The Weirwood Queen - Chapter 169 - RedWolf (redwolf17) - A Song of Ice and Fire (2024)

Chapter Text

Jon needed all his strength to sit up straight as the wind rushed by. High above the world they flew, between the clouds and the ground so far below. He sat pillion behind Aegon Targaryen, both of them bound to the saddle by chains that clinked and clanked. Jon's eyes watered, not just from the glare of sunlight on snow but from the foul stench of the dragon Viserion.

Oh, how he missed Ghost. His direwolf was as silent and solemn as the old gods themselves, unlike the she-dragon. Viserion gave an ear-piercing screech whenever a nasty gust of wind buffeted her off course, and that was not the only noise she made. She growled when he got too close whilst she ate; she hissed at snow drifts that displeased her; she slapped her tail loudly against the ground when she wanted attention. How Targaryen could be so fond of such an ill-tempered beast, Jon did not know or care.

The one thing that could be said for Viserion was that she was fast. Long leagues that would take days of marching passed in hours. Each flap of her enormous cream-colored wings brought them nearer to Winterfell; if the weather held, they would land around midday.

In the meantime, Jon could only wait and brood, his heart heavy in his chest. His place was at the Wall, not here. He had never thought to see Winterfell again, nor any of his siblings. Jon still could not grow used to seeing Robb every day. No matter how busy the King in the North was with his duties and his bannermen, he always made time for Jon, just as he made time for Bran after his return.

At least they have each other, Jon thought with a pang. Robb would look after Bran, just as he had when Bran awoke after his fall, crippled but alive. Jon had not known that boy. He had only known the boy Bran was before, the one who ran and climbed and dreamed of knighthood.

Seven long years had passed since then. Gone was the sweet, sturdy boy who had made friends with Tommen despite knocking him down half a hundred times in the yard. In his place was a half-starved lad of fourteen, one with a sullen scowl and eyes that had seen too much. At least Bran would talk to his brothers, if not to anyone else. Poor Samwell Tarly was trying his best, but the results thus far had not been promising. Robb thought perhaps Bran was merely ill and unused to so many people, and privately fretted over how to restore their brother's health and good humor.

Robb had fretted almost as much when he finished reading the letter from Sansa which Targaryen had brought. "Not a word misspelled, not here or in any of her most recent letters," Robb said, his brow furrowed. "Did Targaryen discover her code and make her stop?"

"If Targaryen knew she was using a code, wouldn't he have Sansa keep using it?" Jon had asked. "Telling her to stop would be far more suspicious than having her write that all was well."

"I suppose," Robb said grudgingly. "Damn him."

"Targaryen was never warmer than when he spoke of Sansa," Jon ventured, careful. "You said all her letters declare her love for him; is it so strange that he might return her affection?"

"Why shouldn't he?" Robb replied. "Sansa is all that a maiden should be; Targaryen must have thanked the gods for his good fortune when he contrived to bring her to the marriage altar. A peerless wife and a hostage against the North, taken in one fell swoop." His brother buried his head in his hands. "Gods, she was thirteen, and they wed her against her will to a man grown who might have claimed his rights whenever he pleased. And where was I? Not there to save her. And now she is with child..."

Robb groaned, defeated. "Well, if nothing else, she has Arya." He snorted. "What were you thinking, gifting her Needle? She's declared herself to be Sansa's sworn sword, as if she were some common spearwife."

Jon rubbed his neck. "I wanted to give Arya something before I left, something that she would love."

His brother gave a weary grin. "She does love Needle, I'll grant you that. I suppose it will do no harm to indulge Arya until the end of winter. Either Sansa will calm her wildness, or they will drive each other mad and Arya will quit her service."

Frowning, Jon tried to imagine his sisters. He remembered red-cheeked little girls chasing each other, flinging snowballs and taunts before Jory pulled them apart. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not see a queen and her sworn sword, no more than he could recall the glimpse of them he had seen in his dream on the night of the solstice.

Much as he longed to see his sisters, Jon wished they were not coming north. Each word of unearned praise in Sansa's letter had cut like a dagger. He was the lord commander who lost the Wall, not some hero as his sisters seemed to think.

The note Arya had added at the bottom made him feel even worse. Part of it was spent lamenting that she could not ride for Castle Black to see him, part of it on fondly mocking her new goodbrother, whom she referred to as Olyvar rather than Aegon, and the rest explaining an alarming incident involving Ser Lyn Corbray of the Kingsguard. That had certainly not been in her note to Robb, and Jon had not seen fit to inform him. Robb was already upset enough, thanks to Targaryen.

Jon glowered at the back of Targaryen's head. How dare he talk of kneeling when Others stalked the night and the fate of men hung in the balance? Thank the gods both the King in the North and King Aegon had the sense to heed him and set aside all talk of crowns. If they had not...

When Targaryen shouted, Jon looked up, startled. A grey speck loomed in the distance, rising from the fields of snow. As he stared, the speck grew larger, sprouting high walls and tall towers so familiar that he might have known them in his sleep. Jon's eyes stung; he rubbed at them, cursing the wind and the dragonstink.

Viserion descended slowly, circling round and round. When the dragon landed in the snowy inner yard, Targaryen was as taut as a bowstring, no doubt thanks to the archers who watched from atop the gatehouse, the armory, and the Great Keep. Jon ignored them as he undid his saddle chains, his black cloak billowing in the wind as he dismounted.

Queen Margaery awaited them on the steps of the Great Keep. She was pretty, with masses of glossy chestnut hair plaited with shimmering green ribbons and topped by a slim crown of gold and emeralds. Her cheeks were pink with cold, her soft brown eyes as big as the belly which swelled beneath her sable cloak.

To her credit, Queen Margaery's voice barely shook as she greeted her unexpected guests. As Jon explained why his brother had sent them, Robb's wife kept her eyes fixed on him and on King Aegon. She did not look at the dragon until Viserion shrieked without warning. Half the folk in the yard jumped with alarm, and the queen flinched back, her face pale.

"My apologies, Your Grace." King Aegon cast a worried glance at the queen's belly, then an annoyed look over his shoulder. "Viserion is merely being dramatic; she will do no harm so long as men keep their distance. Though a few goats or sheep would not go amiss."

"Of course," Queen Margaery said pleasantly, hiding shaking hands beneath her cloak. "Does Viserion prefer her prey alive?"

"Yes, thank you," King Aegon replied. "But shorn, if you please? Getting wool in her teeth annoys her."

"And wastes good wool," Queen Margaery agreed, resolutely ignoring the dragon as she bared her massive teeth. She turned to Jon. "Would you wish to meet with Prince Rickon first, or with the king's council? Or both, if you like; Prince Rickon often serves as their cupbearer."

Jon's heart leapt. He opened his mouth—

"The council first," King Aegon said firmly. "What we have to tell them is urgent, and not fit for the ears of a boy so young."

"That is good to know, Your Grace," Queen Margaery said gently, "but I was asking Lord Snow."

Jon clenched his fists, then gave a grudging nod. "The council, please, Your Grace."

Whilst Queen Margaery beckoned servants and began giving orders, Targaryen drew close to Jon. "Sorry," Targaryen muttered in his ear. "I figured it would gall you to see your brother for a quarter hour and then abandon him for a council meeting, rather than stay with him as long as you pleased. I would feel the same, were my sisters here."

"You only have one sister," Jon said, to hide his anger and confusion at such well-meant presumption.

Targaryen huffed, careful to keep his voice low. "I was raised with Prince Oberyn's daughters. My cousins by blood, but my sisters in truth. The youngest— Loreza— she'll be twelve in a fortnight. Every nameday, she used to wake me by leaping onto my bed at the crack of dawn. I'd carry her around on my shoulders all day, and at night, I'd give her a new gown for her favorite doll." A note of sorrow crept into his voice. "I haven't seen Loree in five years, not since I brought Sansa back to Sunspear."

As Queen Margaery led them to the council chamber above the Great Hall, she and Targaryen conversed as if they were old friends. It did not seem to matter that they had only met briefly in King's Landing, nor that House Tyrell had rescued the Lannisters from Stannis. No, they talked of her brothers Willas, Garlan, and Loras, all of whom Targaryen had seen much more recently than she had.

Jon could not help thinking of his own brothers as he climbed the steps, going slowly because he had Queen Margaery leaning on his arm. Robb had nearly squeezed him breathless when they parted, and it had been even harder leaving Bran behind. "When you get back, I'll be riding," Bran had told him, his voice cracking as he tried not to cry.

Maester Luwin did cry when he entered the council chamber shortly after they did. The maester was wrinklier than Jon recalled, and his sparse grey hair had turned white. But he clasped Jon's hand with a strong grip, and murmured warm blessings before he spared so much as a glance for King Aegon. Gaunt Hother Umber clapped him on the back; Torrhen Poole, a short, homely man whom Jon faintly recalled, remarked on how tall he had grown since he went away.

Courtly Lord Jason Mallister and red-faced Lord Gilwood Hunter were strangers. They did not trouble themselves with such nonsense, but asked questions straightaway as soon as Queen Margaery slipped from the room. Targaryen watched her go, frowning, then returned to the matter at hand.

As quickly as he could, Jon explained the battle at Castle Black and the retreat which had followed. His stomach was a hard knot as he remembered leaving his men behind. Much as he trusted Black Jack Bulwer and Maester Turquin, he was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, not them.

And what of the free folk? Robb had sworn to see the host safe to Winterfell, but he did not know or trust the free folk, just as they did not know or trust the King in the North. They trusted Jon, though, as much as they trusted any kneeler. More fool they, Jon thought bitterly. Eastwatch might yet hold, but the Shadow Tower had fallen, and he had only himself to blame.

When they left the host on the kingsroad, Jon had insisted they fly west in search of survivors. Targaryen had not argued, but urged Viserion on, no matter how the dragon balked at the cold winds and falling snow. They had reached the Shadow Tower the same day. On the next, they had found a scattered band of men in furs, clansmen from the northern mountains.

"What became of the surviving black brothers, I do not know," Jon told the council. "Cayn Knott said First Ranger Blane was still alive when the wights broke through, but what became of the black brothers after he could not say. As for Knott, he gathered all the northmen he could and is leading them home, to warn of the wights and to defend their people.
" So long as a blizzard does not catch them on the way and kill every last one of them on the road.

"Can wights climb mountains?" Lord Hunter asked.

Jon shrugged. "They will face most any hardship, so long as they scent hot blood nearby. After assailing the Wall for months on end, climbing mountains might seem easy."

Lord Hunter took a hearty gulp of wine.

"I'm afraid it gets worse, my lord," King Aegon said grimly.

"How so?" Lord Mallister looked like a man who feared nothing, but there was unease in his voice.

"Wherever the wights go, the dead rise," Jon told him. "Those who die in battle, those who die in their sleep, all wake in the night with their eyes burning blue."

Lord Hunter shuddered so hard he spilled wine on his brown doublet, the red staining the silver arrows blazoned on it. "Gods," he spluttered. "Every lichyard will birth an army."

"Don't be ridiculous," Maester Luwin said sharply. "Living or dead, a man cannot claw his way through a coffin and six feet of dirt, especially when the flesh has long since rotted from his bones."

Lord Mallister frowned. "What of those too poor to be buried in coffins?"

Maester Luwin tucked his hands in his sleeves. Jon had seen him do it a thousand times before; why should his throat suddenly feel tight? "Their bodies rot even faster," the maester said. "A year, and there is naught but bones. A few decades, and there is naught but dust."

