing, you can go far, rise high, and thrive… provided you have the right connections. I can ink you a letter of introduction to my royal brother. My word should still hold some weight down in the South. Not as much as I would hope, but it should get you further than just waltzing in to return Dark Sister.”

The bastard let out a long sigh and bowed. “I am honoured by your favour, Maester Aemon.”

“It’s nothing much,” Aemon said. “How far you can soar in that city depends not merely on your skills, but your allies and your backing.”

“Not much different than the rest of the kingdoms, then,” Jon said. His red eyes grew distant. “Maester Aemon, pardon my rudeness, but if I might ask…”

“You may, but I might not answer.”

“Do you regret joining the Night’s Watch?”

“You ask hard questions, Jon Snow.” Aemon Targaryen glanced at the blue sky. “Once… I might have hesitated to answer. Today, I have no regrets.”

Maester Aemon watched as the bastard excused himself and retreated towards the iron cage with haste, and shook his head. Ah, the impatience of youth.

‘Egg, oh Egg. I’m sending you a helper. Perhaps a sharp sword to wield or…” his gaze fell on the weirwood bow stave wrapped in fur, “a sharper arrow to aim at your foes. A promising talent with no prior loyalties that would be divided.’ 

But the Egg he remembered was not the same brother who had ruled the realm for two and a half decades. The crown was a heavy burden, twisting the thoughts of those who bore it. Would his brother be any different? Would Aegon the Unlikely see the opportunity or be blinded by the danger of the unknown? 

It mattered little, in the end. The Watch took no part, and what happened in King’s Landing… was too far, too unimportant compared to the sunlight dancing across his face. That alone made him joyous, happier than any fine wine or a grand castle could, and it was no small thing.

259 AC, The North

The Wandering Bastard

The Wall did not reject him as harshly as it had from the north, though he had climbed through the winch and the iron cage, directly stepping atop the icy ramparts, instead of attempting to climb from below. Standing there had made him uncomfortable all over, with his instincts telling him to run one moment and huddle down and hide in the next. It was a subtle feeling that could be suppressed for a while, but the longer he had stayed atop the Wall, the stronger it grew.

Strangely, the feeling somewhat abated once Maester Aemon began talking.

In the end, after the talk with Maester Aemon, he left at once. Worse, a single half-hour stay atop the Wall had left him feeling weak and skittish for a day, and it was only after a whole night of sleep that he felt better.  

Riding down the kingsroad felt like a dream even three days later. But the road, the moss-bound rocks by the side and the shrubbery and dewy grass were real, all too real. It was vague, but he remembered the scenery—nearly the same at places, overgrown or cut down at others. He remembered thinking he’d never return. In a way, it was true. He could never return to Winterfell and his kin. 

He did not know what he had expected from Maester Aemon. Perhaps if he had confessed everything…

But that was a fool’s hope. Jon knew better than most that his story beggared belief and then some. He himself would struggle to believe it if he hadn’t lived it. And the truth mattered little. His path was his alone to tread, wherever it led, and no sage advice would change that.

Still, the admittedly younger maester Aemon lacked the solemn grief Jon had remembered, and he felt… carefree. Detached. Yet to taste the bitterness of loss and powerlessness that came with it. It was then that he felt the true weight of the time. Four decades were enough for any soul to change. It was enough for a man to be born, have children, and even grandchildren and perish. In forty years, a dynasty could rise and fall. And yet the road beneath his feet felt much the same as it would in the future.

At least the letter of introduction was no small thing, and Aemon gave him a direction. Forging a name for himself in court was a fate better than most. He could become an outrider or wandering marksman, earning a name and a living in archery contests. But could he bring himself to serve the Mad King?

No, not the mad king—at least not yet. For now, it was Prince Aerys Targaryen, grandson of the king, while Aegon the Unlikely sat on the Iron Throne. But other opportunities drew nearer too. The War of the Ninepenny Kings would happen within a year or two. And with war came opportunity for plunder, glory… or even titles and lands. Of course, only a great feat could earn a man the right to rise to nobility and become the lord of a castle, no matter how small.

