Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Corn!” the tawny-feathered creature croaked from its master’s shoulder unaware of the tension permeating the chamber. “Corn!” Its screech went unheeded as the men at the table remained in tense silence, staring at one another. The bird fluttered its dark plumage in irritation at being dismissed so easily.

“Benjen?” came a hopeful voice at long last. A second man started. He shook his head though.

“Were it Benjen, he would not have used the weapon on those men.” Eddard Stark leaned forth in his seat, bringing his hands together in a gesture which betrayed his worry.

“Very likely ‘tis not him,” Jeor Mormont said sympathetically, putting a hand on grieving father’s shoulder. Old wounds. “My men claim this one was a young sprig. Relied more on their surprise than his skill.”

The Lord of Winterfell sighed heavily. His son and heir remained in the same hunched-over position. He did peak though. “Is it possible for it to be some manner of misunderstanding? Might be the men simply mistook the weapon for Ice. Given such swords are a rarity beyond the Wall, surely the possibility cannot be overlooked.”

“If that is indeed Ice,” the lord said, dismissing the possibility that there had been some misunderstanding, “then this boy might know what became of my children. I should dearly like to see how he claims to have come by such a weapon.”

Rhaegar leaned back in his seat. “It cannot hurt to look into the matter.”

His own son shifted, looking just about ready to bust. Rhaegar inclined his head in invitation at the look the boy threw him. “One of the scouts might make use of Cratser’s accommodating nature. He is bound to know a thing or two .”

The Bear scratched his beard. “No easy task, Your Grace, getting Cratser to chat with us. You would not believe how firmly the man’s lips are sealed. Best we can do is capture this boy and ask him ourselves.”

His son offered a soft nod, more a sign of comprehension than agreement. Rhaegar did not intervene. Much as he would like to know who it was that carried the ancestral Stark greatsword around, chopping knights, he doubted it might bring him anything other than heartache.

“Still, it would be much easier to accomplish if we only knew where to find him. Under the cover of the dark, we could bear him away with ease.” It seemed the boy had attached himself to a cause. Rhaegar debated with himself the wisdom of allowing his heir to run off on a wild goose chase.

“Have this man of yours speak before us,” he said after a brief silence. “Whatever else he might offer, if we should hear it from him might be it would ease our predicament.” He was still waiting for something more tangible than a blade.

“King! King!” the crow cried, as though in agreement. He then proceeded to ask for corn. Jeor Mormont appeased his companion at long last. It pecked at the proffered nourishment with relish. At least the wild creature would not come unfulfilled from the meeting.

The Lord Commander called for the man who had clashed swords with the mysterious figure. The brother of the Watch, clad in black and sporting a sour expression, appeared, nevertheless, cowed  by the grand gathering of lofty titles. He bowed and awaited upon their questions, brow furrowed. The creases made him wonder whether there was something to hide.

“Clive,” the Lord Commander began, “you were the one who mentioned the Valyrian steel, were you not?”

“Yes, m’lord.” Expansive tough that response was, Clive would not get away with such. He was encouraged to elaborate in the firmest of terms. “Peck and I thought it were strange that a savage could cut through our men like that so we jumped at him. It were then that we saw the pommel of it. A great big wolf’s head was on it. I vow. Knew then that were the sword m’lord Stark was looking for.”

“And the man who wielded it, what can you tell us of him?” The crow cried impatiently for more corn.

“He were about this tall,” the man said drawing an invisible line near his shoulder. “Sword was bigger than him, it was. He swung it like a hammer rather than using the thing proper. Still hurt a fair few.”

“Did you chance to see his face?” Aegon requested. Whoever this young man was, Rhaegar feared he would not escape Aegon.

“Beg pardon, Y’er Grace. Couldn’t see a thing behind that fur scarps covering his face.” The Prince deflated. “Likely as not it were to stop of from seeing him too. Peck managed to wound his arm though. He would need it bandaged, I reckon.”

As far as Rhaegar could tell, such news heartened his son. “Wounded arm, you say. Good man. That should at least narrow the field.” Not by much, he found himself thinking. A flesh wound could be easily disguised. He held back his sigh and dismissed the man with a wave of the hand.

“That is nowhere near enough for us to identify him by. We will, for the time being, leave it be. My lord,” he addressed Rickard Stark, “I will let it be known that if captured the sword is to be returned to you.”

“But father, I am certain I could–“

“That is all I have to say upon this matter at the moment,” he interrupted, rising to his feet. The others followed his example, save for Lord Stark whose chair-bound form could not endure such strain. “Should fruitful change appear, we will continue discussions upon this.”

Eddard Stark requested private word as his own lord father was being helped away by the Lord Commander and Aegon, who had grown surprisingly close to the Old Wolf. “If you allowed, I would go after Ice myself, Your Majesty. Perhaps I would be able to find aught more about Lyanna and Benjen.”

Involuntarily he winced at her name. It still stung to hear it spoken. “Your brother already learned all that could be learned about them. It would be beyond cruel to get the hopes of Lord Stark up only to have them dashed. As far as we are concerned, their bodies fell into some ravine and became a feast for carrion.” It was the only explanation which accounted for the lengthy silence.  He pressed his forefinger to his temple.  The strong pulsation momentarily distracted him. “We shall regain the sword. That much I can vouch for.”

“You truly believe they are gone, Your Majesty?” He thought he heard surprise in those words. Rhaegar’s eyes snapped to Eddard Stark’s. “I had hoped, well, I had hoped much of these passing years were spent in hoping.” He knew precisely to what the man referred.

“I love your sister and she is the reason behind these actions of mine; but my choice has naught to do with hope.” The Northerner blinked slowly as though taking in the information. “She had like sentiment for me. Were she alive, she would have found a way to return to us.” Cursed day when he had agreed to return her to her kin. He ought to have kept her near. There was nothing he could do to change the past though. “I cannot stop you from hoping, ser, if that is your will, but I’ve the certainty of reunification.”

Lord Stark’s heir mulled over the words with that serious face of his suffering slight alteration. “I believe I shall keep to my hope. If this man carrying the presumed greatsword is caught, I expect my brother and I will be allowed to pose our questions.”

“I would insist upon it.” He might be able to reveal the burial place of brother and sister. They would at least be able to gather the bones and bear them homeward. His thoughts shifted to the empty urn near his own, dressed in gold and covered in jewels. He might not be able to bring all of her, but he suspected Lord Stark would be willing to part with some of her nevertheless. After all, she had not simply been a lover, she had been mother to his child. His unborn child. Why, oh why had she run off like that? The answer yet eluded him, after so many years.

“There is no more I wish to request,” Eddard murmured, apparently caught in his own thoughts. Rhaegar allowed his to be on his way.

He then reconquered the seat he had previously occupied. Head propped against his hand, he considered retreating for the day. His free hand rummaged through an inner pocket. Without looking he drew without a gilded miniature. He lifted it close to his face.

A maiden’s tame expression beamed up at him. His thumb brushed over the waxy protective layer with care. Forever young and radiant in his mind, Lyanna Stark seemed to beckon him from beyond her material prison. Yet still nowhere near as beautiful as he recalled.

The miniature disappeared within its place of origin. He could spend days staring at her face; no answer would come. The bitter sting of disappointment followed the thought. His thumb stroked over the surface. In truth he did not truly need her miniature. He recalled her very well without one, but Lord Stark had pressed it into his hand when Brandon finally wrote of his findings. It had remained with him from that day forth, ensconced within an inner pocket, far from prying eyes.

He took it out from time to time in order to indulge himself and whatever notion of closeness to Lord Stark he had.

But that was at an end and he had best make good on an earlier promise. Rhaegar stood, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. He moved towards the door with care, navigating through the cluttered chamber with the hope that he would not knock anything over.

His luck held out well enough. 

“Your Majesty.” He did not need to look to know that was Ser Darry. Arthur did not speak, He only raised one eyebrow.

“Darry.” Rhaegar considered the other knight. “Later, Dayne. I am afraid I’ve an appointment to keep.”

“For whom am I being thrown over?” his close friend chuckled good-natured in his acceptance of the postponement of their routine. That was the great thing about Dayne, he supposed; the man took everything in waves, never allowed his balance to be upset.

“If you must know, you must. ‘Tis Visenya I am going to see.” His daughter would be pleased with the attention. Rhaenys had been pestering him for days to put aside a few hours for his youngest child. He had agreed, after their last encounter to do so. Sometimes he wondered whose nature that girl had moulded her temper upon. She was obstinate in the extreme.

Nonetheless, all options unavailable to him, he had to honour the agreement. It was good of her to have asked in the first place. One tended to get so bogged down with matters of the realm that forgetting one was human at all became a common occurrence. There was solace in work, but there was greater solace in kin. And no matter how much he would like to completely forget his human nature, that could not be.

His steps echoed through the halls. The Wall presented certain advantages, he supposed. He could not recall when last it happened that he was so thoroughly lectured on shirking his duties. Likely during the days when his wife lived. He would have certainly never thought Rhaenys of all people capable of such passionate display. That just went to show how much he had missed, locked away in his solar and in his grief.

The chambers within which the women could be found were easily reached, if heavily guarded. Still, it did him good to see the men at arms taking their duties seriously. Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan greeted the approaching trio.

“At ease,” Rhaegar answered in kind.

He then stepped past them.

One could tell where Rhaenys was by when not a thing was out of place. In keeping with that characteristic, the table was full of knickknacks ordered by size and length. He doubted there was place for as much as a quill. His eldest daughter stood behind a tall chair, hands resting upon its back. His youngest had her head bent over a bit of parchment.

Rhaenys glanced up in time to see him bring a finger to his lips. Rhaegar tried his best to move silently and expediently, so as to not ruin the surprise. Thankfully, his eldest had kept in mind that he would need some sort of path cleared for him. She smiled and nodded her head. Or he imagined she smiled. It was difficult to tell.

“And what have we here?” he questioned softly, leaning over Visenya as well so he might see the result of her laborious attempts. Rows of neatly written text filled his vision. Visenya’s gasp sounded in his ears, followed by an exclamation of delight.

“Father!” Small hands tugged on his arm, her greeting joined with a light peck to his cheek. He returned the affectionate gesture, doubling the tithe, his lips falling first to her forehead, then to her cheek. “Rhaenys found these in the old library. She said we could exercise our hand.”