It was mid afternoon when the maester led them to the ravenry. Later the king's council would send ravens across the North, once copies had been made of the letter which Robb had entrusted to Jon. For now, King Aegon laid claim to the best scribe amongst Maester Luwin's assistants. Pate scratched away with his quill as Targaryen dictated letters, one for each lord who would soon be playing host to a dragon, a king, and a lord commander of the Night's Watch.

The lord commander had no letters of his own to send, only those which had been placed in his care. At his behest, several of the knights of the Vale had written letters to their kinsmen. Maester Luwin took them and then bustled off, intent on finding the ravens to Runestone, Strongsong, the Redfort, Ironoaks, Coldwater Burn, Grey Glen, and Gull Tower.

The last letter Jon kept aside. He stared at a bare patch someone had worn in the maester's rug, turning the tightly rolled parchment round and round in his hands.

When Theon Greyjoy demanded to send a raven the day after he arrived at Castle Black, Jon had almost laughed in his face. If anyone had saved Bran, it was the children of the forest, not Theon. The fact that Summer trailed at his heels made no matter. After years in the wilderness, no doubt the sight of a familiar face had been a relief, even if it came with an obnoxious smirk. As such, Jon had refused his request without a single qualm.

"You are a man of the Night's Watch, not a lordling who may send ravens on a whim," Jon reminded him.

"It isn't a whim," Theon said, his fists clenched.

"Oh? Then what is it?"

"None of your concern," Theon snapped. "Don't be an ass, Snow, this is important."

"You forget yourself," Jon said coldly. "I am the lord commander; no raven flies without my leave."

Theon grimaced. "Fine, my lord," he spat. "There's a girl in Lordsport, Alla. She was a merchant captain's daughter when I took her maidenhead and left her with my bastard in her belly. Now..." Theon swallowed, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "Now she and my son live in a brothel at the mercy of a drunken whor*monger, and they will remain there unless my sister heeds my pleas to take them in."

Jon looked down at the parchment in his hands. Despite their mutual loathing, he had not enjoyed telling Theon that all their ravens were dead. He had never seen Theon so downcast, so helpless. And so, with great reluctance, he had sent Dolorous Edd to find him before he left for Winterfell. Whatever Theon's crimes, the girl he had seduced was not to blame, nor was the bastard she had borne him.

Maester Luwin was perplexed when Jon bade him send a raven to Ten Towers, but he obeyed without question. Targaryen did not even notice. He was still busy dictating to Pate, whose fingers were growing increasingly spattered with ink. He only paused when a pair of Queen Margaery's ladies-in-waiting arrived. The younger girl was a blonde dressed in green and teal, the elder a brown-haired girl close to his own age, her black lambswool gown patterned with white sunbursts. They curtsied gracefully, then introduced themselves. The girl in green was Wylla Manderly, Prince Rickon's betrothed; the sunburst girl was Alys Karstark.

"Her Grace is resting, but she looks forward to seeing both of you at dinner," Lady Alys said. "If you wish to refresh yourselves first, your rooms have already been prepared."

"Thank you, my lady," Targaryen said distractedly. He turned his head, the square-cut rubies in his crown gleaming deep scarlet against a circlet of smoky Valyrian steel. "But I do not think I will be finished here in time."

Jon did not care about refreshing himself. He had discharged his duties; there was nothing left to stand between him and his youngest brother. "Where's Rickon?"

Lady Wylla smiled. "I do not know where the prince is, Lord Snow, but I know where he is apt to be. Shall I send a few servants to search the most likely places and bring him to your chamber?"

"No," Jon said impatiently. "I had rather search for him myself. If my lady would escort me?"

"Gladly."

Their first stop was the practice yard. Ser Rodrik Cassel's whiskers were even bushier than Jon remembered. His breath steamed as he shouted advice to the lines of boys drilling with wooden swords and spears. For a moment Jon could almost see himself amongst them, a young boy who panted as he parried Robb's blade and lunged to make an attack of his own.

But Rickon was not there, and so they walked on.

Though the footpaths had been cleared, Jon's black boots were caked with snow by the time they reached the Servant's Keep. The little room was smaller than he remembered, as was the woman who sat beside the fire. Her bald scalp was covered with an embroidered coif, her eyes white and unseeing, but he knew her all the same.

"Here, who is it?" Old Nan asked. Needles clicked away in her knobby, wrinkled hands, knitting a patterned scarf. Jon tried to speak, but there was something caught in his throat.

"That can't be little Lyanna," the old woman tsked, still knitting. "The steps were too steady and too quiet. Ned, is that you? I've known cats who made more noise. Come, little lord, I'll tell you a story, like I used to before Lord Arryn took you away." Old Nan chuckled. "Lady Lyarra says he ought to have taken Brandon instead, with all the trouble he's given her of late."

"Nan, it's me," Jon said. He knelt before her chair, clasping her hands in his.

There was a long pause as the old woman frowned, gathering her thoughts. "Mind the needles," Old Nan scolded. "Jon, what are you doing here? Ben said he was leaving at dawn; you should have been on your way to the Wall hours ago."

"I went to the Wall," Jon told her, his voice breaking. "Years and years ago. I'm lord commander now."

"You can't be lord commander," Old Nan said crisply. "I may be blind, but I'm not deaf. You can't be more than seventeen."

"Lord Snow is one-and-twenty," Lady Wylla gently corrected. "He has led the Night's Watch for a long while now."

Old Nan hesitated for a moment, then scowled. "I know that," she said, waspish. "He's the one who saw fit to let wildlings through the Wall, as if they wouldn't like to kill us all in our beds. That Osha knows her place, I'll say that for her, but the rest of them..." she shook her head. "Ah, never mind." She patted Jon's cheek with a leathery hand. "There now, you're a good lad, and all men make mistakes."

Behind him, he heard Lady Wylla smother a laugh. "Have you seen Rickon today?" she asked.

Old Nan licked her lips, considering. "The little prince brought me an applecake, then ran off to the godswood." She patted Jon's cheek again, this time pausing to wipe away the wetness. "I hope you brought stories for him," she said, almost wistful. "He knows mine too well, though he asks for them all the same."

"Rickon visits her almost every day," Lady Wylla said as they made their way to the godswood. "He brings some of the wildling children too, the ones he likes to play with. Old Nan doesn't notice, now that they know better than to speak in the Old Tongue around her."

Jon winced. "How many times did that happen?"

"Just the once. Some of the children thought it was funny, and pretended to attack her. Maester Luwin thought Old Nan might die of shock, either from terror of the wildlings or from Rickon shouting at her to stop stabbing at them with her needles. But the next day, she was right as rain. The wildlings weren't. The maester had to sew one of them up, once he pulled Old Nan's needle out of the boy's shoulder. Rickon said he deserved it, beat the other ones who scared her black and blue, and made them swear to never do it again, a proper oath said beneath the heart tree."

That was where they found Rickon, swimming in the black pool. A squire and a page kept watch, sitting on the rock beside the pool. Its waters reflected the heart tree overhead so that Rickon seemed to swim between pale branches and rustling leaves. They vanished with every stroke and kick, only reappearing when the water stilled behind his wake. Jon had never seen him swim so fast before. Rickon used to cling to his mother, frightened of the black pool. Lady Catelyn had only just finished teaching him to swim when King Robert came.

When Rickon emerged from the water, wet and dripping, Shaggydog burst out of the trees. His eyes were green and wild, his fangs bared, his long snout quivered as he sniffed at the intruder. The black direwolf was taller than he was, almost as big as Ghost. Jon stood stock-still, hoping none of the slaver would drip down onto his face.

"Shaggy?" Rickon took a hesitant step forward. His auburn hair was plastered across his forehead, dark as blood.

In answer, Shaggydog nuzzled Jon's shoulder. Cautiously, Jon extended a hand and scratched the underside of the direwolf's chin. Shaggy allowed it, his tail drooping slightly, then trotted away.

But Rickon did not move a hair. Not when Jon called out to him, nor when Lady Wylla reminded her betrothed to dry off and get dressed. In the end, the beaky-nosed squire had to towel him off and help him into his clothes.

At that point Rickon took refuge behind Lady Wylla. Could this be the same boy who had set his direwolf on a poisoner? If he were still three, he would have hidden behind her skirts. But Rickon was nine now, and less than a foot shorter than his bride to be.

"What are you doing?" Lady Wylla demanded. She tried to move out of the way, but Rickon followed her, still hiding. "Don't be rude. Lord Snow is your half brother, not some stranger. Look at him, you know him."

Rickon took a quick glance over her shoulder, then ducked back down. "No," he mumbled. "I don't."

Jon felt as if he had been punched, and Lady Wylla gasped. Then her eyes narrowed. Suddenly, she twisted, grabbing her betrothed by the shoulders and dragging him in front of her. Rickon squirmed, trying to get free, but she held him fast, hugging him so his arms were trapped at his sides.

"Don't you dare stomp on my foot," Lady Wylla said, "or I won't speak to you for a week."

"I wouldn't!" Rickon insisted, hurt.

"Good. Now, look again."

Stubborn, Rickon shook his head, his gaze fixed on his boots. Jon's heart fluttered in his chest, as though it might shatter itself to pieces. "Please?"

And Rickon looked. The world seemed to hold its breath as he stared, his blue eyes wide and frightened. Jon waited, hoping for a flash of recognition, a cry of joy, perhaps even an embrace. Instead, Rickon tilted his head, squinting.

"You gave me sweets," he said at last.

"I did," Jon said, his voice thick. "I would give you my pynyonade."

He had almost forgotten what it tasted like. Three-Finger Hobb had neither the time nor inclination to roll pine nuts in spices and then toss them in honey, letting it set until it formed a hard, sticky brittle. Robb didn't care for pynyonade, and Arya preferred lemon cakes, but Jon would have eaten it by the handful if he could. One day, he had offered some to Rickon. After that, he always had to share, unable to resist his little brother's begging.

There was no pynyonade at dinner that night. Jon wished there was; it might have helped. Rickon presided over the meal in silence, sitting on the dais in the high seat of the Starks with Queen Margaery and King Aegon to one side and Lady Wylla and Jon to the other. Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin sat by him, whilst Robb's council had places of honor beside the dragon king.

With Rickon so shy, Jon was forced to converse with his other companions. Ser Rodrik asked about the Wall, and told him how Rickon's training progressed thus far. Maester Luwin asked about the Wall too, though not until after answering Jon's questions. Unsurprisingly, Rickon was a restless pupil, indifferent to most subjects.

"But he speaks northron well enough, thanks to Lady Wylla's encouragement," the maester noted.

"I hear you speak the Old Tongue too," Jon said to Rickon. Rickon shrugged. "With Osha, and my friends." He scowled. "Robb doesn't like it, but I don't care."

"King Robb simply wishes for you to apply yourself to your other lessons," Queen Margaery said, taking a serene bite of roasted pheasant. She patted Rickon's leg, then leaned in close, her voice so soft Jon could barely hear. "Careful, now, do not speak ill of your brother before King Aegon. You must comport yourself like a prince, remember?"

"I remember," Rickon mumbled. "If I do well, may I skip my lessons tomorrow?"

"Done," Queen Margaery agreed. Rickon grinned, and Margaery smiled back for a moment before grimacing. "Oof," she grunted.

"May I? May I?" Rickon almost shouted, his hand outstretched.

Margaery nodded, and Rickon placed his hand on the swell of her belly. "Finally, he remembers to ask," Ser Rodrik grumbled under his breath. Jon tried not to stare, but Queen Margaery caught him anyway. Thankfully, she did not look offended. "He likes to feel the babe kick," she explained.

"I'm going to be its uncle." Rickon puffed his chest out proudly. "Margaery said I can do the nameday blessing if Robb isn't back before the babe is born. It should come at the end of seventh moon, the maester says."

