Jon sat mounted on top of a good horse as the head rider in his contingent of rangers. This was not a trip he thought he would be taking, he mused to himself as he waited for the gate to be raised. Since he rode his way into the Watch, he never thought he'd somehow find a way to ride out of these gates once more. The only gates he had grown familiar with were the ones at the opposite end that opened up into the true north, yet that was a journey for another time.
He glanced backward as his horse dug its cloven hooves into the snow-packed ground, searching for grass. His contingent of men was over twenty riders strong. Twenty-five well-trained black brothers, in gambesons, chainmail, and steel breastplates hidden underneath the black cloak that covered most parts of their bodies. Twenty-four of the men were hardened rangers, men who had survived the Great Ranging, who had fought on the walls of the Free Folk settlement.
These were men who had stared into the jaws of death, killed wights, and survived the encounter with the Other, each of them with more experience than him. Yet his feat at the walls of the Free Folk settlement, his assistance in capturing the mutineers, as well as the great white beast at his side, had culminated in him taking the leading role.
Everyone knew Qhorin favoured him. There were even rumors that the Lord Commander was grooming him to take on the role after him. The title was not one that could simply be passed on from one person to another, but as the previous Lord Commander had shown, it was a title whose passage could be influenced by the will of whoever the Lord Commander had been.
The gate creaked loudly as the ill-maintained hinges were pulled and drawn in a way that caused him to frown as he shifted his attention from the men behind him to the gate itself. The Watch was experiencing an overhaul. The little finances the Lord Commanders had been stocking up for centuries had been broken open by Qhorin, and the emergency funds gotten from that act had been used to reinforce the Watch. New steel plates, reinforced gates, better manned barracks, yet it was not enough.
The Watch was like a great beast that had been starved for too long. To make it wake once more and to strengthen it enough for it to stand fully on its own legs would take more than what they had. It would take more men, more gold, and more steel, which was why Jon was leaving today at the crack of dawn, hoping to make good time.
"Snow."
Ulmer grunted out from his side. The older man had pulled his horse up to his side and was staring at him with a closed expression. Ulmer of the Kingswood was a far more experienced ranger than he was, with few in the Watch or the entire Castle Black his match, especially in archery. Yet the older man had been dispatched by Qhorin as his second. He had almost expected the greybeard to refuse in annoyance, yet when the announcement had been made, he simply shrugged his shoulders in agreement.
"Ulmer," Jon replied, trying to sound cool. The greybeard grinned in response before his eyes left Jon, to the red-eyed beast whose head reached the shoulder of his horse. A red-eyed wolf that stared at the older man with inhuman stillness. Ulmer lost his grin as he gestured behind them and to the cage that the other twenty-three men surrounded.
"Our cargo is secured, the gates are open, dawn's about to rise, and the snows are melting. Now's as good a time as ever to begin our journey. I assume you know our destination."
Jon considered the older man's words for a second. He could have claimed Winterfell. Nobody here knew enough to gainsay him, and while he knew that he longed to see the ancient seat of House Stark and his brothers and sisters there, to better comfort them after the loss of their father, he also understood that he was not simply the bastard son of Eddard Stark anymore. He was now a brother of the Watch. He thought back to the latest report that Qhorin and Maester Aemon had shared before he left the older man's study.
"I believe my brother is on his way to Riverrun. It would take us at least two weeks to get there if we're lucky. Longer if we're not."
The older man hummed in acceptance of his words before gesturing for Jon to take the lead. Jon took a deep breath before he dug his heel into the horse's flank, and the horse began to move. Their journey south had begun.
They rode throughout the day, past hamlets and villages that stared at them with suspicion. It was not often that this many black brothers rode south of the Wall, especially as heavily armed and armoured as they were. Black brothers south of the Wall usually meant either deserters or men who had been sent out to both recruit and transport prisoners who would start their time at the Wall. By the time night fell, they had made fair progress on their journey and came to a stop by the side of the road.