“I was rather hoping Visenya would. My hand is horrible. No need to butcher precious knowledge.” The eldest Princess patted her sister’s hair affectionately. “They are all very interesting ditties, I assure you, father. Might be you would like for me to read you one?”

“Another time.” She frowned. This he was close enough to catch. “Has your brother been by?”

“He has.” By the set of her jaw, he could tell she had a thing or two to say about that. “Visenya was quite pleased as he is the meekest lamb in her company. With me, well, he is a bush of prickly thorns.“

Visenya laughed sweetly. “Only because you always naysay him.”

“If he had a decent thought to spare you can be assured he would have my full support. He has taken it into his head that Lord Stark ancestral sword is in need of retrieving. I told him as kindly as I could that that was a matter for Lord Stark and his kin to see to. He refused to listen.”

“You know how he is,” Visenya tried to soothe her sister. “I reckon Ser Ned’s son will cure him of the notion though.”

Her sister looked horrified. She released a small groan. “My only fear is that they will come up with some scheme  involving acting on their own. Aegon is nowhere near as prudent as he should be and I vow one day he will suffer the effects of it.”

“I have already denied your brother’s request that he start anything of the sort. You should not worry overmuch. He will not deliberately seek trouble.”

Visenya wiggled her way out of the chair, landing down with an barely-perceivable wince. Her short legs carried her with as much speed as they could towards another table. She gathered from it something Rhaegar could not make out. “My brother is simply sympathetic to Lord Stark’s plight. I see no wrong in that.”

Rhaenys huffed but he thought he heard the beginning of pity in there. Unwilling to ask outright, he filed the bit of information away, with the intent of questioning his daughter later. Would she be willing to share her knowledge? “It is useless explaining it, but I feel it would be a grave mistake on his part to follow through with action in light of his sympathy. Ser Ned should be the one riding in search of this sword. Or whatever it is.”  

Seeing a chance to thwart a burgeoning disagreement, he intervened. “No one will be riding after the sword. Ser Ned has been denied as well. It is much too dangerous to follow a rumour. It could well be that the Wildlings set this as a trap.”

“They’ve the necessary materials to do so?” Suspicion crept into his eldest daughter’s voice. “Would it not be better then to use it for mass production? An army of Vlayrian blades—wielding savages is enough to give one reason for sleepless nights.”

While it was true that dragonglass could be found in various amounts beyond the Wall, fashioned in crude arrowheads and such, Rhaegar had yet to see any weapon coming close to those any of his knights wielded. And for some odd reason, Wildlings seemed to prefer other metals to the perfectly sharp Valyrian steel.  “I doubt they know how to fashion such a sword; but even if it were Ice, we know not in whose hands it has fallen. Should we find it among the bodies, it will be returned to Lord Stark, as is proper.”

“I do wish that we would find it. Robb was saying he’s always wished to see it.” He turned towards the source of the words. “It is not fair that he should be robbed of his right.”

“Indeed.” The agreement came from Rhaenys from whom Rhaegar was certain he was hearing worry. And his heart grew heavy as well. He could well envision what it was that loomed threateningly over his eldest daughter’s mind. “Well, we shall not worry over Robb Stark and his inheritance. As father said, if the sword is found it shall be returned to its rightful owner.”  

Rhaegar stood as Visenya approached. He picked her up with ease, settling her upon the chair. She was smiling, as though her mind were at ease. Were that his own might be so easily soothed. “I did not think any differently for even a moment,” she assured her sister, setting whatever it was that she had retrieved at her side. “There now, I do believe I will be able to finish this one by the end of the day.”

“There is no need to exert yourself,” he found himself saying.

“’Tis not as though I have much to do beside this,” Visenya answered. “Indeed, I find the exercise invigorating and if I grow tired I shall simply have my rest before continuing.”  

Chapter Text

"This is not a good plan." Quentyn Martell folded his arms over his chest, his doubtful expression amplifying the unspoken unease engendered by the revealing of his plan. Aegon frowned. "Craster could turn us away. In the event we aren't followed without the gates and dragged back in the first place."

"Which was why I said your brother could cover us in the first place." Even if they were not convinced if the effectiveness of the scheme, he only needed their agreement. "We are not going to engage the enemy; we're just scouting. I would not ask you, if it were not important." Turning the strength of his stare upon the easier-to-convince of those present, he insisted, "Ned, how would you feel if Dawn were stolen away by Gerold and taken the gods knew where?"

"That is beside the point, Your Grace." Edric's attempt continued.

"Luckily for you, Gerold is not smart enough to find his way out of a barrel, let alone steal Dawn," Robb pointed out. To his credit, he'd kept scrupulously quiet silent about the direction in which they should head.

Boisterous laughter from the others underscored their agreement. He joined them. Nevertheless, there was still no conclusion in sight. "Everyone is concentrated on the war effort. We can take care of the situation ourselves."

"It would still be considered desertion. Possibly treason," Trystane intervened. "His Majesty made himself fairly clear. Is the sword truly that important?"

"'Tis not even about the sword as much as it is about answers." His whole life he'd lived under the shadow of an incident which he'd neither witnessed nor could explain. "At the very least, we could have that."

"Just because you are close to the old codger doesn't mean the rest of us are equally interested in this frozen barren land." True enough. Aegon kept his gaze upon Quentyn. "In any event, uncle could grow angry should he learn of this. Not to mention my sister. Who is going to protect me against their wrath?"

"Presumably your own ingenuity will do the trick. I am going. It is up to you whether you follow or not." There was no reason in forcing their assent. The issue was that the fewer went the better. He might have even gone on his own had he thought it possible. Alas, one did not survive on one's own against the harsh winter.

"I'm with you," Robb nodded.

"Very well, I can see no amount of well-structured argumentation will change your mind. We shall need some sort of tale to bandy about." They would need slightly more than that. Yet for a beginning it was not half bad. Aegon nodded towards Ned. "Aunt might be willing to help me; as for the rest of you, I don't know that I can think of a single good excuse."

"I don't suppose you could present the idea to His Majesty again," Trystane sighed. "If this were court we could ride off on a hunt."

"Along with a hundred men or so. We could simply sneak away in the middle of the night. That, at least would require no explanation. There is, of course, a risk of being caught, but when isn't there?" Robb suggestion was met with much doubt. "We would need someone to open the gates"

"Tarly's son," Ned put forth. "That boy is easily enough led that he shouldn't cause trouble. And he'll keep silent."

"Which one is he?"

"Sam the Brave," mocked Trystane light-heartedly. "The one they were kicking towards midday. Apparently his own father threatened to take his throat if he didn't join the Watch. Alas, he is no more loved within these walls than he was within his father's. Ned is correct insofar that he would be easily convinced."

"I'll get Tarly," Trystane offered. "Since I've no intention of kicking about in the snow, I should at least make certain he doesn't betray us as soon as our backs are turned."

"Try not to frighten him out of his wits." Quentyn passed a sharp hunting knife into his brother's hands. "And put that in the bedchamber after you're done with it. Well, Ned, do you think you'll be joining us or would you rather find your way out of a barrel with my brother here?"

"Of course I'm coming. Can't let the lot of you gallop off like that and land into the gods know what manner of trouble. Which begs the question, who is bringing the horses?"

"I shall take care of the horses," Robb volunteered. "If anything, my presence in the stables will be expected." A good thing his uncle was so very fond of those creatures as to enable Robb with a perfect excuse. "Quent, come with?"

"Well ahead of you. I can probably hide some arrows with me, but they won't be many."

"Swords are far superior." A murmur of agreement came from his companions as Aegon took hold of the hilt of his weapon. "I could bring a few more, I reckon."

"I'll see that we don't go hungry for the first leg of the journey, shall I?" Ned asked. His suggestion was met with a demand for the finest food he could bring along, which only earned the lot of them a few curses. "I'll take what I can and not a thing more."

Before anyone could get another word in, a loud sound rang out. Trystane, who had been closest Robb, who was standing closest to the source and appeared indeed to have some suspicions regarding the whole incident, took a small step back. "Blasted gale must have knocked something over without."

Ned chuckled, apparently catching on. Though the sound carried a slight undertone of unease, he managed a slightly more believable reply. "Must have knocked a lot of somethings over if you ask me. And with such a temper it's little wonder."

The last word was scarcely out of the youth's mouth before Robb had twisted over a mound of hay, dragging out a screeching girl. To the best of Aegon's knowledge, maidens were kept far away from the training grounds. Then again, some women were simply not aware enough of their surroundings.

"A Dornishwoman. It would have to be a Dornishwoman," he muttered under his breath as Robb continued with his struggle against the flailing limbs of a kicking and squirming Dornishwoman, as he had so aptly described before. "Can't you keep your kin in check, Quent?"

"Have you ever tried reigning in a storm, Your Grace?" In spite of his words, he approached Robb and addressed his kin. "That is quite enough, Elia."

Elia Sand, somewhat infamous through no fault of her own, had never attracted Aegon's attention. Her dishevelled hair coupled with a wild look in her eyes was even less likely to endear her to him. Frowning, he addressed the now quiet intruder. "You do know spies have their tongues cut out, do you not?" She glared at him. Predictably enough, the attack fell flat. "I believe you can let go of her now, Robb."

She stumbled slightly when Robb released her only to be offered support by Quentyn. "You saw naught and heard naught. Is that clear?"

A huff came from her lips. "As if I care what you are up to." At least she would never be accused of lacking fire. Aegon grimaced to himself and raised a small prayer of gratitude to the gods that his sisters, at the very least, had a decent amount of diplomacy to navigate the word comfortably upon. That said, he would be relieved once the girl had taken her leave.

"Trystane, take her back to her chamber and see to it that she doesn't cause trouble." Trystane, apparently used to such requests, simply took Elia easily by the arm and led her away.

A small groan broke from Robb as soon as the two had disappeared from sight. "She bit me." He held his hand up. Certainly enough, indents decorated his flesh. More amusing, however, was the fact he'd waited until she was gone to express himself.