"Queen Sansa should be here by then," King Aegon said, glancing up from his conversation with Lord Mallister. "And if the gods are good, in ninth moon you will be an uncle twice over."

Rickon did not seem sure what to make of that. As soon as the sweet arrived, little cakes glazed with rosehip jelly, he asked leave to be excused. Queen Margaery paused her talk with King Aegon, gave her assent, and a lean, scarred woman led him off to bed.

"Why does he need an escort?" Jon asked, puzzled. Arya had not needed one at that age.

"Osha makes sure that he goes back to his chamber," Ser Rodrik said, pausing his conversation with his wife Lady Donella. "Not to the godswood, or the stables, or the First Keep—"

"She's dead?" Queen Margaery's voice was much too loud. "Truly? There can be no mistake?"

"Cersei Lannister is no more," King Aegon said gravely.

The next thing Jon knew, a lady-in-waiting was filling his cup with summerwine. She smiled as she poured, careful not to spill on her turquoise gown, her necklace of golden cranes gleaming in the candlelight. Once all the cups were filled both on the dais and at the tables below, Queen Margaery lifted a toast to the ruin of House Lannister.

It was almost midnight when the drinking finally ended. Jon could still hear men singing in the distance as he climbed the steps of the northwest tower, Targaryen following at his heels. Though neither of them had gotten drunk, Targaryen seemed less sure of his footing than he ought to be. And he kept muttering to himself, something about Florian and Jonquil. Jon left him at the door to Sansa's old chambers, then continued on to his own.

Little seemed to have changed since he went away. The featherbed was soft and inviting, the sheets smooth against his skin. Even so, Jon slept poorly. He dreamed he was at Castle Black, fighting Lord Mormont. His eyes burned blue as he wrenched Longclaw from Jon's grip, driving it into him again and again until entrails dangled from his belly just like they dangled from Mormont's.

After that, Jon had no appetite for the blood sausages served at breakfast. He still felt queasy when he took his leave, trailing after Rickon as if he were Shaggydog. He had nothing else to do; he had told Robb's council everything yesterday. Now it was up to them to carry out their king's bidding, and to make plans with King Aegon on his behalf. Laying in sufficient stores for the host returning from the Wall would take an immense effort, not to mention preparing to feed whatever men Targaryen brought from the south.

"We must pray that the White Knife and the Wolfsclaw remain unfrozen," Hother Umber had growled last night. "If ships cannot bring additional supplies from White Harbor and Sea Dragon Point..." The thane of winter left the rest unsaid.

"I miss Margaery," Rickon complained as they left the Great Hall. "She used to take me for rides through the wolfswood or Wintertown, and she'd wander around the castle with me." He made a face. "Now her belly is so big that Margaery can't do anything fun. Wylla said she's bored to tears of needlework and reading. Not drawing, though. She's already drawn Alla and Merry and Alys, and now she's drawing Wylla."

"Mayhaps the queen will draw you next," Jon teased.

Rickon wrinkled his nose. "No. Alys said she had to pose for hours, and she couldn't move, not even a little bit." He shuddered.

The morning seemed to pass in a blur. One moment he was being introduced to Ben Blackwood and Rodrik Ryswell, Rickon's foster brothers. The next he was being deluged with questions about the Night's Watch and ice dragons and Others. Jon did his best to answer, wondering if his Uncle Ben had ever felt so dazed and overwhelmed. But the longer he spoke, the more awed Rickon looked, until finally he began asking questions of his own.

Yet his happiness was tinged with guilt. Jon was a man of the Night's Watch, the lord commander. His brothers wore black, not grey and white. But he could not help himself, especially when Rickon began talking about Arya.

They spent the afternoon in the training yard. Rickon was a whirlwind, one that used far more force and speed than skill. "I fear the Long Summer will come before he learns discipline," Ser Rodrik grimly confided as they watched Rickon spar with the other boys. "Losing does not chasten him, not when he still wins a third of his bouts." The master-at-arms shook his head. "He is too unpredictable, and prone to low tricks. Not like his brothers."

Though meant as a compliment, the words stung. Whatever honor he had in the training yard, Jon was no stranger to low tricks. His mood soured, Jon stalked off to get a blunted tourney sword. There were no shortage of men eager to face the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Snow, slayer of the ice dragon.

By dinner, Jon was sore and bruised all over. Queen Margaery was kind and solicitous of his health, and sent to the kitchens for a tea her brothers swore by. "Garlan and Loras would always have it after sparring," Margaery told him. "The milk is steeped with mint leaves and ginger and served hot with honey, to refresh the body and spirit."

With Targaryen and the council still busy at their work, the dais was mostly filled by Margaery's ladies-in-waiting. With Rickon demanding much of Queen Margaery's attention, Jon found himself talking to Alys Karstark and her husband Cley Cerwyn, who were seated close by. A nasty bruise was forming on Cley's hand; their bout had been as one-sided as it had been short.

"I should spar more often," Cley said ruefully. "But ever since my father passed, I have so many other duties."

"And my lord has been ill," Alys added as her husband covered a cough.

"Nothing to signify," Cley protested. "It is the winter, that is all. What better time to lose one's appetite and sleep an extra hour or two?"

"True enough." As a singer approached the dais, Alys turned to Jon, a mischievous look on her face. "Have you heard The Beautiful Bane of the Boltons yet?"

"The what, my lady?"

Cley snorted, and Alys's smile widened.

The damn song was still playing in Jon's head the next morning as he listened to Old Nan tell stories by the hearth. Rickon sat at her feet, surrounded by a pack of free folk children. They listened intently, quiet as mice. Sometimes Old Nan trailed off, confused. Then Rickon would pipe up, filling the gap until Old Nan came back to herself and picked up the thread she had dropped.

After, Rickon dragged him to the First Keep, Osha and the other children following behind. When Jon left, it had been a ruin, left empty for centuries. Now the squat round drum tower was filled with free folk, the hostages the King in the North had demanded from each clan. The walls had been hastily repaired; pale fresh mortar and fistfuls of broken stones sealed up the holes, keeping out the wind and cold.

The eldest hostages were Jon's age, the youngest no more than seven. Most were boys, but there were a few spearwives and girls too, the sisters, daughters, and granddaughters of chiefs with no living sons. Rickon soon disappeared amongst them, speaking rapidly in the Old Tongue.

"I'm surprised the king allows this," Jon said to Osha.

The spearwife shrugged. "The little lord is too fierce for his liking. When he starts a fight with some kneeler, or speaks out of turn, that makes trouble. But if he does the same with us..."

"Ah."

Osha smiled grimly. "He was a terrible bully, at first. Then Myrtle lost her temper and punched him. When a week passed without the King in the North demanding her head, the others realized they could hit back without Rickon telling tales. Now he gets as good as he gives."

At present, things seemed calm enough. Rickon had joined a cluster of older boys playing some sort of catching game with a wooden ball. Jon was not sure how long he had been watching them when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Lord Crow," a deep voice rumbled.

Toregg looked much as Jon remembered. He was far taller than his father, with a bushy ginger beard and a mane of bushy ginger hair. Jon had always thought he must have gotten his looks from Tormund; now, he wondered whether they had come from Drynelle Umber. His heart sank into his boots as he greeted Toregg, knowing what was coming next.

"How is my father?"

Jon glanced about the busy room. No, not here. "We should speak somewhere more private."

Toregg's face darkened. He said not a word as Jon led him to the broken tower, nor as he spoke of Tormund's last fight and why he had chosen to lose it.

"The next day, the King in the North sent couriers to the Gift, to spread the word that they had his leave to journey south," Jon told him. "Your father's people will be safe, them and all the rest of the free folk."

"Those who survive the road." Toregg shook his head, his eyes distant. "Me mother... she tried to take me south, once, when I were a wee small lad. Father had gone hunting, and most of his men had gone with him. Mother packed up all the food she could carry, bundled me in furs, and slipped away the next morning before dawn."

"It was me first winter. The snow drifts were taller than I was, and it were cold, so cold. I don't know how far we walked afore Mother turned round. We were out of food and starving when we made it back to Ruddy Hall. Father was home already, drunk and angry."

Toregg's mouth twisted. "She could barely walk when he were done. When spring came, she was nursing Munda. Mother said we'd leave once Munda were big enough to travel, but by then she were carrying Torwynd. Father were kind to her when she was carrying a child, always bringing her the things she liked to eat. When Mother had a craving for cinnamon, he rode all the way to Eastwatch to trade for it. And he stopped hitting her when I were five."

"He did?" Jon asked, feeling both sick and relieved.

"Aye," Toregg said. "After I bit a chunk out of his leg to make him stop."

Jon laughed without mirth. "If Hother Umber comes looking for you, be sure to tell him that."

whor*sbane might be shut up with the council, but Jon would have to tell him before they left on the morrow. He ought to be at dinner; that would serve. A public conversation seemed prudent; who knew how he would take the news that several of the wildling hostages were the sons of his long-lost niece.

Not well, as it turned out. Hother got roaring drunk, so drunk he almost managed to start a fight with King Aegon, who bumped into him by mischance as they were leaving the hall. Fortunately, Targaryen ducked whor*sbane's wild swing. Unfortunately, he responded by grabbing a flagon of water off the nearest table and flinging it at whor*sbane. Thoroughly soused with both ale and water, it took four men-at-arms to "assist our good thane of winter to his bed," as Queen Margaery so tactfully put it. There was no need to assist Targaryen; he had already stomped back to his chamber.

"That could have gone much worse," Queen Margaery remarked as they slowly climbed the northwest tower. She gently gripped his arm for support, her posture straight and upright despite her bulging belly. Her ladies-in-waiting trailed after them, gossiping quietly to each other.

"It could have, Your Grace."

Queen Margaery tsked. "Come, my lord, you are my husband's beloved brother. Won't you call me Margaery?" She paused, tentative. "And I should like to call you Jon, if I may."

When he said she could, a flicker of relief passed over Margaery's face. She chatted amiably the rest of the way to her chambers, and once there, she bid him join her in her solar for a cup of hot cider. Whilst Alys Karstark fetched spices and Merry Crane got the kettle bubbling, Alla Tyrell entertained them with a song. The rest of the ladies vanished into the queen's bedchamber, no doubt to check that all was ready for the queen to have a good night's rest.

Once the cider was ready, the other ladies retreated too. They took up seats by the window, close enough to see but not to hear. Jon took a sip from his cup, waiting. The cider was weak but full of flavor. Spices curled on his tongue, mingling with the taste of apple.

When at last Margaery spoke, her voice was low, almost fragile. She had never thought to marry for love, nor cared to. Love was messy, unpredictable, dangerous. It made wise men lose their wits, and virtuous women lose their modesty. The best marriages were founded on mutual interest, upon respect and trust. But Robb did not trust her; he did not even seem to like her.

"I know he mislikes how our marriage began," Margaery said, frustrated. "I had hoped time would soothe his temper, but what if it doesn't?" She placed a hand on her belly. "When I told Robb I was with child, I thought he would rejoice. Instead he thanked me, as if I was some lord who had paid his taxes earlier than they were due."

"Robb still mourns his first wife," Jon told her, wishing he was anywhere else.

Margaery huffed. "I know that, do I look like a fool? Jeyne Westerling can have his heart, poor girl, and may the Stranger bless her memory. But she is gone, and I will not humiliate myself trying to take her place." Exasperated, she gestured to the small, fluffy, curly-tailed dog sleeping by the fire. "I'd have better luck trying to convince Robb that my lapdog was Grey Wind."

"Most likely," Jon said, choking back a laugh. "I'm sorry, Your Gr- Margaery, but what would you have me do?"