It would never be Winterfell, but lordship and a castle to call his own… Jon liked the sound of it—

“What’cha thinkin’?” Tormund’s voice came from his side.

Jon’s eyes drifted to the boy’s round face, and his mouth twitched. “Not much. Just wondering what happened to a certain someone boasting he’ll beat all the crow recruits senseless.”

“…I beat ‘em well enough. Most o’ the time,” his squire finished with a small voice. 

His eyes were blackened, and his cheeks were swollen and bruised purple—trophies from his bold, big boasts amongst Castle Black’s recruits. Perhaps misfortune had taken a shine to Tormund for once, for there were four newcomers coming from noble lineages and two clansmen, training since they could walk. Needless to say, they had not held back their blows, content to beat the boastful newcomer senseless.

“Yes, you beat them well enough,” Jon agreed with a low laugh. “A splendid display, I admit. I do recall someone puffing up proudly, loudly claiming he needed no kneeler training—”

“No, no, I’ll train proper ‘n listen.”

“Don’t forget to speak properly, too.”

Tormund made a face, grumbling under his nose. But the next time Jon started drilling him, he had no complaints.

Half a moon at Castle Black had opened the young Tormund’s eyes in more ways than one… at least after he was certain the black brothers wouldn’t cut off his ears. Jon had gained a lot with that trip, too, even without his brief talk with Maester Aemon. The training alone had seen his skills swell. It was easy to get lost in the heat of the spar, and fighting came easier to him, now that he had grown taller, stronger, and swifter. It was as Brynden had said—hunting had kept his senses and body sharp, and with a pair of eyes in the sky to study his every move, it was easy to correct any mistakes and bad habits.

He felt like a fool for swinging his sword for hours against a dummy before, thinking it would make him stronger. It was a good foundation in form and martial habit, aye, but a dummy would never move, dodge, or strike back. It would never push him to work harder, to fight better.

Seeing Castle Black again had been… like walking in a dream. An order that had forgotten its true purpose long ago. A band of men with no future and a meaningless past, set to live a life of cold and hardship until they perish and for what? Waiting for a foe that would never come? And yet… they had not known of the Others. The order would have never been ready to face the gathering darkness, not as it would be in forty years, not now, and perhaps not even at its full strength before the Conquest. 

And yet if he told any of it to any black brother or their commanders, they would all laugh in his face and call him a madman. Not even a year ago, Jon would have done the same. There was a purpose in duty itself, aye, but blind duty rang hollow, now that he knew more.

Perhaps the gods were laughing down at him and the Watch. Any sense of belonging to the order and lingering guilt quickly melted away. He owed this Night’s Watch nothing. For good or for ill, he felt nothing at all. 

On the fourth day, they had finally left the Gift, as evidenced by the abrupt end of the rising wave of wilderness. In its stead were green hillocks of roiling grass dotted with grazing sheep, twisting valleys and creaks and the occasional field where men and women toiled together for the sowing. Jon had seen such a sight far too often and paid it no heed, but Tormund gawked like a fool at each and every common thing.

“Why not have your wolf travel with us?” he asked later that night by the campfire.

Jon swallowed the mouthful of dried jerky. “It’s unwise to be seen with such a beast, not only because of the dislike of skinchangers. The direwolf holds a special meaning in the North. It’s the sigil of the Starks of Winterfell.”

And Shadow was far more pleasant to prowl through the woodland and run through the forests than pad along the road with the horses that quickly grew frightened. 

“But ye—”

“You,” Jon reminded sharply.

Tormund muttered something under his breath. “But you said you are o’ Stark blood.”

“I am, but I have no way to prove it. It’s better for a no-name stranger not to have a direwolf when the Lord of Winterfell lacks one. Just like the lords must never outshine their king, a bastard must not outdo the trueborn, and a peasant must not presume to stand amongst his betters. Such is the way of the world. Going against it is unwise, a risk not worth taking that might only bring forth endless trouble and little gain.”