Ned must have found it equally entertaining as he began chuckling uninhibitedly. "Just be glad she didn't stab you. Their sire is not known as the Red Viper without reason." Old tales about men being poisoned; Aegon recalled the few variants he'd heard. None pleased him particularly well considering that kinship did not, at the end of the day, make much difference to someone willing to trick an honest opponent.

"We'd best be on our way before our plans are foiled." The general consensus seemed to be that it was a far better option to be as quick as they could about the whole of it, which was why he wasted no time in finding his way to the chamber he'd been given.

The only trouble was an exasperated sister awaiting his arrival. Rhaenys, much like their lesser Dornish kin, had a set way about her, though little of the abrasiveness of the other girl. "Where have you been? Visenya has been asking for you."

"Visenya is always asking for me. I cannot be at her beck and call, you know that." If he could manipulate the argument in his favour, he might get away without being questioned. "Whatever else you may think, Rhaenys, training is a serious matter. I cannot afford to drop everything whenever she pleases."

"Training? At this hour?" Her lips drew in a taut string. "It's dark without, brother."

"All the better. The battlefield is oft shrouded in smoke, is it not?" She paused, seemingly considering his words. "Was there anything you wished of me?"

"Only that you would keep your word and come dine with us." He'd forgotten all about that promise. In his excitement to find the blade, he had deliberately pushed back all prior engagements. "I can give you a little bit of time, but you must promise to hurry."

He contemplated excusing himself, but knowing Rhaenys she would simply needle until she had his agreement to come. "If you would be so kind then, I must ready myself." He pointed to the dirt stained tunic he wore. Nodding her understanding, Rhaenys fell straight into the trap, crudely laid as it had been. Aegon would have ventured a breath of relief only that he feared her superior hearing.

Thankfully for him, as good-of-hearing as Rhaenys was, she, not unlike most other members of their house, tended to put all of her eggs in the same basket. Even better, she never quite learned from past experiences which left her vulnerable to his machinations, seldom as they were. Unwilling to allow the opportunity to slip past, he set about collecting the items he knew would be needed of him. Two bastards swords and a longswords, plus the one he wore, should be enough. What he needed was something to cover them in and, possibly, enough patience to get the lot of them near the gate without being caught. Easier said than done, especially considering the fact they weighed somewhere just above his sister's weight. Rhaenys would murder him if she could read his thoughts.

With utmost stealth, he made his way through the corridors, mindful of the noise he made as he went by. As a general rule, however, the night saw most of the inhabitants sleeping. There were some guards, but given the relative ease with which they could push back against any Wildling attack, Aegon did not see that they'd be too alert.

Having arrived at a shadowed refuse consisting of an alcove, he paused, catching his breath.

Something pressed against his shoulder making him jump.

"No one could possibly sneak up on you, Your Grace."

"That is a dirty, rotten trick, Ned, and if I did not value your aid, I would gladly have your head." He slapped the other's hand away.

"You'd have to catch me first."

"Implying that you're some manner of threat will only borrow you more trouble."

Ned rolled his eyes and smacked his shoulder once more. "I am willing to make a bet of it."

"This is your best idea yet, Your Grace," Ned managed through clattering teeth. "This shall in no way end with us buried beneath mounds of snow."

"I wouldn't have thought a bit of cold so very difficult for you to handle," Aegon japed back. "You were doing just fine with those girl." An event widely recalled by all present, by the way they laughed; Aegon flashed Ned a taunting smile. "How about that race you promised?"

"Is Your Grace that desirous of a broken neck?" Quentyn grabbed him by the shoulder easily enough that his balance would not be upset. "It shall doubtlessly start snowing soon. We had best carry on or else find some shelter for the night."

"Ever the optimist." Aegon dismounted, not minding the way his boots sunk in the show. Despite its height, he could walk well enough to and fro. Quentyn had a point, though. "Best we find some shelter. Craster's keep would have to be reached on the morrow. Considering the speed with which the flakes came down, they would not manage to find their way about the dark woods.

"Has any of you considered that we might have had some use for Tarly's son beyond the opening of the gates?" Hindsight provided such easy solutions. Alas, none of them had considered the option of taking Sam the Brace along.

"Have you considered we'd be killing a poor beast?" Robb retorted. "The situation is not nearly s dire as you make it out to be. We simply have to wait until the morning comes and then all shall be easier."

"If we are not frozen to death beforehand." Ned dismounted as well. "And where precisely shall we take shelter?" They looked about but the thick darkness provided little answer. Their only viable option would be to clean a small patch and build a fire. If at all possible, they could huddle together, although the thought of being found frozen solid stuck to either of his companions did not inspire the warmest of feelings within his breast. Aegon muttered under his breath. "And you, Your Grace, are the last man who can complain. 'Twas your notion after all that saw us flung into this bitter night."

"Be grateful it's a light fall and not a storm." Robb pushed past Ned, grabbing hold of both the horses' reins. "We can rest anywhere. As far as I can tell, the snow will provide cushion enough. If you've nothing better to do, Ned, you might as well ration out the food. I'm starving."

"My gods, I never knew young wolves could be so very grouchy." Quentyn chuckled."Your Grace, I think we should do as he says."

"I never opposed him in the first place." Which was true enough. However, considering current tensions, Aegon only thought it proper to add, "Although one should certainly hope we do not lose our sensible nature."

"Some of us never had one to begin with." He could more or less feel the stare burning a hole in the back of his head. For which reason, Aegon promptly ignored it for a much more pressing issue.

"Do you hear that?" he questioned, shushing the one nearest him.

"This is not the time for jests," Quentyn reminded him.

"I am not in jest. Can you not hear it?" His insistence was met with a snort of disbelief until Robb stopped as well. "See? Robb hears it, do you not?" The only trouble was, however, that he was beginning to hear it as well. He paused in his teasing. "Robb?"

"There is something there." The urgent whisper sent a shiver down his spine. All of them froze in that moment. A crack split the silence. His hand instinctively felt for the hilt of his sword. Not a moment too early, as a figure broke out of the shadows, stumbling over a mound of snow.

"What is that?" Ned demanded as all of them stared at the slowly contorting body. Aegon flinched and jumped back. There was no longer a simply whisper, but rather a shrill cry. He drew out his sword and lunged for the fallen figure, bringing the steel down in a downward stroke.

It embedded into the flesh of whatever lied at his feet, only that he could feel little beyond the rock-solid mass keeping his weapon bound. Before he could figure out what exactly was going on a hand grabbed onto his cloak, dragging him towards the ground. An involuntary sound left his tightening throat.

Another blade came swinging down, cutting through the limb. To no avail, its inexorable pull never let up. "Your Grace, roll out of the way." Incidentally, that turned out to be great advice as a lumbering mountain of loosely-tied together limbs hurtled towards him. It turned out that being unprepared was not only detrimental to his health but dangerous to his life as well.

Someone grabbed hold of his hair, tugging with enough brutality that he feared he would not get away without a bald spot as reminder of this misadventure. He reached back to disengage the digits from his hair but all he managed to find was jagged bone. He still ripped it away. If he'd worried before, he was rather certain his hear would give out. Aegon swung his sword to the side, cutting through another attacker. The halves fell to the ground, advancing upon him still.

He kicked at the upper body crawling through the snow, managing to dislodge the head with the strength of his hit. Unfortunately not even that proved enough to put an end to the terror.

Their pursuers, however, had run out of good fortune. By a stroke of pure luck, the enemy was stumped not by the bravery of the companions willing to risk their lives in an attempt to retrieve a priceless heirloom, but rather by a well-placed torch to the head. The creatures burst into flame better than any kindling Aegon had ever seen.

To his credit, he managed to keep his wits about him long enough to recognise that rather than being saved, they were simply passed from one predator to another.

Another body rammed into his, sending him falling on his side. A sharp rock awaited to cushion his fall.

Chapter Text

Pain clung to him like a tightly wound cloak. Aegon considered moving higher upon the bed. He must have lost his pillow. But as soon as he made the slightest attempt the ache spread from the mist shrouding his head to a general blanket. Involuntarily he opened his eyes, half expecting to wake to a concerned servant. Yet when he managed to focus his vision well enough that no blur marred the sight, he saw the underside of a thatched roof along with a crude support beam meeting a time-weathered pillar. This was not his chamber.

He shot up, a flash of terror animating him better than any call to arms would have. Aegon took in his surroundings. The dirt floor beneath him along with a pile of discarded furs gave him further pause. He moved gingerly from one side to the other, wincing quietly at the anvil pounding along the back of his head. That seemed to be the origin point of all his troubles, after all. Grabbing hold of the fur covering him, Aegon dragged it away. His leg had been wrapped in cloth, much to his surprise. He did not recall injuring it.

Reaching out, he undid the bindings, uncovering whatever lied beneath the scrap of cloth. Disgust at the sight of half-closed wounds took over. The slash was long and deep enough that it merited its own bandaging, apparently. There were no scabs in sight for the wound presented a smooth surface, its colour a soft reddish-pink. He was willing to be that poking the thin veneer would result in gore rising to the surface. But how had he injured his leg? He recalled falling down, hitting his head. That would account for the pain lacerating his head. He needed his weapons in case those things returned. Or had he been captured?

Before he could find a defining answer to his question, the flap which served for a door to the cramped hovel was pushed back and a bent figure came in, bringing with it a few stray rays of sunshine. A woman, Aegon decided as soon as her face registered in his mind. She kept her gaze upon him. There was a familiar quality to her, but he could not quite put his finger on it. Her gaze moved to his leg and a gasp left her lips.

Without a word, she dropped the mounds of cloth she'd been holding before and scurried to his side, fingers taking hold of the gauze. "You were not supposed to undo this." He started at the sound of her voice, but even more at the fact she spoke the common tongue so well. He'd heard that some of the free folk managed to learn broken phrases, some could even hold small conversations, but this woman, he reckoned, was well beyond any of those stages.

"Where am I?" he demanded, gripping her by the wrist, stopping any movement on her part. Up close, he could tell she was well past the first flush of youth. Yet one could not call her old, nor ugly. There remained, however, a raw quality about her appearance and apparel which put her well beneath any court lady in beauty. "Where are my companions?"

"Without." She offered no reply to his earliest question. "The wound needs rebinding. It will grow putrid otherwise. That might kill you." He slowly let go of her wrist. "You are very fortunate you were brought here when you were."