"Give me counsel," she pleaded. "How can I win Robb's trust?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. He hesitated, wondering whether he should break his brother's confidence. "Robb said that you were perfect, that you had won his court over so quickly that they forgot all about Jeyne. I think that angers him, even more than the wound to his pride."

Margaery sat back, her brow furrowed. Silence lingered for a long while as she thought. Jon had nothing to do, naught but to drink his cider and think of Drynelle Umber. She had been taken to Ruddy Hall against her will; she had not fled there seeking refuge. Nonetheless, Margaery belonged to Robb now, just as Drynelle had belonged to Tormund.

"Do you regret it?"

Margaery blinked at him, confused. "My marriage?" When Jon nodded, she gave a soft laugh. "No, not for a moment. True, I miss the splendor of Highgarden and the bustle of King's Landing, but here I finally have a place, one that I chose for myself. My husband is a man of honor, not an anxious boy trapped beneath his bitch of a mother's heel. I may not have his love, but he shall love our child as I do, and the child shall love us both. The air is crisp, the skies are sapphire blue, and the snow may be irksome, but it sparkles like diamonds when the sun comes out."

Jon wished the snow would sparkle a bit less when Viserion took flight the next morning. He squinted, hoping the she-dragon was not half blinded by the glare like he was. He might not like the irritating beast, or her loathsome stench, but he didn't want her losing her way.

Doubt gnawed at him with every passing league. Men of the Night's Watch were meant to stay within sight of the Wall, save the few who journeyed south to find new men to take the black. No lord commander had ever abandoned his post and his men, save Brynden Rivers, the bastard of a Targaryen king who had vanished on a ranging. That precedent was not comforting, especially now that he knew what had become of Bloodraven afterwards.

As he stared at the back of Aegon Targaryen's head, Jon wondered if Bloodraven had shared the same waves of steel-grey hair. Then Jon remembered that the man had been an albino, with hair that must have been as pale as his skin. Targaryen was not pale. Like many of the Dornishmen amongst the black brothers, he had golden-brown skin; only his hair and his purple eyes marked him as a dragonrider.

Jon did not know what to make of this southron king. He could not imagine Stannis Baratheon bothering to trouble himself with old northern courtesies, let alone personally mull wine for his hosts. Nor could he imagine Stannis keeping his temper for so long, especially not when being deliberately provoked by a boy of fourteen. Jon ought to have scolded Bran for that, but his brother had already cried himself to sleep by the time he went to check on him.

That night, they camped in the barrowlands. Targaryen raised the tent, just as he had raised it on their way to the Shadow Tower. That was unexpected; Jon had thought the king would insist on finding the hospitality of a keep. Rather than contemplate that or stand idle, he gathered firewood. By the time Jon got the fire going, the king had finished with the tent and was singing a hymn to the Smith in a middling voice.

"Why not stop at a keep, Your Grace?" Jon said once the king was done.

"A keep?" Targaryen repeated. He looked up from the saddlebag he was digging in, his brow furrowed. "Oh, I should have asked. I just wanted some peace and quiet; being a guest can be wearying." He sighed. "But I suppose you would want to visit as many lords as possible."

Jon pondered for a moment. As he thought, he eyed the dragon, who looked back at him with eyes of molten gold, smoke rising from her nostrils. No, better to keep the king in good temper and let him have his way.

"A few minor lords whose keeps happen to fall along our path will make little difference," Jon admitted. Besides, he did not deserve to sleep in a featherbed, not when his men must endure the hardships of life on the march.

Targaryen prepared dinner with an air of calm relief. The flatbread was warm and soft, unlike the hard sharp cheese and the leathery dried meat which went with it. After, Targaryen brought out dried apple rings, dusted with a hint of spice. The taste of cinnamon was still in his mouth as Jon tried to fall asleep, lying in the tent with only a few scarce feet betwixt him and the dragon king.

It seemed an age before Jon fell asleep. When he did, he dreamed of Ghost. The white direwolf paced outside a grey and white tent, his fangs bared at the voices whispering in the wind. Then there was another sound. The direwolf tensed, his ears pricked. A two-legger staggered out of a dark blue tent. His eyes wide, Osric Whitehill stared at the trees beyond the nightfires at the edge of the camp. No, Jon thought, horrified. But as the two-legger began walking, Ghost did not move a muscle. His place was here, protecting his pack.

Two days later, they reached Riverrun. Lord Edmure Tully greeted them with bread, salt, and what appeared to be his entire garrison. The men looked at Jon with curiosity and at his companion with open hostility. The she-dragon seemed amused by that; the wretched beast blew tiny gouts of flame, just enough to make men startle and piss themselves. To Lord Tully's confusion, Targaryen scowled, swatted her on the flank, then begged pardon for his dragon's lack of courtesy.

Though not so easily frightened as his men, Lord Tully seemed understandably nervous about having a dragon in his keep. The truce between the King in the North and the dragon king pleased him, but he had other concerns, which he broached over a pleasant if modest dinner. Men going north to fight the Others was all well and good, but Lord Tully did not want them marching up the kingsroad and through his lands.

"They can go by sea, or not at all," Lord Tully declared, his face almost as red as his hair and beard. "The Riverlands have suffered enough; I will not have my people give up their meager stores to feed every passing host."

King Aegon frowned at that, and at the rest of the conversation. As most of it was about High Septon Paul, something called a folkmoot, and the sundry riverlords who were quite unhappy about it, Jon did not bother to pay attention. Instead he gathered his thoughts, considering how to best lay his case before Lord Tully's court upon the morrow.

The Great Hall of Riverrun was full of lords and knights when Jon Snow stepped forward to speak, his heart pounding in his chest. In a loud, clear voice he told them of rangers disappearing beyond the Wall, of Othor, the dead man who had risen in the night to slay the Old Bear.

"Wights are no more than a wet nurse's tale," scoffed a household knight who stood near the front.

Jon smiled grimly, more than ready to answer such doubts. A table lay before him, draped in a sheet of white cloth. It was the work of a moment to yank the cloth away, revealing three large glass jars set upon a bed of snow and ice. The household knight reeled back; the lord he served covered his mouth, trying not to vomit as he looked.

And upon the table, the eyes of the dead men looked back, burning like blue stars. There was no hatred in their gaze, only an awful emptiness. But their eyes still moved from side to side, their teeth gnashing, as if desperate to bite their hot-blooded foes.

Unlike the heads, their foes did not lack for bodies and limbs. A dozen men drew their swords, their faces twisted with fear and fury. As Lord Tully shouted for order, Jon slid Longclaw from its scabbard, the Valyrian steel dark as smoke. Most of the men were heeding their lord's command, but not all. The wight heads must not be destroyed; if anyone was stupid enough to try, they would regret it.

Then, suddenly, Targaryen was beside him. The spear in his hand was sheathed, but the look on the king's face was as sharp as Valyrian steel. "You heard Lord Tully," Targaryen snapped. Outside, the dragon screeched. "Or do you mean to ignore him, and ruin the proof Lord Snow risked his life to bring you? I had thought the men of the Riverlands were wiser than that, unless I am much mistaken."

Grudgingly, the last few blades lowered. Longclaw was the last sword to be put away. Thankfully, there was not nearly as much alarm when he unveiled Septon Josua's painting. Not that anyone looked at it for very long; no matter that it was only oil upon canvas, there was something unsettling about the Other. Hot guilt washed over him; how could he have left his men to face such a perilous foe without him?

The only thing that slightly assuaged Jon's conscience when they left was knowing that he had won a few more men to their cause. Not as many as he hoped, in truth. And Edmure Tully refused to come north himself, too busy with his wife, his young sons, and his duties as Lord of Riverrun.

From Riverrun they followed the river road, headed southwest. Though the Riverlands were warmer than the north, with shallower drifts of snow, the Westerlands were warmer still. When they made camp that night, the snow was not even a foot deep. When they reached Casterly Rock the next day, the first day of sixth moon, only a smattering of snow dusted the hilltop and its ringfort.

Lord Mordryd Lydden, the new Lord of Casterly Rock, greeted King Aegon with the most pomp Jon had ever seen. Dinner was a lavish feast inside the Great Hall; seemingly endless platters of fish and crabs and mussels made the tables groan, and both wine and ale flowed freely.

Whilst Lord Lydden claimed the king's company, Jon found himself seated beside three of the lord's five children. Owain, the eldest son and heir, was at Deep Den with his wife and children. So was Gwendolyn, the elder daughter, who was about to give her husband a second child.

"My lord father was very disappointed that Gwendolyn couldn't come," Ser Perceval Lydden told him. He was a widower in his late twenties, or so Targaryen had said. He meant to offer him a place in the Kingsguard, if he wanted it.

"Gwen is his favorite," piped up Gareth Lydden, a young squire. "Father let her pick her own husband, even though she took years and years. Elaine didn't get to, she's been betrothed since she was ten, and she's supposed to get married next year when she comes of age."

Whether Elaine Lydden took offense to that, Jon would never know. The maid was too awestruck by King Aegon, whose conversation with her father had her rapt attention. The girl must be besotted to endure dry politics at a feast. Even a taste of it was more than enough to make Jon's head ache. He did not care about Willem Lannister joining the Faith, or about the woes of little Lord Jast, an orphan caught between two ambitious uncles, or about the fate of the Banefort, or about what was to be done about Lady Cerissa Brax's half Frey nephews.

His head was still throbbing after dinner. Jon had hoped to go straight to the lord's private solar, there to finally discuss the Others. Instead, Lord Lydden insisted on showing them to the Hall of Heroes. Lord Tywin's tomb was a monstrosity of gold and marble, with an empty gap where the headstone had been removed.

"The stonemason is still carving a new one," Lydden said. "It was hardly fitting for it to bear Tywin's name when his bones lie in the sewers."

But the tomb was not empty. Jaime and Cersei Lannister lay there now, their corpses locked in an eternal embrace. The new headstone would record the downfall of Tywin's line, and the end of the last Lannisters of Casterly Rock.

Jon should rejoice, like Robb had when they first heard the news. Yet he felt numb, distant. What did it matter? The only Lannister he still remembered was Tyrion, promising to help Bran. And so he had; the new saddle being made for Bran was based on one of Tyrion's design. When his brother rode again, it would be because a dwarf once took pity upon a cripple. Whatever crimes Tyrion had done after that, his kindness had outlived him. Jon could not despise Tyrion, not as he despised the Kingslayer and Queen Cersei. But much as he hated them, their deaths had availed him nothing. Lord Eddard was still no more than a memory; he would never see his father again.

"You have the Stark look," Lord Lydden remarked when they were finally ensconced in his solar. "I never met Lord Eddard, but I saw Lord Rickard a few times when I was a lad." Lydden picked up the flagon which sat on a nearby sideboard. "Here, let me pour you a cup of wine. Never mind Arbor gold or Dornish red. Deep Den has the finest blackberry wine in the Seven Kingdoms, and I'm sure my father never sent any of it to the Wall. His Grace will have the first cup, of course, but perhaps the lord commander would do us the honor of giving the toast?"

It did not take long to fill three cups. Jon raised his goblet, wishing his head would stop pounding so he could think. "To the return of spring," he said, lacking any better idea. Targaryen and Lydden echoed him as they lifted their goblets. The first sip of blackberry wine was tart; after the second, a hint of sweetness lingered on his tongue.

After the third, Jon began to talk. Though he had heard this speech before, Targaryen listened intently. So did Lydden, his satisfied smile replaced by a growing look of incredulous dismay.

"I wish that I could name you a liar," he said when Jon was done. "But no son of Eddard Stark would tell such a falsehood, not even a bastard." Lydden clenched his fist. "Would that I had slain Tywin and his line long ago. The Seven's wrath must be great indeed, to call down monsters out of legend to punish us for their sins." He shook his head. "I will send what aid I can, Lord Snow."