A fire was lit, and bedrolls were laid around it. Two men stood by the side of their cargo. It was a simple metal cage, its contents hidden by the tarp that covered it. Yet if you knew what to look and listen for, the contents of the cage were clear. The two men at its side had their hands on their sheathed daggers made of dragonglass. While the rest of the black brothers rested from the frantic pace, another two men were set on watch, scouting around them. Even though they were on the other side of the Wall, the lessons they had learned from the Great Ranging had been burned too deeply into them for them to not consider the fact that a wight or Other could be on this side. And if there weren't any, there was also the more human problem.
The continent was at war, and war was an opportunity that the less scrupulous were never one to let go of. War bred bandits and marauders, and the group of men did not suffer worse horrors only to have their throats slit while they slept by mere vagrants.
Jon sat alone, awake even though he should be asleep. Instead, he stared at the fire, but his eyes were not truly focused on it. Rather, his true attention was on the connection he had to his wolf. The great white beast skulked around the forest, its nose taking near-silent sniffs of the air before its head turned to the side. It took him an extra second, long after the beast had begun to quietly move through the forest once more, before he realized what the scent the wolf had picked up on was. Prey. A rabbit.
"Jon." A shake followed the call, snapping him out of the fugue he had been in.
He blinked watery eyes and looked up to the concerned features of Sam. The former noble looked at him with worry before he found a seat beside him by the fire.
"Are you alright, Jon? Could've sworn your eyes were white."
"I'm fine," Jon replied, ignoring the latter half of the question. Instead, he deflected. "What about you? I suppose you're happy at being sent to the Citadel. There would be lots of books for you to read, even more than Maester Aemon had in his library." Jon said in part jest and part relief, and his words worked by making the slightly less fat man smile.
"I almost can't believe it," Sam replied. "I suppose Aemon would've been the one to make the journey if he were not so old, but he is, and we need to know more about the Others, their wights, the horn of Joramun... Dracula and his castle." The last part was said in a tone so low, Jon barely heard it, yet it was said all the same.
Jon tried not to think of the pale-skinned, raven-haired man, if he was a man at all. More than most, Jon understood just how dangerous he had been. After all, Jon was the only black brother to have clashed against an Other and lived to tell it. The otherworldly strength of their slender frame. The speed they moved with, the durability of their armour, and the sharpness of their ice blades.
He felt a phantom pain both in his palm from when he had taken the blade he had used to stab the Other with, and in his ribs from where it had kicked him. The broken ribs were healed, as was his sprained back, but he could still remember how close to death he had been. Yet Dracula had dragged one after him in the same way one would drag along an annoying cat by the nape of its neck.
The less said of the creatures Hector and Isaac controlled and brought forth, the better. However, when taken together, alongside the threat the pale man had uttered, to slaughter just enough of the Watch that the sorcery that kept up the Wall still stood, but not enough for them to stop the Free Folk from crossing, the words sent a chill down their spine. Both of the knowledge that the Wall was partially powered by their oaths and the brothers, and also his ability to enforce that threat.
"Do you think he would do it? Do you think he can?" Sam asked, his voice low. Jon's reply was silence. It was not a question in truth. Sam was smart enough to know the answer even before the words left his lips.
"Anyway!" The slightly less chubby man clapped as he got to his feet, then grinned at Jon. "I'm sure he would not have to make do on it. Perhaps if Alliser had been the one voted Lord Commander, I would be more worried, but with Qhorin in charge, I think there is hope for us all yet."
"I think so too," Jon finally replied with a soft smile of his own, and Sam waved him goodbye before heading towards his bedroll, leaving Jon alone and awake as he once more stared into the fire, his eyes rolled into his head, turning white.
__
They had ridden past Winterfell a little over a week ago, and despite some of the less fond memories that Jon had of the place, majorly owing to a certain red-haired woman, he couldn't help but glance towards the road that would have taken him home. However, there was no time for that, not if he wanted to accomplish his mission. A mission that had been given to him by Qhorin, a mission that only he would be able to deliver with better odds. He was to meet his brother and convince him to both support the Watch despite the war he was fighting and also allow the Free Folk north of the Wall.