"Have you any idea what happened to me and my party?" The woman shrugged. "Are they well?"

"As far as I could make out." She worked on his wound, rubbing some manner of salve she'd pulled from her apron into the abused flesh. The pungent smell filled his nostrils. She the set about wrapping the wound with great care. "I could bring you some broth."

His stomach rumbled at the mention of food. Aegon experienced a twinge of embarrassment which he buried beneath a wave of determination. "I would like to see my men first."

No sooner had he spoken that a second figure found its way within. This was no woman. A young warrior in rudimentary bronze plate shook off snow from his shoulders. He spoke in the old tongue to the woman and she answered in the same manner. Then she continued in the common tongue, ostensibly for his comfort, "It is rude to speak in a manner a guest might not understand."

The warrior scowled. There was a striking resemblance between the two. She must be his mother. "This is no guest but an inconvenience." The full heat of his glare was turned upon Aegon. A pang had his attention for a few moments. There was something about these two. "I can leave just as soon as you lead me to my men," he answered in a certain voice, setting his expression into a tight mien.

A sharp bark of laughter came from the warrior. "You barely survived the last you were on your own. I am not so cruel that I would send a man to his death."

"I do not see how that is any of your concern." What manner of trouble had he landed himself into this time around? Aegon turned to the woman whose expression was about as telling as a wall. "My gratitude for the care afforded me, but I must make certain my men are well."

She nodded and stood. "I shall bring you garments then. Pray wait a moment." He looked down at his own once she'd spoken. How had he not noted their state before?

The warrior allowed her to walk past and the shared a few words in their own tongue, but Aegon did understand one word. Jon. Since he did not expect woman were named Jon beyond the wall, he concluded it was the man's name. Jon stared a few moments at the woman as she went on her way, the flap falling over the entrance in her wake.

"How long have we been here?" he questioned, feeling more at ease pressing him for an answer.

Jon gave him a cold stare. "A few days. We thought you would never wake." He approached him and knelt, pulling out a small wineskin. "Drink." Instinctively, Aegon drew back. But the stranger insisted, pressing the object into his hands. "'Tis not royal fare but it should sustain you well enough."

"How do you know who I am?" Suspicion crept upon him even as he uncorked the wineskin. The distinctive smell of wine spread throughout the small space.

"Your men," Jon answered, "they are not very subtle. The sooner you regain your strength, the sooner you can be on your way."

He took a swing of the wine. It was poor quality to be certain and no stronger than the watered version women full of child were given. But it was still something. "My gratitude for the drink. As for leaving, I fear I cannot. There are yet matters which need my attention."

Jon shrugged and stood just as the woman returned. "These should fit you well," she said, offering an armful of garments to him. "My son will help you." Her son looked like he would help indeed; just not so much with the clothing as with the crossing to the afterlife.

"There is no need for that. I can manage on my own." There was no protest from her, just a small nod and a meaningful look slid to her son. With that, she departed once more saying something about broth.

Seeing little enough reason to hesitate, Aegon rose on unsteady feet and began removing his own garments. The cold of the North crept beneath his skin, stabbing him as a blade might. His teeth clattered as he pulled over his head the top piece he'd been offered. It was some sort of rough tunic, thick and scratchy even through the material of his undertunic. It would keep him from freezing, nevertheless, and he could live with that.

The breeches they gave him were tougher to handle than he'd anticipated, even as he was glad to see his own destroyed pair replaced. The boiled leather would keep him warm enough he reckoned, even if the wound in his leg expressed little enough gratitude at the tight embrace of the garment. With some effort, he managed to make himself decent by the time the woman returned with a bowl of broth. She indicated that he should seat himself amid the furs.

"I have spoken to the magnar and he allowed your men to come to you." She pulled a wooden spoon from her apron and put it in his hand.

"Magnar?" Aegon repeated.

"Aye, magnar," she repeated, a small smile appearing on her face. How strange it was that some people were transformed completely by such a small gesture. She smiled not only with her lips, but with the whole of her face.

"Who is this magnar?" Some leader, without doubt. Whoever he was, Aegon would like to see to bartering for some supplies. If they were to continue, he'd need some food. Might be a few more arrows.

"In due time," Jon cut in, placing a hand upon his mother's shoulder. Whatever unspoken message passed between the two in that moment, Aegon felt himself experience a sliver of envy at the closeness of their bond when mother touched her hand to son's. He recalled so little of his own mother's love, and it felt somehow ungrateful to resent people such as the ones before him who had never known much beside penury and a mode of existence comparable to what the dogs of the keep found in the kennel. In fact, the dogs in the kennel might just have it better.

He dipped his spoon in the thin broth the woman had brought him, stirring slowly as the steam curled in tender tendrils. He courageously took his first sip. Blander than water, but it was something at least. The woman stood.

Just as soon, the flap at the entrance was pushed away by a worried looking Dornishman. "Your Grace, praise the merciful Mother, you are awake." Quentyn pushed past Jon and gave the woman a lingering look. He sat down in front of him, however, and proceeded to inspect his garments.

After him the rest of his men filed in, from Robb to Edric, each of them subdued, but not visibly injured. A small gasp came from the mother. Jon moved instinctively towards her, a question spoken in the old tongue. She responded in a like manner and simply shook of her hands, as though to dislodge water from it.

"We will give you a few moments," she spoke to the lot of them, pushing Jon towards the entrance. Her son did not seem keen on leaving them to their own device, something which Aegon could well understand. The trouble was, he would have had them all in chains were the situations reversed. Either these people were stupidly trusting or they were disguising a well thought-out plan to get them in some sort of trap. Whatever the case, he could not trust them anymore than they trusted them. Jon's mother notwithstanding, he had no idea what they were dealing with.

"Has it truly been a few days?" he asked of Robb who had just seated himself upon the ground.

"This is the third. A nasty fall you took there, Your Grace. Luckily, the Wildlings were not out for our blood this once."

"Those things, what were they?"

"I cannot rightly say." Robb frowned. "I've never seen anything like it and these people won't whisper a word of them. I tried asking."

"Where did they keep the lot of you these three days?" he questioned before proceeding to devour his soup. It might be tasteless, but he was hungry enough to devour a cauldron of it.

"One of their vile little huts," Ned hurried with the reply. "I swear, it was cold enough that I thought I'd die and these bastards refused to give us even a log for fire."

"These bastards are poor as mice. I haven't seen a one single piece of meat since we came here," Quentyn said. "They say this is the land of the Thenns, and as far as I was able to gather they are led by a magnar." Then the magnar was precisely the man he needed to speak to. "He, however, has just ridden off with large hunting party."

"What?" That could take days. In this weather and with the weapons these men had, Aegon would be surprised if they managed to catch more than a hare. "We cannot wait for his return. We've more pressing matters to attend to."

"You can't be serious." Edric jumped to his feet, clearly incensed. "You cannot possibly think we'll survive out there. You saw those things. Begging pardon, Your Grace, but no sword is worth four lives." He turned towards Robb. "Tell him." Robb kept silent. "You must tell him."

"Your Grace, it would be best to distance ourselves from danger. Whatever the fate of Ice, Edric is correct in that it does not merit four lives, not even one. I can live without it. My kin can as well. No one will think lesser of you should you put this quest to rest." Had the matter been put to him in a less forceful manner, Aegon might have considered retreat. In the face of blatant cowardice, however, he saw it as his moral duty to disallow any such notion of abandoning the quest.

"Absolutely out of the question. If they could be driven away, then there must be something we can do other than worry for our lives."

"That is just the thing, Your Grace. They retreated on their own. For whatever reason, and they were not pursued," Quentyn clarified. "If there is anything to be done about such dangers, these people will not tell us. And the weapons we have do not seem to carry much weight in this battle. Do you truly believe we would not suggest a retreat were it not imperious?"

"There has to be something. Anything." And he would find it if it killed him. "Are you certain they retreated on their own?"

"I saw it with my own eyes," came the confirmation. Edric nodded as though to strengthen the effect of those words.

"Your Grace, we ought to leave as soon as we can. These people are willing to give us a guide. Not to mention that our length absence must have already been noted. Doubtlessly we are being searched for. Why delay the inevitable?" Robb clapped his hand upon Aegon's shoulder.

"A guide?" Jon? He knew the tongue even as she shied away from speaking it. And he seemed equipped for a battle should that be the case. It might not be quite as bad as he imagined. Aegon sighed and looked at his companions. "I am not giving up on Ice just yet. That is what I want you to know." No one could ever doubt his sincerity in any case.

The gathering was once more disturbed by the same woman, the mother, bringing a man trailing in after her. "He will show you the way back to the Wall," she said, nodding towards yet another familiar face. Aegon would have to ask the maesters for some manner of explanation regarding all these strange moments.

For a brief moment, quietness fell upon them. He analysed the intruder, noting once more he bore similar features to Jon's. Of course any one person had both a mother and a father. What set him apart were his eyes; more in the vein of a clear sky. Other than that he was very much an embodiment of the North. "Ben," the woman spoke, "I leave them to you. I am needed elsewhere."

Ben patted her on the back before sending her on her way. Aegon caught the looks they exchanged, something not quite loving, more like worry. Their hands touched and Ben's fingers twitched. And then she was gone. The man neared one of the walls and leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest. "I trust you will make ready with all due haste." The way his spoke, he'd learned their tongue, indeed, but not from any peasant that he could tell. It was the lilt of knowledgeable tongues he detected.

"And you, I understand, will make certain we reach our destination?" Aegon stood. He did not quite liked being looked down upon. "You speak my language very well. As do your wife and son."

"And you speak mine not at all," Ben returned with an amused expression.

"Who taught you?" The smile upon Ben's face vanished. "Your wife, might be? Or are you a deserter?" The man straightened. "Now, now; you need not worry. We are not here to cause trouble. In any event, I care not whether you have abandoned your brothers in the Watch or if you stole some petty lord's daughter."

"Then why bother to put the question to me?" Tension swelled.

Quentyn stepped next to him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, with the Dornishman giving a warning look. "To be perfectly honest, I haven't the faintest." That cross look upon his face, Aegon was certain he'd seen it somewhere before. But where? "But look at us. Wasting precious time. If you would be so good as to tell us what is needed."