The rest of their stay did not go half so well. At least the lords of the west did not try to attack the wight heads when Jon presented them. The same could not be said for the folk of Lannisport. It had been Targaryen's notion to exhibit the heads in Loreon's Square, but it was Jon who had to give a speech to thousands of gawking smallfolk.

The City Watch barely managed to keep order as the crowd shouted and shoved. Some tried to flee from the ghastly heads and their burning gaze; some tried to push closer so they could smash the precious, grisly evidence. Lord Lydden's knights formed a tight square around the platform upon which the king and the lord commander stood; it felt like hours before the clamor calmed and they were able to ride back to Casterly Rock.

Oldtown was even warmer than Lannisport. The air was humid and thick with the smell of salt and fish, and only a scant few inches of snow dusted the black marble of the Starry Sept. Most of the windows had melted; blobs of stained glass oozed in ugly, twisted rainbows, with lines of dark grey to mark what was left of their lead frames. Septon Timoth and his Most Devout would have wept to see their ruin, just as Sam Tarly would have wept to see the domes and towers of the Citadel scorched with smoke.

Jon did not weep. Though he might have, with the headache that was plaguing him as they landed atop the Hightower. Lord Baelor Hightower looked as awful as Jon felt, his mourning garb dark and dour, his handsome face pale and drawn with grief. "Baelor Brightsmile, they call him," Targaryen had said. But no man smiled brightly after losing a father and a sister.

"Malora was always a bit odd," Lord Baelor said as he led them down a spiral stair. "Arcane books and strange artifacts interested her more than any suitor. When Alerie dubbed her the Mad Maid, Malora laughed and said she'd rather have spells than a preening Tyrell. Our lord father indulged her, and as he grew older, her studies intrigued him. Harmless nonsense, or so I thought until they held a dragon." He heaved a heavy sigh. "But come, let us dine before we speak of death and dark tidings."

Thankfully, Targaryen did most of the speaking at dinner. Jon listened, his head throbbing, content to be left alone once Lord Baelor had finished inquiring after his niece Queen Margaery. He also inquired after Princess Elia of Dorne, to the sly amusem*nt of Lord Baelor's three sons and the scarcely concealed annoyance of King Aegon.

"The princess is a rare woman indeed," Lord Baelor said. "Merely saving her children was a remarkable feat, but to openly raise them herself whilst plotting to restore their birthright? Why, 'tis the stuff of songs."

"True," agreed Ser Garth Greysteel, one of Lord Baelor's brothers. Ser Garth's wife was not so gruff. Lady Shiera Westerling raised her cup and gave a flowery toast to Princess Elia, all the while smiling sweetly at King Aegon. Whatever that was about, Jon did not know or care. All he wanted was a cup of willowbark tea, and once a servant brought it, he downed it and asked for another.

The next day, Jon Snow's head was throbbing yet again by the time he finished meeting with the new archmaesters. Maester Aemon had once warned him that the Citadel scoffed at magic, skeptical of aught that they could not explain. The sight of a wight head had provoked upheaval and alarm, but no promises of support.

"They have none to spare, my lord," said the acolyte who had insisted on escorting the lord commander back to the Hightower. Alleras was a slim, pretty youth who spoke in a Dornish drawl as soft as his tightly curled black hair. Some two dozen links of various metals were strung on the leather cord about his neck; burn scars marked the brown skin of his hands and forearms.

"But they can spare you?" Jon asked, irritable. Sweat beaded his forehead as he climbed the seemingly endless steps, his legs aching.

"Yes, my lord," the acolyte said serenely, adjusting his grip on the stack of tomes he carried. "They are eager to win King Aegon's goodwill."

"But not mine."

Alleras gave a laugh which soon turned into a cough. "The Night's Watch does not have an ample treasury," he said when he had caught his breath. "The crown, on the other hand..."

Jon grimaced. Fools. Coin would avail them nothing if the Others won. "I hope His Grace has better luck with the Most Devout."

Alleras shook his head. "That is unlikely, my lord. The Starry Sept has never suffered such a calamity before, not in a thousand years. Many of the faithful are still confined to their sickbeds. Those that are not argue amongst themselves, debating why the Seven are so angry and how they can be appeased. The septries and motherhouses struggle to provide for those in need, and in the streets begging brothers preach of doom and the end of days."

Targaryen's grim temper when he returned that evening seemed to prove the acolyte right. Oddly, he started at the sight of Alleras, and bade the acolyte join him for a privy word after dinner. In the morning, Targaryen was almost as buoyant as the barge which carried them from the Battle Isle across the Whispering Sound.

Jon felt nervous even before he began his speech. The Great Square of Oldtown was twice the size of the one at Lannisport. The smallfolk stood shoulder to shoulder, crammed together so tightly that the crowd seemed like a beast, one with thousands of heads.

This time, Jon did not even have the chance to remove the cloth which covered the glass jars. The moment he said the Others and their wights had breached the Wall, a cry of terror went up from a thousand throats. The crowd buzzed and roared as panic took hold, the vast mob surging like the sea in a storm. King Aegon shouted at the crowd to no avail, his voice lost beneath the chaos.

"You've no place in a riot, Your Grace," Garth Greysteel bellowed. "You, Ser Ormund, get horses for the king and the lord commander!"

"No need," Targaryen yelled back. "Look to your city, ser, and may the Warrior defend you!"

When Viserion descended from the sky, countless screams pierced the air. Unlike the crowd, who ran away from the she-dragon, Jon ran toward her. It took three trips to shove the wight heads back in her saddlebags, packing the jars in sawdust and ice. By then Targaryen was already in the saddle fumbling with his chains. Jon clambered up behind him and chained himself to the pillion seat. He finished only a heartbeat before the dragon screeched and took flight.

Like every city, town, and holdfast, Oldtown was surrounded by a sprawl of fields and pastures. They landed on the far outskirts of the city, amidst rows of winter wheat.

"We are not doing that again," Targaryen panted as he undid his chains. "Thank the gods we had already packed; I wouldn't fancy returning to the Hightower just now. Come on, you best relieve yourself, unless you mean to wait until Highgarden." And with that, he slid down from the saddle.

Jon stayed put, trying to control his fury. All those hours spent in Oldtown, and for what? A waste, a ruinous waste. Part of him wanted to scream at Targaryen until he agreed to turn north; the other part wanted to weep.

It was near dusk when they descended upon the shining white towers of Highgarden. Three walls of white stone encircled the hill upon which it stood. A great labyrinth of green briars grew between the middle and inner walls, and the godswood was large and lush, filled with trellises of winter flowers.

Lady Alerie Tyrell did not seem interested in meeting a dragon. She awaited them in the Great Hall, sitting in the lord's seat upon the dais. Beside her stood a maester; to her other side sat a wizened old woman. Lords and ladies in velvet and knights in gleaming armor filled the rest of the dais; men-at-arms in sumptuous gold and green livery stood guard throughout the hall.

So this is the power of Highgarden, Jon thought as King Aegon observed all the proper courtesies. They had already begun dinner; steam rose from tables heaped high with loaves of bread and bowls of thick, creamy soup. Jon's mouth watered even as his belly twisted with guilt. His men would not dine half so well tonight, not even the officers.

"Lord Snow, are you deaf?" a creaky voice demanded. "Or do you have ice blocks in your ears?"

"Mother, really," Lady Alerie said reproachfully.

"Your pardons, Lady Olenna," Targaryen said, giving a gracious little bow. "The lord commander and I have had a most wearisome day. After the austerity of the Wall, I daresay the splendor of Highgarden has overwhelmed him."

"Flatterer," the old lady sniffed. Nonetheless, she seemed slightly mollified as Jon apologized and belatedly introduced himself. It did not hurt that Targaryen had brought Lady Olenna some candied ginger from Oldtown.

"No doubt Rhaenys told you they were a favorite of mine." Lady Olenna smiled toothlessly. "I suppose my Willas might have done worse." She turned, snapping her knobbled fingers. "Lord Peake, get up! His Grace will want to sit beside Lady Alerie. And you, Patrice or Perriane or whatever your name is. The lord commander can sit by me."

"It's Philippa," the young lady muttered. She vacated the seat beside Lady Olenna promptly, though not before giving Jon a look of pity. Her eyes were large and dark, her loose hair the color of honey.

"Well? Sit down before you fall down," Lady Olenna said crisply. "Or have you been struck dumb again?"

"Your pardons."

Jon forced himself to smile as he sat. One servant brought him a bowl of soup; another filled his cup with wine. All the while, Lady Olenna stared at him, her beady eyes still sharp. "Bastard or not, you certainly have your father's face. More's the pity. Lord Eddard was never much to look at, not like your mother."

Jon choked on his soup. "What? My- who- what?"

The old woman cackled, her eyes glinting. "Lord Eddard never told you? No, I suppose not, not with how things ended." She pursed her lips, then rapped him on the knuckles. "Stop gawping at me like a lackwit, you'll put me off my dinner. Be a good lad and eat your soup, and I'll tell you all about the beauty who made Eddard Stark forget his honor. Oh, and to think I almost went to bed early."

They were still serving the sweet when Lady Olenna tottered off to bed, escorted by a pair of burly knights. Jon stared at his fireplum tart, then reached for the wine instead. His belly gurgled unhappily; he had not managed to eat anything besides the soup and a bit of bread. Mercifully, no one bothered him, not until Targaryen got up to take the seat Lady Olenna had left empty.

"Are you ill?" Targaryen whispered, all brotherly concern. "Lady Olenna can be a trial, I know, but you look as if someone hit you upside the head with a cudgel. Should I send for a maester? Or perhaps some chamomile tea? Sansa drinks it sometimes when she has her- uh, her headaches. She used to drink willowbark, but Maester Perceval said chamomile was better for the humors."

"No, Your Grace," Jon said curtly.

Targaryen frowned. "You can call me Aegon, we are goodbrothers. And there must be something, surely."

Jon scowled. "No, Aegon."

"Have it your way," Aegon said, doubtful. "But I give you fair warning, there is to be dancing as soon as the sweet is done, and it will give great offense if we do not oblige the ladies."

"Oh, of course," Jon said scathingly. "That is why I came south, to amuse pampered ladies whilst my men starve and freeze and die."

Aegon narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, Jon felt a sharp kick against his shin. "You can tell them about the Night's Watch, witless," Aegon hissed, looking almost murderous. "If I must indulge Lady Alerie by recounting every single encounter I have had with Willas, Margaery, and Loras since they left their mother's side, you can dance with some pretty young ladies eager to hear of the Wall."

Jon crossed his arms. "I haven't danced in years."

"Tell them that. The ladies will find it charming and teach you."

To Jon's annoyance, Aegon was right. Lady Philippa was the first to sidle up, clearly hoping to be asked to dance, but she was not the last. At least Aegon was also being kept busy.

"Your Grace must be so lonely away from your lady wife," purred the young lady in his arms.

King Aegon blinked at her. "My lady is kind to ask," he said, his cheeks flushed red with wine. "I hate being parted for so long, especially now that Sansa is with child. I can only pray her ship reached White Harbor safely..."

"Oh, Your Grace," Lady Florence replied, her voice soft with sympathy. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Jon's eyes narrowed. But however Aegon replied, he would never know. The dance swept them apart, and when the next dance brought them close together again, Aegon had a new partner, even prettier than the last. Jon's sword hand itched. If Aegon thought he could declare his love for Sansa and then slip into another woman's bed, he was sorely mistaken.