Jon did not have much faith in himself, yet his connection to his brother could not be understated, and he knew that if he managed to get to him, he would be able to work something out. No, Jon's real worry lay in his brother's bannermen, their response and reaction. It was up to him to convince his brother and up to his brother to convince his bannermen. Luckily for him, the red-haired man was more charismatic than dour Jon had ever been.
They were days away from the Twins, where Ulmer had found out that the vast majority of the Northern armies were, alongside Robb and surprisingly his mother, Lady Catelyn. News filtered in from the few people still brave enough to ply the roads during wartime. Apparently, Lord Hoster was dead, the Northern alliance had grown cracks ever since his brother had broken his word and spurned the Frey lord to marry some unknown girl, and Robb had executed the Lord of the Karstarks. A house that was both bannerman and kin. A house stronger than most.
Jon wasn't sure about the wisdom in the most recent choices he heard his brother making. He was not sure how Robb's bannermen would take that, both breaking his promise and executing the leader of one of their most powerful houses in the midst of a war.
His true born brother was charismatic and had supposedly done well for himself in this war, yet Northmen were men of their word, and sacrificing an alliance simply to marry whoever he wished after promising marriage to another noble house, as well as executing Lord Karstark for reasons that Jon was not quite aware of either, it was so stupid Jon was surprised Lady Catelyn did not box his ears for that. Yet the fact that his brother had found his way to the Twins most likely meant that the loss of House Karstark had cut deep, and he was searching for a way to strengthen his forces once more with the aid of House Frey.
"It's getting dark, Snow. I say we make a stop here and rest. Won't want what happened a few days ago to repeat itself." Tristan, a former Vale knight, said to him from the back of his own horse. The dark-haired man had a gnarly scar that spread from his lips to his ears, courtesy of the woman he had tried to forcefully have his way with under the excuse of being drunk.
Jon looked around and agreed with the judgment call. A few days ago, they had ridden for longer than was necessary. That was after Jon heard the Lord Karstark had been executed, his army had pulled out of the war, and his brother was planning to leave Harrenhal. Riding as hard and as long as they had helped cut their journey down tremendously, but it had also seen them tired and weary, and just in time to be attacked by a group of bandits.
Former soldiers, armed, armoured, skilled, and disciplined enough that if Ghost had not spotted them on time, and if Ulmer had not managed to bury arrows into five of them before they had even gotten in range, the fight would've been more dangerous than it should've been.
Jon gave the signal and everyone dismounted. Two men took spots around the cage. Two men scouted, while the rest of the men hurriedly laid bedrolls after eating and rested. The sun was slowly dropping, so a fire was lit once more, and as he had done for the past few weeks, ever since the dream with the three-eyed raven, he stared into the fire. Focused on the flame, on that bond that he found attached to something prowling in the distance. His eyes rolled into his head, and his perspective shifted.
Colours dulled, yet every other thing sharpened. The ruffling of the wind upon his white coat. The mating cries of wetland insects, the calls of birds hidden in the trees, the cry of prey as they sensed a beast they did not know or understand prowling in their forest, and lastly, there was a scent in the air, a familiar scent, one that spoke of snow cakes and laughter.
Wolf and man were in accord. He sniffed the air, prowled left and right till he got a better whiff of the scent once more. It was being masked by smoke and burning wood. Red eyes narrowed, and muscles tensed as the wolf bounded off, moving through the forest like its namesake in the hunt for that scent.
They came to a stop at the edge of a clearing, and moving quietly and low, they made their way across the ground to the small campfire in the middle of two bedrolls and to the giant man with a burned face and heavy armour, his sword sheathed and to his side, while he slept. A boy... no. The wolf corrected man, as it sniffed the air. A girl sat tending to the fire. Her hair was cut short, her dressing was in tatters and rough, yet man could not mistake those features. That drab brown hair, the familiar grey eyes, button nose, and small lips.
The wolf took a step, then two and three before the girl finally realized that something had managed to sneak up on her. She took to her feet, arm reaching for her sword, hidden beneath her drab clothing. A sword man had given her. Then those eyes widened in surprise as she took in the wolf.
"Ghost?" Arya Stark called out, half in surprise and half in joy, and if the wolf could smile it would've.
A/N: Happy new year!!!!!