"You've horses and weapons. As soon as you've gathered your wits, we can be on our way." And that was the extent to which the man seemed inclined to indulge him, for the next Aegon knew , he was in the company of his men, being reprimanded for rashness by a very calm and collected Quentyn.

"Truly, what has come over you? The maesters ought to check you. That fall might have done more damage than we'd imagined." The Dornishman grabbed him by the shoulder. "Come along, Your Grace; the sooner we leave, the better." For some, Aegon was certain it might be. For himself, he'd found a small mystery, he perceived, as soon as he'd stepped without the hut and met the icy stare of the son.

Chapter Text

The warm water sloshed against the rim and permeated the rough cloth of his garment. Jon grimaced and pushed the bucket further to the side. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his mother who was conveniently ignoring his presence. Unbelievably enough, she would not even answer his question. "Mother, do I not deserve some manner of answer?"

She paused. The wrinkled cloth in her hands stood just above the small chest. "What should I do?" she questioned, the slight tremor in her voice putting him on edge. It stood to reason her reluctance might translate into a persistent silence upon the subject.

"You might wish not to put us in danger." His own voice rose slightly. "What were you thinking?" His feet carried him to her side. Jon could not help placing his hand upon her shoulder and giving a firm tug. "I did not know who was angrier, the magnar or uncle."

"Hush, Jon. 'Tis truly not the time. "Your uncle was simply trying to protect us. As for the magnar, you need not worry about him. His interests lie with Mance." Mance, one day he'd grow tired of the name. At the mention of the galvanising figure, however, his attention concentrated upon the single point she'd not made.

"My interests lie with Mance as well, mother." She flinched. "And ultimately yours as well. You do not wish to live in these conditions for the rest of your life, do you? Or worse yet, join the ranks of the undead army." Once more, she made no answer. Her hands stopped worrying the bit of cloth between her fingers.

"You know very well that I will follow should you choose to join Mance, but I caution vigilance. Not all is at is seems." And one day he would also understand her reluctance to return to her homeland, as it were. "I am trying to protect you."

"Or might be you are trying to protect yourself." His suggestion was met with a frown. "What are you not telling me? Why was uncle mad? What did the magnar mean about courting doom?" She stood, bringing herself to a like height to his. "I am going to find out. It would go so much better if I found out from you."

"He is your brother." The words were akin to a punch to the back of his head. "That is why I insisted we take them in. That is why I took care of his wounds. And that is why I begged the magnar not to hold his way." She looked him straight in the eye as she spoke. "And that is why your uncle will make certain he is returned to his proper place."

"His proper place?" Jon questioned. Out of all the things to have learned. "Is his proper place not my proper place as well? You say he is a kneeler prince. And he is my brother. And yet I am here and he is there. Why?" Her gaze slipped past his.

"That is not something I shall discuss with you. Not this day. Nor any other day." Her attempted escape was not met with success. "Jon, you will get nothing else from me. Should you wish to aid me in any way you may retrieve the sword from its place. Benjen will have need of it upon his return."

"Uncle can care for his own sword. You may tell me about the prince and his companions. Surely every single name mentioned is not beyond your knowledge." Leading her back towards the wall of their dwelling, he pressed against her shoulders. "Mother, do not think these matters will not out simply because you shan't speak of them. You cannot spend your whole life in hiding."

A small smile appeared upon her lips. "You do not know what I am capable of." Not untrue as statements went, but at the end of the day he did not need to know what she was capable of. His sole concern was untangling the reason behind her bizarre behaviour.

"That is irrelevant to our discussion. Those men, tell me about them."

"Can you not let it go?"

That question did not even merit an answer. Jon supposed there was something intrinsically unnatural about his own behaviour. He imagined the more natural response might have been to storm out or might be shout his anger or even put a dose of violence to good use by chopping out some more wood for the fire. Alas, it did happen that he was not precisely inclined to do any of that. What he did wish was to find out as much as he could about the fools who'd ventured out into the wilds with nary a proper weapon in sight.

"Nay. I am afraid I cannot. That one you kept looking after, the pommel of his knife was in the likes of a wolf's head. Who is he?" By the look upon her face, he could only assume that she would give in. And she did.

"Your cousin. I assume he must be Brandon's son. Although, it beggars belief that he would name his precious son after Robert."

"Robert?"

"No one you need concern yourself with. I imagine Ned wanted to soften the blow to a good friend's pride. Eddard is my other brother."

"One day soon, I will ask for an explanation for this as well." She gave a sharp nod, but on that subject her lips remained sealed. Robert, she had said. He would file that bit of information away and peruse it later, when there was time for it. "So, Brandon and Ned. And Benjen. Any other kin I have not yet gained knowledge of?"

"I would not know, Jon; I have not seen them in many years." Neither had she given him the opportunity to. Admitting such felt strangely empty. "Robb and you are about of an age, if I do not miss my guess. He must have been born shortly after you."

"A great many years, I have no doubt." He kept his tone only slightly mocking. The hurt in her gaze did not soften him to any degree. He continued upon his path, finding out what he could about the rest of the men.

In the end, he moved until he'd reached the great chest, lifting the lid and taking out the sword. "And this? The pommel is the like of the dagger's."

"She is called Ice." His uncle had never referred to the weapon as such. Jon could recall, though, the various time his uncle had allowed him to train with the weighty sword. "And she has been in my family for many generations. It was supposed to go to Brandon."

"And he does not miss it?" A muffled laughter came from his parent.

"I should think he and father both miss it. Benjen ought not to have taken it. But since he has, there is nothing to do but accept the burden." He turned it to its side, inspecting the dark metal. It was certainly sharper than any weapon he'd ever wielded in battle. It should be cumbersome, yet if the edge caught the opponent, it should be easy enough to ensure victory.

The wind howled without, a clear sign that they should expect a storm to break over their heads. Jon sucked in a breath, struggling to keep silent against the rising awareness. His mother as well looked at the fur over the entrance. "If the storm hits, they might be caught in it through the night." And if they were, it stood to reason they would be caught by something else entirely. And uncle had not even taken precautions.

"If I ride fast enough, I do not doubt I might catch up to them." The idea was not more to his liking than it was to hers. Wights and Others were not the way he envisioned a peaceful evening. Unfortunately for him, that storm did seem to be heading for the kneelers and Jon was willing to bet that even his uncle's presence would not work in their favour.

"Mance should arrive soon."

"Mance is not yet king."

"Ride then, if you would." Mother stood, brushing dirt from her apron. "That boy, your brother, his leg was injured. It might help if you would see to it that he comes to no further harm."

"This feels as thought we are parting ways." He understood without the use of words that she was preparing for it, even as he made up his mind to return. He had no plans to become a wight anymore than he planned to fall to an icicle to the chest.

"I will return, mother." Her lips quirked slightly.

"You will not return as my son though. Ice might be unknown to you, but it is certainly known to them. I do not expect Benjen will hide the truth from them anymore that you would."

"I do hope I am not berated for what is surely natural curiosity." A shrug came from her. "When Mance comes, you will attempt to persuade him, won't you?"

"I will do my best, Jon. But Mance is not an easy man to sway." Neither should he be, Jon reasoned. A leader had to, in the end, act in accordance to what he felt was the best course of action. Still, he had faith that his mother could put up a good argument when it suited her.

"I must be going. If I am to brave the storm, I would rather it is the gale I meet first rather than the cutting winds." He strapped Ice to his back and gave his mother one last look. The silent promise that they would continue their discussion was not lost on her, and in turn, she responded with a tiny nod.

"Fair speed, my son."

His horse ought to have some speed. The creature had been resting for some time. He assumed it had eaten the oats he'd managed to get for it as well. Jon trudged through the thick snows, kicking at the mounds, spraying chunks of it in all sides. A few of the children were still without, running and screaming under the supervision of a young matron who looked much more interested in scrutinising the horizon than in making certain her charges came out unscathed.

He gave her a nod, which she returned with a smile. Her man had gone hunting with the magnar. No doubt she worried the storm would cause mischief for the riding party. He found his horse in the crude stables of the magnar. The beast snorted at his approach, pushing its nose into his hand when he raised it in greeting. "There, there beastie. You and I are going on a ride, aye?" Once more the horse produced a small sound, which Jon took for agreement.

He saddled the creature and mounted. A simple tug on the reins had the steed walking. He rode past the doors, leaning to the side and shutting the way in. The same young matron ran up to him, having made her way to the stable through the snow. "You should not be going out in this weather, Jon; the cold will freeze the blood in your veins."

"I will keep warm, Ulla. Your man will too; you need not worry." He took her hand when she reached out, giving it a small squeeze. "I think your boy is about the skirt past the boundaries you've set for them."

She turned to look. Sure enough the boys would cross the line if she did not hurry after them. "I should be off. Fare thee well, Jon."

He allowed her to see to her task and set off on his own. The horse cantered off, a soft neigh mingling with the mist produced his breathing. Jon dug his heels into the beast's side. Snow was beginning to fall and might be, more importantly, the wind became more and more cutting. It might be wise to force the horse a bit than meet his end for sluggishness.

Chapter Text

It hurt like the devil with every jostle and bump the swaying of the mount tortured him with. Aegon gripped the reins all the harder, breathing in the icy chill of the snowy sea surrounding him for leagues and leagues, and gritted his teeth all the harder. The pain would not vanish as long as he bent his thought to it; but such was the cursed way of it. He looked to their guide; the man was gazing at the clouds overhead. Little speech had passed between them since they’d set out, but it was clear to him that they were treated with care.

Ben of the Thenns brought them to a glade of sorts. Remnants of a fire could be seen half-buried in the snow. The little party dismounted at a sign from him. Quent, whose unrest could scarce be read upon his face, approached the man. “Why have we stopped?” he questioned, as the older man bent over the small pit, labouring over the kindling of a tiny fire.

“It looks ready to storm. We will need a fire. There can be no more progress this day.” Protest broke out amongst their rank. Aegon wished he might quell it, but was forced to keep his tongue for fear that he might cry out in pain. Robb remained by his side, ready to aid. But even so, Aegon perceived his attention was split between him and their companions.

“Peace, Ned,” he called to the younger. “We will do as the man advises, for he is bound to know these lands better than us. Say on, then, good Ben; why can we not press on? Surely, you wish us out of your hair almost as desperately as we would be home.” He flinched as his step jolted the wound in his leg and then swayed. But again Robb kept him upright.