"And then, for my twenty-first nameday, Sansa wrote me a song about Aemon and Naerys." Aegon sighed, missing Lady Leyla's look of disappointment. "Her voice is so lovely, and when she plays the harp—"

"His Grace is very enamored of the queen," Jon's partner said, wistful. "No, we go left here, my lord, not right. No; your left, not my left. Yes, like that. Is Queen Sansa really as beautiful as they say?"

"I don't know, my lady," Jon replied truthfully. "I have not seen her since before I left for the Wall."

For the rest of the dance, they spoke of the Night's Watch. To Jon's confusion, Lady Maris seemed awestruck, as if enduring night after night of battles made him some gallant figure. Lady Florence was even worse.

"You really slew an ice dragon?" she gasped, pressing a hand to her bosom. Was her neckline always so low, or did she just tug it lower? Either way, Jon was grateful that the dance was short. As soon as it ended he retreated to the dais, pleading exhaustion.

To no avail. Lady Florence followed, as did a dozen other ladies and their brothers. They surrounded him, begging for stories. At least Lady Philippa kept his cup full of wine; else he could not have endured the next few hours. No matter how grim and terrible the tale, the ladies kept sighing and fluttering their eyelashes at him, whilst the lordlings and squires gasped and hooted. Thankfully, their mothers and fathers eventually appeared to shoo them off to bed.

All save one, a plump, dimpled girl in one of the simplest gowns Jon had seen. "I'm a bastard too, my lord," she confided, shy. "I'm Selyse Flowers. Lady Olenna told me to keep an eye on you, and make sure you got to bed in one piece."

"No need, my lady," Jon said, rising to his feet. The room spun; when his legs buckled, he had to grab the table to keep from falling.

The next thing he knew, he was leaning against Selyse. Her shoulder was somehow both soft and sturdy, and there were freckles on her chest. "I don't mind," Selyse insisted.

She seemed much nicer than the last Selyse he had met. "You don't have a mustache," Jon said stupidly. He felt very dizzy; each step took immense effort.

Selyse giggled. "No, of course not. Why would I? Here, watch the steps. Don't worry, my lord, it isn't far."

The bedchamber was large and lavish, decorated with colorful tapestries and paintings. Jon staggered toward the bed, too unsteady to let go of Selyse. When he tripped on the edge of the Myrish carpet, they both fell, him with a grunt, her with a breathless laugh.

"You can't sleep down here, my lord," Selyse teased, poking his chest. She smiled, her lips full and pink and—

Jon kissed her. Gentle fingers carded through his hair as Selyse kissed him back, pressing her body against his. As they kissed, their hands wandered. Somehow, he lost his cloak and tunic, leaving him in only a shirt and a pair of breeches. Selyse had no cloak or tunic to lose, but the laces on her bodice had unaccountably come undone. The shift beneath was sheer; he groaned at the sight of the curves of her breasts and the dark buds of her nipples.

Dizzy and overwhelmed, he paused to catch his breath. Selyse was panting too, her eyes bright and her cheeks dimpled. When she wrapped her arms around him, Jon leaned into the embrace. She was as soft as the plush carpet upon which they lay, as warm as the fire flickering in the hearth. Something tender unfurled deep in his chest; it was so long since he had been held like this.

"Selyse, I..." he stopped, unable to grasp hold of his thoughts. He sat up, hoping it would help. "I haven't..."

Selyse gave him a curious look. "You haven't- oh." She hesitated, tentative. "I haven't done this before either," she admitted, "but I liked how you kissed me." She glanced at his breeches, her cheeks pink. "I think you liked it too," she whispered, both nervous and proud.

"I did," Jon rasped. Her eyes sparkled; he could not help pulling her into his lap so he could kiss her again. He should stop, he knew he should, but he couldn't remember why, and he didn't want to. It felt so good to be desired, to be caressed, to be rewarded with sweet, delicate sounds of pleasure when he slipped a hand under her skirts.

"Yes," Selyse gasped into his mouth. "Oh, please."

Then she reached for his laces. Jon stiffened, made sober by sudden panic. He only meant to push her hands away, but the next thing he knew, Selyse was on the floor.

"My lord?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Are you well? Did I hurt you?"

"No," Jon told her. His belly churned; he could taste bile in his throat. Gods, what was wrong with him? A bastard girl was not a lady, but she still had her virtue, and he had almost dishonored her, just as his father had dishonored poor Ashara Dayne.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have- I swore vows, Selyse." I shall take no wife, father no children.

Ygritte had not given a damn for his vows. Selyse, though, Selyse smiled a tremulous smile, dressed herself, and went away, leaving the room colder without her. When Jon slept, he dreamt of death. A woman flung herself from a tower; a man's head thudded down a set of steps, drenching them in blood.

The wolf dreams were worse, sharp and clear in a way the nightmares were not. Gaunt men shivered as they stood watch around a massive host camped in the snow. A freezing wind blew from the north, howling as it yanked at cloaks and swiped at guttering torches. The white wolf bared his fangs in a silent snarl as he stalked after always-frowning-one-paw, his muscles bunching as he prepared to lunge—

"Are you sure you're not ill?" Aegon asked the next morning. They were alone; no one else was either brave or stupid enough to come near Viserion, let alone fetch things from her saddlebags.

"I'm fine," Jon lied. What did it matter if Ghost had saved Dolorous Edd? Only the gods knew how many of his black brothers had already been taken by the Others whilst he was away, feasting and drinking whilst they struggled and starved.

Aegon gave him a look. "If you were any paler, I'd think you were a wight. Was it the wine? I drank too much myself; Lady Alerie did not see fit to inform me how strong the vintage was. Thank the gods I left to pray to the Stranger. Else I would have thrown up in the hall rather than in the chamberpot in my room."

"It wasn't just the wine," Jon muttered. "It was Lady Olenna."

Aegon made a face. "Gods, I can only imagine. Did she scold you for being a bastard, or for being a northman?"

"Neither," Jon snapped angrily. "I don't want to talk about it." Why must Aegon insist on fussing over him?

"Are you sure?" Aegon asked. "Whatever it is, Lady Olenna will probably needle you about it until we leave. Lady Alerie may have her own quarrels with her goodmother, but she also has her pride, and it will do the Night's Watch no favors if you lose your temper at the Queen of Thorns."

Unfortunately, Targaryen had a point.

And so whilst the king inspected his dragon's scales and rubbed the dry spots with oil, Jon tersely recounted what Lady Olenna had told him. How a mystery knight called the Knight of the Laughing Tree had ridden in the tourney at Harrenhal to defend the honor of a mere crannogman. How the beautiful Lady Ashara Dayne had been heard to praise the knight's valor, and that night given the honor of the last dance to the quiet Eddard Stark, even though it was his brother Brandon who had made her laugh. How after Robert's Rebellion Ashara Dayne had flung herself from atop the highest tower at Starfall, and soon after, Ned Stark suddenly had a bastard son, even though it was known that he did not trifle with women, unlike his friend Robert Baratheon.

"My lady mother was never sure whether it was Brandon Stark or Eddard Stark who dishonored Lady Ashara," Aegon finally said. "Either way, it was not Lady Ashara who bore you."

Jon stared at him in disbelief. "What? How could you know that?"

Aegon focused on the dragon, refusing to meet his eyes. "Because," he said, "Lady Ashara entrusted her son to my mother. Gawaen had fair hair and purple eyes; when Mad King Aerys summoned Princess Elia to King's Landing, she presented him in my place. My sister and I were safe in Braavos when Tywin Lannister sacked the city. Gawaen and a girl named Jonquil were not. They were slaughtered in our stead."

There was nothing to say after that. Whoever Jon's mother was, it was not Ashara Dayne.

That should have made it easier to endure Lady Olenna's little comments, but it did not. To his credit, Aegon did his best to keep her away from Jon, and to soften the barbs she aimed at him. Still, at least the old woman had tried to tell him who his mother was, not knowing she was wrong. Lord Eddard knew, but he had never given Jon so much as a hint. No, he was motherless once more, and when they left Highgarden, it was not a moment too soon.

True to their name, the Stormlands proved rainy. Irked by the weather, Viserion was temperamental and unhappy. Aegon was in a strange mood too. Though still considerate, he spoke little, retreating instead into solemn reserve. Annoyingly, Jon found himself regretting the absence of the king's former friendliness. He almost missed how Aegon would try to draw him into conversation about his siblings or about the Watch, or ask if there was anything amiss when he picked at his food, or make terrible japes now and then when they were alone together.

"Lord Peake was complaining for so long, I was sorely tempted to ask a page to fetch him a wheel of cheese," Aegon had said one day.

"Why?" Jon asked.

Aegon grinned, looking much too pleased with himself. "Because he ought to have some cheese to go with his wine."

Jon stared, befuddled. "What wine?"

"No," Aegon groaned. "He wasn't drinking wine. He was whining." He frowned, clearly disappointed. "Sansa would have laughed herself silly," he muttered. And with that, he stalked off, leaving Jon to wonder if someone had hit the king upside the head.

There was no japing on the day they reached Storm's End. It was a forbidding place, even from the air. The curtain wall was massive and thick and unnaturally curved, the stones perfectly joined together. There was only one tower, a colossal drum topped with fearsome battlements. Banners flapped in the wind, two white quills crossed upon a brown field, the sigil of House Penrose. King Aegon had bestowed Storm's End upon Ser Byron Penrose; there were no Baratheons left, save one.

But Aegon had warned Jon not to mention Shireen Baratheon, nor her father. Ser Cortnay Penrose, Lord Byron's sire, had died mysteriously soon after he refused to yield Storm's End to Stannis. The Penroses blamed him, him and his red priestess. They had not been happy when Queen Cersei refused to send ships north to put an end to Stannis, nor when she claimed Storm's End for Tommen.

"My lady aunt nearly had an apoplexy when she told me I was to be made a mere castellan," Lord Byron said as he escorted them into the keep. "Our claim was the strongest by far. My grandmother was Lady Argella Baratheon, sister to Lord Ormund Baratheon. His great-great grandmother was a Baratheon too, and before the Conquest, no house wed more daughters of House Durrandon."

Jon did not give a fig for Lord Byron's lineage, only for the men and supplies he might send north. But Lord Byron seemed determined to speak only to King Aegon, and only about the state of the Stormlands. His wife and aunt were coolly polite; when after the second course they began to speak with him, Jon wished they had remained silent.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed Lady Penrose had been born Lady Cyrenna Morrigen. All three of her elder brothers had died for Stannis, Ser Guyard at the Blackwater and Lord Lester and Ser Richard at the Wall. The only kin she had left were female cousins and a younger bastard brother. Ser Emrys Storm had reclaimed the Crow's Nest from Lord Merlon Crakehall shortly before King Aegon landed. No fool, Ser Emrys had quickly pledged fealty to the new king and been rewarded with a decree of legitimacy.

Or so Jon gathered, after nearly an hour of rambling. As for Lady Ellyn Chelsted, she listened, staring at him intently. A handsome woman in her late forties, Lady Ellyn had greying hair and deep lines about her lips and mouth. Her eyes were daggers; with bitter irony, Jon thought of Stannis, whose gaze had once pierced just as deep.

It was Stannis that Lady Ellyn wished to talk of when she finally spoke. "I was most wroth to hear the Night's Watch had offered him succor," she said, her lips pursed. "Lord Stannis slew my brother Cortnay by some vile sorcery, and when he claimed Storm's End, his witch burned both the godswood and the sept."

"Lord Stannis's men outnumbered my own," Jon replied, choosing his words with care. "The Night's Watch fed and sheltered him, my lady, but we had little choice. His host drove away the wildlings who threatened to break through the Wall. For over three years he helped us defend the Wall; he even went beyond the Wall himself in hopes of forcing battle with the Others."