It was a lesson Jon had learned quickly as a child. 

“What a load o’ horseshit,” Tormund snorted. “I’m no worse than some lord kneeler!”

Jon shook his head. Once, he had felt bitter about much the same. But no amount of resentment or bitterness would change the world for him.

“It’s not about being better or worse,” he said quietly. “In death and before the gods, all men are equal. But men are stronger when they work together. You need to look no further than the Night’s Watch and the wildlings. The so-called ‘free folk’ clans and tribes outnumber the crows manyfold, yet can never truly win. Blood, power, oaths, tradition, and law gave birth to the order of things and such hierarchy, making us stronger. Some have lesser roles, others greater, but for each man and woman, there is a place so long as they do their duty.”

His squire clenched his jaw, glaring at the crackling flame. “I don’t like it.”

Jon gave the boy a wry smile. “Liking it is of no matter. You need to understand it. Once you do, you can wield it to your advantage. If you desire to continue as Tormund the Wildling, we can turn around, and I shall send you to the other side of the Wall.” 

“Are you mad?” the boy sputtered. “It’s far warmer here. No bloody way I’m goin’ back to freeze my arse in search o’ food every day. I’m gonna be a knight—nay, a lord, you’ll see!”

Jon’s mouth twitched. 

He stood up, tossing him the crude wooden training sword he had made. “Come at me, then. Every knight and lord worth their salt must have swordskills to match.”

Tormund let out a groan, but his fingers curled around the crude handle.

The next morning, Jon spotted banners converging on Last Hearth’s junction down the road with his owl’s eyes. The sunburst of Karstark, the bull moose of Hornwood, the cropped well of Wells, and the pinecones of Liddle. But deep, dark rage roared inside him when he saw the next banner. Stitched in pink silk was the flayed man of Bolton.

He let the anger drain away, yet his fingers remained clenched around his reins. Damn it. Damn it all.

This Lord Bolton and his ilk were innocent of any wrongdoing, and yet…

Some rot must be cut out before it takes root—remember this well.

Bloodraven had the right of it. The only good Bolton was a dead Bolton.

“Why’re we turning this way?” Tormund asked.

“Lord Umber must be hosting a feast, I believe,” Jon said. “To draw so many lords… chances are it’s a nameday or a wedding.”

His squire scratched his nose. “Are feasts fun?”

Jon’s smile was all teeth. “Loads. We only need to find ourselves an invitation.”

Perhaps the gods decided to smile on him that way. As they lay wait (loitered) on the road to Last Hearth and retinues of clansmen rode past them, by late afternoon, a group of a greater clan paused. 

A deep, biting voice called from behind them.

“Oy, you there, the Bloodraven-fucker with the snow hair.”

To his side, Tormund stiffened on the saddle. 

Jon turned around to meet the narrowed gaze of a burly clansman with harsh blue eyes and a face more scarred than an old bootstrap, leading a band of eight clansmen, one of whom was a young boy Tormund’s age. Even without the three brown buckets on his padded coat, the broad shoulders, arms like tree trunks and the sloping brow were unmistakable. And Jon had seen this man before… albeit far older.

“How can I help a Wull of Stonegate Keep?”

A gloved finger stabbed at his bow. “Do you know how to use that, boy?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at Jon’s lips. “Better than an old thing like you.”

The Wull’s face darkened. “What did you say?”

“Oh, beg your pardon for my insolence.” Jon dipped into an exaggerated bow. “Perhaps I’ll help you wash your ears too, once I’ve bested you in marksmanship, you old bucket.”

Author’s Endnote: Kind of got carried away in Aemon’s PoV. But this is the final conclusion of the Night’s Watch plot and all it entails. It was fun to imagine what he would be like if he were four decades younger. Jon learns that some things have to be done by himself. We have a minor plot in the North, and King Aegon’s nameday tourney also draws nearer.

The Wall’s rejection of Jon has stages, and in the end, he’s not an entirely ‘magical’ creature, allowing him to climb to the very top with the winch cage.