Begrudgingly, the Wildling broke the sullen silence which followed. “Storms herald the deep night. All manner of creatures creep from the shadows at such times; you have had a taste of their wrath and might do so again ere the new day draws if you carry on foolishly.” Aegon’s eyes roamed the faces of his friends. Ned’s gaze held terror and Quent’s face blanched beneath the darkness of his skin. Only Robb seemed unmoved. Or might be that was the cold blood in his veins; ever the Northerner he was and not easily given to showing his heart.

“And the fire will keep them away?” Edric questioned, his young voice quivering, shining a light on the fact that he was yet much a child, younger than the lot of them and in great danger. A fault that lied at his feet and no one else’s.

Roused, Aegon straightened himself and stepped forth on his own, through the effort threatened to double him over. “Well, shall the fire keep these fiends at bay? Or else are we to draw swords?” Something like a grim smile dusted old Ben’s lips then. He seated himself upon the frosty ground. Aegon followed suit and so did the others at length. He waited then for an answer to his question.

A few more twigs were thrown upon the fire. It seemed that the path was well trod for they’d been left enough to feed a merry fire for a long while. And then, as though emboldened by the swirling flame, the Wildling began a somewhat halting explanation, “Those creatures, they burn as quick as a dry forest in high summer. If your luck holds, they won’t be joined by one of the others ones. Those aren’t daunted by any fire and are much more cunning besides. Any weapon you hold is powerless against them. Countless have fallen to their wicked blades; of ice they are, shining like silver in the moonlight.” 

“You do not mean the Others? The White Walkers?” Robb was frowning as those words left him. “Those are surely old wives’ tales.” Having chanced to listen to one or two stories of such creatures, courtesy of Old Nan and her extended repertoire, Aegon mirrored his companion’s reaction. Robb went on, “It isn’t possible for such a threat to exist without our having taking any measure to counter it.”

A snort answered him. The warrior seated before them held Robb’s gaze. “You are the only one who can rightly say if you were set upon by some old wives’ tales. As for the other; well, you did not think the Wall was put in place just so a few of the free folk mightn’t jump into the kneelers’ cabbage patches, did you now?” An indistinct notion presented itself to Aegon in that moment; the tone the man had taken was very much like old Lord Stark’s. Come to think of it, his whole demeanour resembled the man’s.  Notherner blood, might be.

“But the fire will keep us safe?” Ned insisted into the heavy silence which fell over them. His eyes, round and open wide, gave him a curious air. It seemed some of his fear had shifted.  “They won’t try anything and if they do, we will set them ablaze.”

“The shambling dead we will be safe enough from. The Others, that I shan’t hazard a guess for; they are mastered by none of our attempts to subdue them. You had best pray your gods they don’t decide to come a-wandering.” He got the distinct impression that any such request would be duly ignored if what they were being told was anything to go by. And in any event, if sharp blades were of no use, ardent prayers couldn’t make that much of a difference either.

 If walking corpses were a reality, he didn’t see how White Walkers or Others of whatever godsforsaken name they had weren’t equally real. That said, the idea that they were completely powerless in the face of the peril was simply much too ridiculous to be accepted. “A knight fully armoured might withstand such a foe and yet win. Beyond the Wall such a sight would be curious enough, a man garbed in steel from head to toe; but I assure you, they are plentiful in the kingdoms. And if even fifty such men were let loose upon these creatures with a torch each and a good sword, I have little doubt they’d be victorious.”

“Then you’d be fifty men poorer. Steel cannot cut through the Others, nor can it stop their weapons; even be it the workmanship of the kingdoms.” He spoke with such authority that Aegon had to conclude the man had seen knights before; though the North did not usually boast a great number and a Wildling raiding small villages coming upon such a man was unlikely enough. “You’d not think that ice may bite so cruelly, and yet it does. Nay; neither bronze, nor steel can stay those blows.”

“So what are you going to do; will you just roll over and die?” Ned’s reedy voice came again. “Or perhaps beg for mercy? There is always falling upon your own sword; but to tell you the truth, none of these seems like a good plan.”

“There are ways of surviving, some more wicked than others. But nay, our true hope must be placed in man, for who else can slay a monster. Ever do the legends speak of great heroes risen from amongst their people and so must it be with this trial as well. After all, we have done battle with the Others before and won.” Aegon could barely keep from asking for clarifications. A good thing it was Ned was faster and even more impatient, for he made no bones of demanding to know what the man was speaking of. “Do they no longer tell children stories of the Battle for the Dawn?”

“But rarely; very few remain who know them well enough to tell it well.” Robb fed a small twig to the fire as he spoke, “Since we aren’t likely to set off anytime soon, might be you would be kind enough to tell us, if you know it.”

Ben did something surprising then. “And what would you give me in return?” The question had been addressed to Robb, but specifically for him, as though naught anyone else could offer might suffice. “If I tell you, would you speak to me of this: what manner of lands lie behind the Wall and what of the men who rule them?”      

Curiosity won over prudence after  a brief battle. “We will tell you what you wish to know, but only after you have satisfied us,” Aegon said, keeping his voice firm.

In answer, their guide’s eyes twinkled with something very like amusement. “A wise man does not speak in the name of other men; but that, might be, is not yet known to you. Very well, I shall take advantage of your word and tell you what I know. Though be warned, the tale is a long one.”

His companions were just as desirous to know as he was, for he saw their nodding heads when he urged, “Say on; we have the time.”

“In times long past when man was yet kindred with Giants, a hundred crowns were strewn one after another, parting garth from field and brother from brother. Then were men more than dust and water and in those days the horn in the hills was ringing. For the shadows o’er the lands had fallen, and came from wicked wastes yonder, on crest of death, and to their wonder, a foe of great cruelty and unimaginable power.”

“Wait, this is some manner of song I perceive,” Robb cut in. “But never have I heard it sung by any minstrel. Nor have I read it in any collection of such things.”

“Nor are you like to. The old might be have yet in memory some saying or another which calls back to this song, for you are right, it is such. The Lay of the Last Hero, as close as I reproduce it. I shan’t recite it all, but I thought it might do to set the stage. Shall I say on?”

“Aye.” It seemed th e sentiment was shared for all voices echoed his answer. Aegon felt much a young child sat before the fire listening to one of his father’s tales.

“The foe is none other than the Others, come from the icy wastes, bringing with them darkness and sorrow. The First Men fought bravely, but they were little match for their enemy’s strength and so they fled from their path and gathered. At lengths the great heads came together, prudent guidance and counsel to offer, when the shame and defeat o longer could be endured. And so spoke the fiercest among them, for all their brethren to hear: Let us make war on one and all villain, let them take no more son and daughter and give them no more to their foul and dark peons who eat the flesh and leave naught but bone after. Lo, here is the spear made ready for battle and here is the horse and the rider, together they tread into danger, as one they ride into battle. And so their strength was there gathered, in hopes of swift triumph their fears they throttled. They fought together man and beast for nigh on seven days and nights and were defeated all those who dared bear arm and show their mettle. From then came terror unnumbered, to cleave all hope of mankind. Their great lords were dead and risen against them in rotting vengeance; their heroes as well had fallen. Their doom drew nigh, hunted and haunted, driven from sun and warmth and water into icy cold seas of snow. And so the years wore on, running to ages unnumbered until man, in a state weakened and fallen, grew foolish enough to hope again. There set forth a company of warriors, all brave man as the other; chief amongst them the hero, whose name now none can remember. Spears glinted red in the torch-glow,  gliding off copper and iron, a spark in the night never-fading, a last hope held by all in that hour. The company goes through many a peril, setting their wit and skill against giants and spiders, wights and the Others, all in search of the most unlikely ally. The Children of the Forest, they are now called, though the song calls them by another name. In the end, together with the Children, through crafts unknown, the Last Hero gathered all men for one last great battle.  They go now to death and to slaughter, in far land to do great battle, to fall into night and ne’er be forgotten. The loss of the First Men is great, many warriors fail and fall into nothingness. But the Last Hero endures, pierced by many a blade and hewn by spear. He drives back the monster, slaying as many as he can manage until the horse falls back. A great wall is built with the help of the children and the Night’s Watch is formed.”

“I imagine the verses are much more descriptive. I should dearly love to hear the song in its own tongue, perhaps even have it written down.” His sisters would love it if naught else. Indeed, he thought even his sire would be captivated.

“Alas, even I know only fragments as have been carried on as best as could be.” They had listened so intently that none has taken notice of the deep night falling around them or the fact that snow had started to drift heavily downwards from the heavens. “This is not, however, the tale’s end.”

“By all means, carry on,” Quent piped in, the golden-red glow of the fire reflecting in eyes. “What else can there be to it?”  

“The ills of the world never slumber, they are but weakened by vigilance and effort, still they return when it slackens and so did it do as men had forgotten why wall and oath brings one honour. To the best of my knowledge these is a later addition, likely meant to caution against taking the threat of the Others too lightly. One of the brothers of the Watch happened upon a beautiful woman, terrible and cold as winter, but alluring nevertheless. He falls into her thrall and at her bidding becomes her champion, they flee the Watch by some manner of trickery and are expected to return before long to torment the living. Where now the spear with which to battle? Where now the man with such mettle? Where now the hero of legend? Where now the voice raised in singing? Alas, they have passed into shadow, with splendour of princes forgotten. Alas, to be thrown in such throe, with nary a hope to be gotten. Now wane the days into darkness, and lo, there is no hero of legend. His like is no more but in legends. Await now but bitter the doom-end.” The fire crackled merrily, into the ensuing silence.

There was no hurry to fill it. Aegon could not help but think the First Men were dour in their way, to have chosen such an unfortunate end for their tale. To be hopeless could be no good thing. Had they truly learned naught from their champion and his struggle? He sighed gently and lifted his eyes to the lightless sky, imagining their little fire as a tiny spark in the midst of darkness, much like that brave company has been. And well, if it came to it, he would not refuse the role of hero. Valiant princes were oft trust in such spots. He could only hope to have some days to recover from his injury. His thoughts then turned to food, just as Ned began doling out rations.