"No doubt his red priestess decreed it was his destiny." Lady Ellyn's voice was scathing. "Never mind that, Lord Snow. It is not the last years of his life that concern me, it is his death. Some say the red priestess summoned a fire demon which burnt the Nightfort to the ground. Others say it was a monstrous beast made of shadow, a hellhound which claimed the witch for his bride and devoured Stannis in a single bite."

"Neither, my lady." Jon repressed a shudder, trying not to think of that dreadful night. "There was a fire upon the solstice, that much is true, but it was a witchfire. Melisandre meant to hatch a dragon, but her spells went awry. The dragon was born of ice and shadow rather than fire and flesh, and it consumed her."

Lady Ellyn licked her lips. "There was another rumor," she said. "A sailor's tale, terrible beyond belief. They spoke of bloodmagic, of a king willing to slay his own daughter for the sake of power. Yet the girl lived and the father perished, pierced to the heart by a blade of Valyrian steel." She glanced at the wall behind him, where Longclaw and a dozen other swords hung on pegs. "I would gladly reward the man who wielded that sword."

Lord Eddard was a man of honor. Jon Snow was not. Winter was here, and survival mattered more than the truth. "If my lady wishes to show her gratitude," he said, "the Night's Watch would be happy to accept your patronage."

Lord Byron was not nearly so generous as his aunt the next day, not even after a good, long look at the wight heads. Jon wanted to scream at him and the other stormlords; instead he stomped out of the hall in a cold rage. Damn them, damn their excuses, and damn the miserable rain that poured down on him the moment he set foot outside. Swearing, Jon retreated to his chambers. He remained there for the rest of their stay, impatient to be gone.

As soon as Aegon finished handling his lords, they turned south once more. The dark green of the rainwood gave way to the deep blue of the Sea of Dorne, then to the sandy coastline of Dorne itself. The tent seemed to have been forgotten; when Viserion landed, it was at the Tor, whose lady Aegon embraced like an old friend.

There were no embraces for Jon, only looks of curiosity and alarm. He was used to that; it was only fitting for a lord commander who had abandoned his post. The introductions were just finished when a bell tolled, calling the faithful to their prayers. King Aegon and Lady Myria Jordayne made for the sept, leaving Jon in the care of a young squire.

Once the squire had shown him the way to the battlements, Jon dismissed him. He did not need company to stare at the sea and wonder what had befallen his brothers and his men since his last wolf dream. Robb must be haggard from strain, and as for Bran... gods, Bran. He had put on a little weight, but not nearly enough. And he was so strange, so withdrawn, nothing like the sweet boy he used to be. Had that boy died when he fell from the broken tower? Or had Bloodraven slain him in the darkness of his cave?

For a long while Jon brooded, hearing nothing but the waves crashing against the shore. Then, behind him, a set of footsteps, steady and solid.

"There you are," Aegon said. "Lady Myria wishes to ask you about the Night's Watch."

With a curt nod, Jon turned and made for the steps. When the king failed to follow, he glanced back over his shoulder. Aegon stood by the parapet, staring at the horizon. "The view is even lovelier at sunrise," he said, oddly wistful. "The sky blushes gold and rose, and the waves turn purple."

When they left for Sunspear the next morning, the dawn looked just like any other. Jon was far more concerned with the bleak memory of his wolf dreams, and with the dry air as they flew south over the desert. His mouth felt dry as dust, and the day was warmer than it had any right to be.

"This is winter?" Jon demanded when they stopped at an oasis.

"Aye," Aegon said, handing him a waterskin. "And a hard one at that. I shudder to think how cold the sands will be after nightfall. Below freezing, I fear."

After a moment's disbelief, Jon came back to himself. He drained the waterskin, thanking the gods his direwolf was not here. If this was winter in Dorne, he dreaded to think what summer was like. Viserion might enjoy basking her scales in the sun as it beat down, but Ghost would sweat to death beneath his fur.

Jon had no fur, only a black cloak and garb of velvet, wool, and linen. Even so, by the time they reached Sunspear he felt overheated and queasy. He ought to have been grateful. Jon rarely felt truly warm, save with his brothers. And with Aegon, but as the man rode a fire-breathing dragon, that was to be expected.

Instead, Jon felt irritable and unhappy. He did not like the palace and its towers built in the graceful, ornate Rhoynish style. He did not like drinking the brew of honey and lemons which the Dornish called qatarmizat, nor eating the queer foods they favored. The asparagus made his piss stink; the couscous was almost impossible to eat without making a mess.

Worst of all was the lords and ladies. Half of them were kin to the king, so close that in private they called him Olyvar rather than Aegon. And even those who called him Your Grace were elated by King Aegon's return. Princess Arianne Martell threw a feast so extravagant that Jon could barely stomach a bite; Lady Nymeria and Lady Tyene, the king's foster sisters, organized singers and mummers to perform Strongspear the Squire. The ending was rather different than Jon remembered. Rather than finishing with the wedding of Strongspear and the weirwood maid, the play ended with Strongspear mounting a prop dragon and chasing the false queen and the false white knight off stage.

"That was not what happened," Aegon muttered. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were bright red; despite his ill mood, Jon was hard-pressed not to laugh. "Thank the gods my fa-uncle is not here, I would have died of shame." Prince Oberyn Martell had left shortly before they arrived, bound for the Hellholt with a small party of household knights and men-at-arms.

"More than enough to deal with those impudent Uller cousins," Lady Nymeria had sniffed as she shared a cup with a lady whose earrings were sapphire hawks. "Lord Harmen always said he wished for Lady Ellaria to inherit, and now that Olyvar so thoughtfully legitimized her, the Hellholt is hers by right."

Viserion would no doubt have preferred to turn west for the Hellholt rather than north for King's Landing. When they prepared to depart, the she-dragon hissed with outrage as Aegon checked over her saddle and inspected her neck. With the king occupied, it fell to Jon to deal with the saddlebags, packing away the heavy jars in yet more ice and sawdust.

The Dornish lords and ladies had reacted to the sight of the wight heads and the painting of an Other much the same as the lords and ladies of the Stormlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Riverlands. Horror and terror came first, followed by a volley of curses, prayers, and questions. Some pleaded a wealth of excuses; others made extravagant promises of support. Whether the Night's Watch would ever see such support, however...

They do not understand, Jon thought. A day, a week, a moon's turn, and they would forget those burning blue eyes, those snapping teeth. It would be nothing more than a tale for their children. Mayhaps they would realize their folly when they discovered that winter had come to stay. Or mayhaps that day would come when the Others had slain all the people of the North and made them their thralls. Three wights heads in jars were one thing; millions of wights descending past the Neck were quite another.

When they reached King's Landing, Jon felt as dismal as the view from above. The tops of the three high hills were craters, the Red Keep, the Great Sept of Baelor, and the Dragonpit all blown to bits. Buildings crowded side by side, some charred by smoke, others reduced to piles of cinders, leaving great gaps like missing teeth. Dingy snow filled the streets, turned brown and grey and yellow by the filth of the city.

The royal seat on the south side of the Blackwater was no more than a hunting lodge with a timber fort built around it. "Lord Willas dubbed it the Aegonfort," Aegon said, grimacing. "I wish he hadn't, but I was not consulted."

Jon had no idea what to make of that. Not that he had time to reply; there was already a welcoming party awaiting them when they swung down from the saddle. Princess Elia of Dorne sat in a great wheeled chair, her hands stiffly clutching at the armrests. To his bewilderment, Jeyne Poole stood at her side, no longer a little girl but a maiden grown. She dipped a curtsy, as did the maid in Poole livery who had charge of the handles of the wheeled chair.

But it was Princess Rhaenys who stepped forward to make the introductions, as elegant and demure as the black and scarlet velvets which she wore. The lord leaning on a cane was her husband, Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden; the stout, florid older fellow was Lord Mathis Rowan, Hand of the King. And there were others; Ser Gulian Qorgyle, the master of coin; Lord Gerold Grafton, master of ships; Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, the King in the North's envoy to the court of the dragon king.

"Your chambers are ready, and chambers have been prepared for the Lord Commander," Princess Rhaenys was saying to King Aegon. "There is ample time to refresh yourselves before dinner. And perhaps I might have a private word, sweet brother? Our lady mother and I have missed you dearly."

King Aegon's smile had rather more teeth than such a gracious welcome merited. "I'm sure you have," he said, " just as I have missed you. But more urgent matters must come first. How thoughtful of you to gather all the small council to greet me; we may proceed to the council chambers without delay."

Princess Rhaenys barely had time to blink before Aegon took her by the arm. And where the king went, everyone else followed. After a quick rummage in the dragon's saddlebags, Jon trotted after them, eyeing Princess Elia's wheeled chair. Might something similar be made for Bran? But that thought was soon forgotten; he knew why Aegon had summoned this meeting.

"I cannot shout at my own small council," Aegon had told him. "Well, I can, but I'd rather not unless I must. True, I could bellow at them, or cow them with Viserion, but that does not mean they will agree with me, or properly carry out my commands whilst I am away. You, on the other hand..." Aegon smiled grimly. "Well. If they had listened to me earlier, this meeting would not be necessary. As they did not, you have my leave to do your worst."

Yet once the small council was ensconced in their seats, Jon did not know what to say. His rage was gone, leaving only bitterness and despair. What was the point? Even if they listened, any help they sent would be too little, too late. For lack of any better idea, he unveiled the wight head and the painting of the Other without preamble, paying no heed to the gasps and looks of revulsion.

"Now," Jon said, his voice hollow, "imagine hundreds of Others, perhaps thousands. The night is their domain, the winter their ally. No weapon can harm them, save dragonglass. Not that they get close enough to risk their own skins. No, they send their thralls, dead men who know neither fear nor pain."

"We slew all those who besieged Castle Black, and Eastwatch still holds, but the Shadow Tower was overrun. Only the gods know how many wights have passed the Wall; by my best guess, there are no fewer than a hundred thousand at the least. On and on they come, night after night, inexorable. Fire and steel will slay them, but only at great cost. And meanwhile, all those who die whilst the Others or their wights are near? They wake as hollow men, new wights to swell the ranks of their former foes."

Silence fell. Lord Rowan was pale, Princess Rhaenys was still as stone, and Princess Elia was staring at him, her brow furrowed. The rest of the council was staring too, waiting for the lord commander to speak. But Jon could not find his words; he felt weary to the bone, listless and stupid.

"I have seen it myself," King Aegon finally said. "The lord commander bade me watch a man dying in his sickbed. When the Stranger came for him, a holy sister shut his eyes and began the Stranger's Last Prayer. She had not yet finished when the man's eyes opened, blazing blue. He would have throttled the holy sister had the lord commander not struck his head off. Yet still the body thrashed and struggled; the corpse had to be cut to pieces and burned before the fell sorcery released it from its grasp."

King Aegon's face hardened; he straightened his shoulders, his voice shifting deeper. "My lords, these foes are too dangerous to be left unchecked. I have made alliance with King Robb, and we must make haste to join our strength to his."

"King Robb," echoed Ser Gulian Qorgyle, disapproving. "He would not kneel?"

"Dealing with the Others is a more pressing concern," King Aegon said in a tone that brooked no argument. "The Blackfish once told me that the War of the Ninepenny Kings forged the Seven Kingdoms anew. Why should a war for the dawn not do the same? When the war is won, then we may argue over titles."

"And if you leave the North to fight on alone," Jon said quietly, "I fear we shall not win the day. And once we are dead, the Others will have millions of wights with which to assail the Neck and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, and no host ever raised would be able defeat them."

"Even so," said gruff Lord Mathis Rowan, "it will be cursed difficult to persuade His Grace's bannermen to take up arms and leave hearth and home."