But no more than a bite had he taken when soft crunching assailed his ears and Ben of the Thenns stood his feet. The wind howled and turned the sting of its whip upon them. More crackling and crunching and eerie sounds sprang to life all around them. And then, as though the gods enjoyed pissing over their charges, something truly foul came, slithering through the thick-snow, gliding with the shadows, bringing such winds as Aegon had never seen. The legends came to life before his very eyes as all turned to look at the towering figure in the gathering shadow.

As soon as the light faded the dead were upon them. In the solid blackness, Aegon saw little. But he heard the terrified cries and felt his fear, and his gorge, rise. Brutal hands grabbed at him, pressing his wound with unimagined strength. He heard his own hoarse cry and batted futilely away at the unrelenting foe. To no avail; he was at a disadvantage. Death was near. What was worse, he might end up like the poor, monstrous creatures hunting them now; a thinly animated corpse, a puppet on strings, all meat shivering off his bones in time, leaving but the horror.

And then, as before, came salvation. He heard hooves before he ever saw light. Then his eyes teared up at the sudden flash of ignited wight. A man riding a strange beast, a great elk, he thought, there was. Behind him, clad in dull copper, bearing a torch all of his own was Ben’s boy, mounted upon a fearless steed that charged heedlessly ahead. Both men set their torches to the enemy, ravaging their foes greatly.

They might have even won, were it now for the great White Walker choosing that precise moment to engage. His minions fell to the sides, as though compelled by some command. All Aegon could make out was the crackling of ice. The otherworldly being was making straight for him and he couldn’t move a muscle. His eyes worked fine however.

The man upon his elk fell back, but the brave boy dismounted his horse and drew from his back a great broad sword. He jumped in front of Aegon, bringing his weapon up and sideways to parry a stroke of that icy blade the demon wielded, seemingly deaf to the cries of his father whom Aegon heard well.

A miracle happened then.

The enemy sword was halted in its descent and pushed back. With a heave and a slash, the end of his saviour’s sword cut into the White Walker. A shrill cry rent the heavy night and their foe seemed to explode into thousands of tiny pieces, swirling like snowflakes into a black storm. All his servants followed with him, crumpling into lifeless heaps into the snow.       

Chapter Text

“Kneelers,” Jon muttered to himself, surveying the shaken company. He’d been shaking in his boots as well, but not matter, he’d not been cowering in the snow, waiting for some fatal blow. He couldn’t believe that pathetic boy was his brother. Ruminating on the issue further would not help; mother had been clear, the boy had to live. And Mance would likely find it a very useful thing that one of his supporters had gone on to aid the kneeler princeling. That was if they could make it until dawn; the chance of which was looking slimmer and slimmer yet. Gritting his teeth at the sound of a sharp whistle cutting through the blackness, he prayed it was a wild beast. Alas, such creatures knew to run and hide in times of danger. Resisting the urge to let out a hearty string of curses, Jon turned to his uncle, speaking so as to not be understood by the others, “I fear we cannot travel any further.” Such attempt would be met with death, he surmised by the cutting edge of the wind and his own sense of foreboding. “Have you any useful weapons?”

“Dagger,” his uncle confirmed, pulling out the weapon from his belt. It was one of those old, blunted things, used rather for breaking thick snow and ice. Though, according to legend it repelled the creatures of the dark. Supposedly the last great war had seen a high number of these short blades in the hands of warriors. They occasionally found one or two around burial mounds; that was where his uncle’s own hailed from.  “But the wights worry me more; another wave we cannot withstand.” That was true enough. The torches had already gone out. Like rats of a sinking ship, they were well and truly trapped.

“Oi!” one of the kneelers snapped. By whatever faint outline he could make out, Jon thought it was the shortest of the party. “Do not cut us out of your talk. We want to know what is happening as well.” A roll of cloth would be very useful just in that moment. Jon grunted and shifted, trying to make out anything around him. Anything at all; but his sight was overpowered by the night as easily as a full grown warrior would overpower a babe. “Are you deaf?” Scratch that the sharp end of his blade would do just as well for the like of the chattering magpie.

“Keep your voice down, fool; unless you want to call attention to us.” Jon hissed the words in the boy’s own tongue, hoping it might suffice. Snow crunched, wind howled, the elk snorted. The great bundle of cloth atop the beast moved, presumably slipping out of the saddle. The two hot coals, red points the size of pinpricks, burned in the man’s head. They were drawing closer.

In a raspy voice, their unlikely ally went on in soft speech, “Rarely do these foul creatures walk together; however, they have been wandering the snow-flats with increasing frequency and they are many. It looks as though they scout for whatever master they serve.” Unease wrapped tightly around Jon.

“If we move we risk running into another one,” uncle concluded, “and if we stay, we might have yet another run into us. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t, it would seem.” There had to be some way to make it through the night. He needed the kneelers to love, so his own people may be saved. The looming form of the stranger moved yet again, stepping well and truly into their midst.

“Danger is inevitable. If you press on at least you shan’t be freezing to death. So long as you keep moving, that is.” As thought to remind him of that possibility, the chill took bite out of his own uncovered cheek. “I can guard the front and take one of you up as well. Another may guard the rear. It is little enough, but we must make do with what we have.” That was might be the most he had heard the man say. Still, it was a sensible enough suggestion.

“Our horses have bolted,” a smooth voice offered, “elsewise, might be they’ve been dragged away. I cannot hear them.” Jon listened carefully, allowing himself to seep out in search of beasts, expanding his senses as well as he could. There was a subtle difference between humans and creatures of the land. There were yet moments when he confused one for the other. Alas, his search seemed to confirm as much as had been said. There were no horses but his own.

“Would that it were not so, but ‘tis just that. The horses are gone.” He said the word aloud, so they might all hear. “Uncle, you can ride mine and I shall ride up front. This way we can keep those on foot between us. ‘Twill be slow, but gods willing we shall live to see another day.” No protests came, thus he gave a low whistle, coaxing his steed. The horse, more able to detect his master than Jon was to see him, pressed his snout against his shoulder. Blindly, he felt out the reins.

“Bring him to me then,” Benjen said. It took but a few moments longer to accomplish that. His kin, not without ideas of his own, called out to the rest. “One of you had a rope. Use that to hold onto, so no one falls behind.” That as well was carried out.

Once organised, him atop the elk, behind their helper, while his uncle brought up the rear, they began moving cautiously. No great speed aided them, nor did the moon dare peek out and light their way. The snow continued to fall, a shower of white flakes; the cold reigned supreme. At least they were moving and lying down, waiting to be buried beneath the chilly layers. They journeyed on, the low murmur of voices dipping and swelling as they went, proof of life and chance of victory.

Mildly aware of their pace being deplorably slow, Jon was attempting to think of ways they might make up for it come daylight. Unfortunately, without the aid of horses and being a long ways away from the likes of Caster’s abode where word of their need might easier make it to the Wall, there was very little that could be done. But then it had been some days; if his mother’s suspicions were correct, these lads were little lordlings. Their families would be searching for them. Might any of those kneeler knights have made it so far beyond the Wall without incurring the wrath of the Others? It was a possibility, though he could not quite credit it. Even twice as strong as these boys, those knights could do very little harm.

Snorting softly, he listened to the eerie sounds rising over the murmur of conversation. The elk’s gait was somewhat comparable to that of a horse’s, though Jon found the seat nowhere near as comfortable. He held onto the rider and his tattered cloak, wondering why he was becoming colder and colder. The press of bodies usually generated heat. But then what had he expected taking on whatever this manner of demon was for aid.

They paused to rest after a time. The beasts were not overly burdened, but the princeling and his injured leg could not be depended upon in a quick march, though his companions shouldered his weight as best they could. The terrain itself made for cautious passing, for the snowdrifts were naught to scoff at and thin ice resided just beneath. Weak wine was passed around with only the elk’s rider refusing to, partake. Before long, however, they were on the move once more, this time Jon walking with the kneelers, having given his seat up for the southron prince. It wouldn’t do to have the fool keel over and perish on his watch. As for the others, he made them tie the rope around their middles. That way he could feel every slip and stir and could not be accused of having neglected any of them. With him they spoke not, but amongst themselves words were exchanged with regularity until they were too tired or might be too cold to do anything more than drag their feet. That at least he could understand, desiring no more than to drop to the ground himself and sleep away the reminder of the night.

It was after a few hours that they were engaged once more, much to the horror of his exhaustion-addled mind. It made sense, of course, that the enemy would wait them out, striking when their strength waned. No sense wasting a perfectly good opportunity. Having no fire to ward off the dead, nor much time to kindle one, Jon knew their only chance was to strike the leader. This one, unlike the other, did not wait for his creatures to attack. He stood just near enough to be seen, the cruel expression on his face unwavering.

Cutting himself loose, Jon shoved his way past a few wights, making for the target. What he hadn’t expected was to be tripped face down in the snow, a sudden weight dropping upon his back. Strong fingers ripped at his bronze armour. They were hardy creatures, but even they could not rip apart such a shield. Yet not all his body was thus encased and there they found better purchase. He expected they would have torn him apart had someone not barrelled into the creature seated atop him, somehow freeing Jon. He wasted little time in getting back to his feet and taking a few more steps towards the enemy when once more he was tackled. This time, he heeded a yell and looked in time to see Robb Stark had managed to escape the corpses, flanked to one side by the rider and on the other by the elk. He threw Ice as hard as he could manage, glad to see it land at the other’s feet.

The wights swarmed him, blocking his sight, pulling and tugging, long nails biting into his flesh even as teeth did. He yelled out in pain, thrashing against their grip. Jon did not see Robb match skill with the ice creature, but he was very glad indeed when the biting and tearing stopped and the dead crumbled at his feet, appendages losing strength and durability. But when he finally managed to look up, Robb Stark was seated in the snow, hand gripping the opposite arm, visible only by the power of one stray line of moonlight. The clouds, it would seem, were drawing apart at long last, even as the snow continued to fall. Jon struggled to his feet, kicking away a loosely attached skull, sending the head rolling into a nearby mound of snow. He cleared a path to the kneeler holding his blade, accepting the hilt when it was offered him.

At least they knew how to use a sword. Aught to be thankful for, as far as he was concerned. Snow crunched beneath the heaviness of his footfall and he felt something else as well there. Falling down to one knee, he searched the loose snow, frosted fingers feeling the cloth hilt of his uncle’s dagger. He picked it up. That was a good distance it had been thrown over. The wights had been few; too few, in truth, to not think it odd. Could it be that these armies of the dead were being drawn together yet? That each fiend had its own servants to command? It was difficult to tell the rate of decay each corpse sported, impossible even in the darkness.

Once everyone was up on their feet, and those who could mounted, they resumed their earlier pace, deciding without much talk that it would be for the best. “If anything, this goes to show we are moving away from their area of activity,” offered the elder Dornishman. Might as well keep at it.” Agreement was swift.

When finally came the dawn, they were exhausted.  Not only that, the wound on the young Stark’s arm, which Jon had wrapped with a strip of cloth, not only did not stop bleeding, but went to take on an odd colour, dark as rot. It apparently hurt a great deal for every movement was joined by a wince. They managed to find a spot for themselves where he might prod some more at the cut, which Jon did with relish. Though it had to be said, the suspicious looks he was getting were not to his taste. After saving the wretched lot enough to last them a lifetime, the least they could do was not stare at him as if he’d lop their friend’s arm off. He might do it just to teach them a lesson. Alas, it was what it was.

“Gangrene,” Jon declared. He’d seen it enough times to know. Unfortunately for the ailing fellow, there was very little in the way of medicine out in the middle of nowhere. “It shouldn’t have advanced this far.” Certainly not from a simple cut which had been hastily sealed and exposed not at all to the elements. He could thus only conclude the weaponry was the issue. “The flesh is dead and if I am not mistaken, it spreads along the arm.”

“Can it be excised?” the patient questioned, not missing beat. Jon nodded. It would likely be painful and there was no guarantee it would work. But then the boy didn’t need to know that. Besides, he wanted to know what could be done against such injuries. No need to let his men die left and right if they could be saved. And if not, he’d know to spare them suffering and burn the corpse with alacrity.

“The faster, the better.” It was easy enough to free the arm from its prison of leather and cloth. Since there was naught he might give for the pain, Jon merely had the two Dornishmen hold their companion as he worked, listening to his uncle give advice. The small blade of his knife slid over the thin crust through which blood escaped. The first layer peeled off with almost no aid from him, might be weakened by friction. And then the trouble began. Contrary to what some might think, human flesh had a tendency to cling; pulling it apart a little at a time was nigh impossible without a sharp implement. Unless one wanted chunks of bloodied meat to deal with. Since that was not Jon’s objective, exercised patience and a small amount of skill, very glad indeed when a fire was finally started and they managed to boil some water of all things. Not so pleased was Robb, who had the foresight to bite deep into a strip of leather Jon thought to be a belt. Naturally, it couldn’t be easy to endure such ministrations as he was subjected to. Progress was slow, but the improvement was undeniable when soft pinks bathed in red replaced blacks and muddy flecks of brown.    

But he had dug deep into that arm and the wound needed stitching for which they had no implements to speak of. His mother would have come through for him in such a situation. Alas, she’d been left to confer with Mance when the clans finally gathered. A miscalculation on his part. But then who could have known she’d be of any use; even he had suspected only bodies would be found, with all his haste. There was little to be done. He wrapped the wound as tight as he dared, hoping that compressed and bound the laceration might simply come to knight back together on its very own.

That solved one trouble. And then came another. In their bid for escape, they had lost most of their provisions, and the little they had amounted to drink. A man could might be survive a few days on that alone, but if he hoped to guard against attacks, and that seemed to be a supremely important capability just then, one had to be fed. They were near useless in top condition against those cursed creatures, but hungry and tired they would surely fall without a fuss.

Hailing his uncle, Jon put forth his thoughts. “I might be able to catch something, but it would still be best to have at least one more man with me. The elk and rider perchance could help with transport. With the sun in the sky, you should be well enough for protection.”

“What are you whispering over there?” Useless, but not blind; how unfortunate that. Jon turned around with a cold look, pinning the youngest of the lot in his spot. One might think all the tumult and uproar might work to quiet him. But nay; it would seem he was not so easily daunted. Arms crossed over his chest, the boy shuffled forth. “Well?” Damn and blast; if only he could cut down the insolent whelp.

 “We need food,” his uncle clarified for the kneeler’s benefit. “Jon will go hunt; I shall remain guard here. Our friend goes with Jon, if it please him.”  He nodded towards the stranger and his elk.

“I do not object.” Jon shuddered at the sound of the man’s voice. In the light of day there seemed to be something very wrong about it. Blinking away the thought, he pushed himself to move, break away from his kin and mount.

“Then I go as well.” The older Dornishman stepped away from Robb’s side. “Our weapons might be of no use against monsters crawling out of the dark, but they’ll do for beasts of the land. Besides, it will be much quicker this way, I reckon.”

Jon’s first instinct was to argue. He did not need the additional baggage. That might garner suspicion, however, and infighting was the last thing they needed. As the other had said; they weapons were perfectly adequate to cut down anything of the land. He turned to the nameless helper, “Your steed can bear the weight, aye?” A simple nod was his answer. That settled, Jon whistled low for his own mount and wasted no time in climbing into the saddle.

They set off at a leisurely pace. Though there were tracks here and there, the plain was surprisingly barren of life. Thinking back to their own night, Jon concluded ‘twas not unthinkable that most bests had fled for their dens or otherwise been caught and slaughtered, if indeed the creatures of the dark fed on blood and meat as the stories told. Another thing he noticed as soon as they managed to make their way into a small clearing was a tiny mound of snow at the base of a stump. He saw no signs of battle and naught which indicated a disturbance. But something was there. He slowed down his horse to a halt and closed his eyes. He could feel it, like the flicker of a candle in a great world of darkness.  

The mound, his instinct whispered, was the place to start. Dismounting, Jon carefully made his way to the place. He was closely followed by the Dornishman, Quentyn of name. Stiff fingers dug into the snow, parting the white just to catch a glimpse of blood-red. He dig deeper and, to his utter surprise, came upon fur. No sign if life, however, for the wolf cubs he discovered within did not even twitch. No wolf-mother prowled about, however, which meant that she had fled some danger or was herself dead. Lifting the first of the babes, he concentrated, trying to penetrate the thin barrier between wolf and man. It lived, that much he could make out.

 “What are you doing?” Quentyn demanded, staring at him with something akin to discomfort. “That poor thing is dead. We should bury it, or just leave it be.”

“It’s not dead and neither are its kin, if I am not mistaken. Here, hold it.” He passed the pup into the other’s hand and returned to digging, almost overlooking the exclamation of his companion when he felt the tiny thing breathe. Three more he found, lifting them out of the snow and giving them over. They were very small, with eyes shut tight and stumpy little tails. They could not have been very old and he could not guess for how long they’d been stranded there. Likely they hungered and shivered from the cold. But what to do? His hand sank down in the show, coming upon something soft. Jon clenched his fingers gently around whatever it was, already suspecting the outcome, and pulled up. Lo and behold, it was a fifth member of the pack, smaller than all members to that point and white as their surroundings itself. Might be it had been trying to crawl away. A wounded paw answered his questions about the blood. This one too yet lived, but just barely, from what he could make out.         

“What of their mother? She must be close by; is it truly safe to be handling her children so?” How typical of a kneeler not to know babes were never left alone; not unless one wanted them snatched away.

“If she were alive, your throat would’ve been ripped out by now.” Handing the last pup over, he stood and shed his outer garment, the heavy pelt caught before it could touch the ground. “They have no one. If we leave them, they freeze or starve to death. Or might be even get picked for some other creature’s meal.”

“Wait? You cannot mean to have them with us. They are not even old enough to have opened their eyes. We have naught to feed them; we haven’t aught to feed ourselves.” Jon listened to the complaints with a neutral face; as though carrying around a few wolves was likely to put them behind the schedule. He bit back a snort and shook his head, bundling the five siblings together in the pelt. “Are you hearing a thing I’m saying?”

“You volunteered to hunt, so hunt.” That was answer enough as far as he was concerned. “I will hold on to these and return to the others. You go on with our friend here. Take my horse.” If the Dornishman was unhappy with the outcome, he didn’t show it. Instead, after a few murmured curses, he was up in the saddle and riding away. Jon made his way back to camp with relative easy. They’d not gone too far afield and though burdened by new weight, he was not at all bothered.

His arrival was met with great interest and even greater awe when his discovery was shared with the others. It seemed that the lot of them wanted naught more than to stroke small ears and warm cold limbs, which was how the wolves ended up in furred collars or against soft linens, the occasional whimper indicating their fortuitous, if slow, recovery.

“I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such a feat.” The princeling had tucked one small creature at his chest, reaching out to the take second wolf Jon held and placed it net to its sibling, leaving him with the one silver pup he would not be parted from. “Or rather, I would not have thought you willing.”

Unwilling to share his true reasoning, Jon shrugged. “If I can prevent their suffering, why should I hesitate?” Sufficiently warmed at long last the white wolfling had some complaints of its own to make, whimpering and whining, bothered no doubt by the wound and hunger. They truly had to find some accommodations soon, or the poor creatures would not last. Craster’s keep was the only viable solution, curse his foul hide. But they would not make it within the day; might be on the morrow, but even that was uncertain. Though he could see that the mood in their little camp had been considerably lifted, which was not a bad thing in the least.

Their wandering companions returned after a time, having managed to capture a trio of small hares. And with a spear of all things. It would seem some use could yet be had of kneelers. In short order, their prospective meal was skinned and staked, placed over a healthy fire. Some murmured complaints over spices reached his ears, but considering their little adventure was fast becoming a bit of a nightmare, Jon decided against exhibiting his first reaction to such talk. He much doubted laughing at the perceived misfortune would work to knit their group closer together. Still and all, cooperation was achieved well enough as soon as they were once more on the move. The earlier good cheer was sustained by much ado over their protégés and a full stomach, or at least abated hunger. The rider and elk, however, broke away from the group, claiming prior engagements. They’d been much help those two but then they had the protection of daylight and might make good time, which Jon set his mind to.

Midday brought them a welcomed sight. At least for the kneelers, who upon seeing mounted warriors in imposing garb riding towards them let out a cheer.