"His Grace already thought of that, my lord," Lord Willas Tyrell said dryly. "I doubt we are the first to see these ghastly heads and this unnatural painting, unless I miss my mark."

"I daresay they have been shown at every keep from which His Grace sent us a raven." Princess Rhaenys bowed her head. "His Grace is wise."

When the council meeting ended, Jon lingered for a moment outside the chamber, leaning heavily against the closed door. Why shouldn't he? He was exhausted, and there was no one to stop him. Ser Alyn Estermont of the Kingsguard was asleep, and the men-at-arms charged with guarding the chamber did not seem inclined to argue. Everyone else had gone on their way, save the princess, who had respectfully begged a private word with her brother.

But what Jon heard through the door was anything but respectful.

"Olyvar, you pox-ridden, addlepated, co*ckless coxcomb! Have you the balls of a man or those of a mouse? All you had to do was make Robb Stark kneel, and you couldn't even manage that?"

"It can wait," Aegon- Olyvar? replied. Jon had never heard him so angry; the king was remarkably even-tempered. "I'm sorry for any trouble that will cause whilst I'm away—"

"And after all I've done for you! If you think—"

"Milord?"

Jon turned his head. The speaker was a servant in the green and gold of Highgarden. "If it would please the lord commander," the servant said, "Lord Tyrell is in his solar, and he would be most grateful if you might come speak with him for a little while."

When Jon arrived, Lord Willas was all that was amiable. Soon Jon had a cup of choice wine and a seat by the fire. There was no talk of politics; instead Lord Willas talked of Queen Sansa and Princess Arya, regaling him with tales of what his sisters had been up to before sailing for White Harbor.

"Her Grace was quite pleased to leave," Lord Willas said, smiling. "She longed most ardently for Winterfell. It is only fitting that Queen Sansa bear her child in the home of her youth." He sipped at his wine, then sighed. "If only King Robb would not be so obstinate. After all, the heir to the Iron Throne will be his own nephew. Were he to change his mind and kneel, no doubt the small council would be glad to make concessions. Dorne already enjoys certain privileges; why should the North not share their good fortune?"

Jon was not fool enough to rise to such bait. Instead, he took a small sip of wine and praised the vintage. Lord Willas was quick to take the hint. Smooth as butter, he changed the subject, inquiring as to the health and happiness of his sister Margaery. He was visibly relieved by Jon's answers, and begged the lord commander do him the favor of carrying a few sundry gifts to his sister.

It was no hardship to agree, but it was a hardship to endure the next few days in King's Landing. Jon belonged with his brothers and his men, not feasting with strangers who had never even seen the Wall. The only folk he knew were those in his wolf dreams.

Not that one would know from how King Aegon behaved. The lord commander was invited to accompany him everywhere, and if Jon failed to appear, some gangly squire would appear at his door looking for him. When Jon declined to join the king for dinner on the last night of their stay, the king sent a page, a tiny boy who could not have been more than seven. The boy begged him to attend in a high lisping voice, his enormous eyes shining with admiration.

Jon's head ached, and his belly was all knotted up. Nevertheless, he went. Aegon seemed determined to win his good opinion, and though Robb would be galled to hear it, he was succeeding. Jon could suffer through one more dinner for his goodbrother's sake.

Giddy with victory, the page practically skipped as he escorted the lord commander to dinner. It proved to be a family party. Jon saw Lord Willas and Princess Rhaenys, her cousins Obella Uller and Quentyn Martell, his wife Gwyneth, and a few other Dornish lords and ladies whom Jon did not know. The Blackfish was there too, as was Jeyne Poole, who sat beside him.

The only empty seat was between Aegon and his mother. Aegon smiled, warm as ever. Princess Elia regarded Jon more coolly, and once he apologized for his tardiness, she turned back to her son.

"Now, Olyvar, as I was saying." Her voice was different than it had been in council, slower, with deliberate pauses every few words. "If the frigid air of the North cannot temper Elia's wildness, you may send her back to her mother. I can plan a sept or attempt to improve my hellion of a niece, but I do not have the strength to do both."


"If she's that unruly, I'm surprised you didn't break her foot with your rolling chair," Olyvar said, trying and failing to look serious. Jon was starting to understand why he and Arya got along so well.

Princess Elia frowned. "I considered it, I'm ashamed to say. Alas, she had already taken to wearing steel sabatons over her boots. Seven help Ser Perwyn Truefaith. As Elia has attached herself to Princess Arya, he agreed to help your lady wife keep an eye on her." She sighed. "I would have preferred Valena Toland, but she refused outright."

When Princess Rhaenys drew the king's attention, his lady mother fell silent. Eating seemed to give her some difficulty. Her hands were stiff and awkward, and she moved them with great deliberation, careful not to make a mess of her meal. The servants were clearing away the roast venison and laying out cheese and fruit when Princess Elia finally spoke to him.

"You have your father's look, "she said. A slight frown creased her lips. "Lord Eddard was not one for smiling either, though he never looked so sallow and half starved. My lord should try this sheep's milk cheese; it is from Dorne, and most healthful."

Obediently, Jon cut two portions of cheese, one for himself and one for the princess. "You met my father?"

"Twice." Princess Elia paused to take a long drink of lemonwater. "At Harrenhal, and when he escorted me back to Dorne after the sack. Though he had little reason to smile then. Robert's Rebellion cost me a husband I had come to loathe, an uncle whom I loved, and a pair of friends whom I trusted. Lord Eddard lost a father, a brother, and a sister, though he did not yet know of Lyanna's fate. He wore his grief as openly as his sigil, aye, and his fury too."

"His fury?"

Princess Elia gave him a look. "When Tywin Lannister laid two slaughtered babes before Robert Baratheon, Lord Eddard named it murder. Or so Jon Arryn told me. Lord Arryn was too noble to approve of their deaths, but too sensible to regret them. After all, if they lived, my children might someday rise to challenge his precious Robert. So he did his best to placate me for the deaths of the children he thought were mine, then handed me over to Lord Eddard's keeping and sent me home. Lord Eddard did not object. He was headed south anyway, to lift the siege of Storm's End and search for his lost sister."

The princess shook her head. "How Lord Eddard meant to find her, I shall never know. Luckily for him, when he asked if I know aught of her whereabouts, I was able to tell him precisely where she was. There was an ancient tower in the Red Mountains by the Prince's Pass, small and crumbling yet still beautiful. Ser Arthur Dayne was the one who found it, but Rhaegar was the one who loved it. When they returned from the south with boots caked in red dust, it was not difficult to guess where Rhaegar had caged his little winter rose."

"My aunt Lyanna," Jon said.

The princess nodded. "Poor, foolish girl. I told Lord Eddard if the gods were good, she would lose the babe Rhaegar claimed he had put in her belly. Girls that age oft miscarry, and my faithless lord husband had left her neither maester nor midwife, only a maid to wait upon her. If the babe survived... well. Lord Eddard might have the nerve to shout at his king, but never to defy him. Rhaegar's last babe would not have lasted a fortnight once Robert knew of it."

"Lyanna was with child, my lady?" Jon knew his aunt had been stolen and raped, but little else. It made his father too sad to speak of her. What little he knew he had gleaned from Old Nan, and from some of the less cautious servants. "I never heard that."

"Why should your father wish to speak of his sister's shame? A fever slew her, or so I heard some time later. Some whispered she had died of a broken heart when she learned Rhaegar was dead; others wondered if she had died from whatever torment he inflicted on her."

"What do you think, my lady?" Jon asked, curious.

"I think she miscarried and could not recover from the loss of so much blood. Or perhaps she died in childbed, and the child with her." Princess Elia shrugged. "Whatever happened, none lived to bear witness save Lord Eddard."

"And Howland Reed," Jon remembered faintly. The little crannogman had saved his father's life. Else Ser Oswell Whent would have slain him, as he and Ser Gerold Hightower and their men-at-arms had slain the rest of his father's companions.

Princess Elia frowned. "Whoever that is, I never heard of him. I kept to myself during the journey south, lest my words or actions betray the trick which I had played to save my children's lives. Out of respect for my mourning, Lord Eddard and his northmen gave me a wide berth. One of them even carved me a cane as a gift; in those days I had not yet begun to use a rolling chair."

Jon smiled sadly. "My brother Bran would love to have such a chair. He cannot walk; he broke his back when he was seven. He caught Jaime and Cersei Lannister together, and Jaime flung him out a window."

"I had forgotten that was one of the Lannisters' many crimes," Princess Elia said, her nostrils flaring. "Prince Brandon will have a chair. I shall have my carpenter draw up the plans at once."

Alas, the plans would have to be sent by raven. They left early the next day, the dragon stinking as she always did. Though Jon had thought they would make straight for the north and Robb's host, Olyvar had other ideas. Harrenhal lay betwixt King's Landing and Winterfell, and Olyvar refused to pass it by without stopping to confer with Paul the Pious. He was the only High Septon who yet lived after the destruction of the Starry Sept and the Great Sept of Baelor, at least until someone bothered to elect new ones.

Holy or not, Harrenhal was a grim place. The five towers were ugly and black, their tops turned to molten slag long ago by Balerion's dragonflame. The corpse of another dragon, Rhaegal, lay rotting by the shore of the God's Eye. Viserion screeched and blew a gout of pale flame when they passed over it; Jon had not known a dragon could be smug.

Whilst Olyvar spent a full day in prayer with the High Septon, Jon took refuge in the godswood. Upon being shown the wight heads, Paul the Pious had insisted that the poor souls be laid to rest. Two of the men had followed the new gods, but one had followed the old. Jon burned his head in a firepit, and scattered the ashes before the roots of an enormous heart tree. The weirwood glared down at him, frozen sap dripping from its eyes like tears of blood.

Jon could not remember the last time he truly prayed. The leaves rustled over his head as he knelt, thrusting the point of Longclaw into the earth. His father had often done the same with Ice, praying with his hands clasped around the hilt.

The sun was beginning to set when Jon rose to his feet. His knees were sore, and his cloak fluttered in a warm breeze. Useless as his prayers might be, he had said them all the same, and on the morrow, he would finally return to his men.

Of course, then Olyvar insisted on remaining for a second day to confer with the High Septon. Lacking anything better to do, Jon returned to the godswood. It was peaceful there, and no doubt the faithful were glad to be spared consorting with a heathen. Tired as always, he fell asleep beneath the heart tree, and dreamt of a slender knight with a laughing weirwood on his shield.

When he awoke, Jon thought of his mother.

Bronze Yohn Royce had thought she was a fisherman's daughter from the Sisters; Olenna Tyrell had been certain she was a lady from Dorne. But neither of them were right. Though he hated to admit it, only one explanation accounted for his age and for his father's silence. Jon and Robb were born scant weeks apart; they must have been conceived around the same time. Yet their father had been in the middle of fighting a war; there were no feasts and dances where one could meet comely maids.

Once, long ago, he had nearly throttled Toad for daring to call his mother a whor*. But camp followers were the only sort of women who went to war, old cooks and burly washerwomen and pretty young women who warmed the soldiers' beds. Lady Olenna had thought it would take a great beauty to make Lord Eddard stray, but Jon knew better. What was beauty to a kind heart and a gentle touch, to a moment of comfort amidst death and sorrow? No, Jon could not begrudge his father that.

Jon was in need of comfort himself when they resumed their journey. The further north they flew, the worse the winds blowing down from the north. Viserion shrieked her fury as she struggled to cope with the sudden gusts which threatened to blow her off course; it was a wonder Olyvar could even get her in the air. Urgent business or not, he would have thought the she-dragon would rather eat her rider than submit to flying through such awful weather.

They were near Winterfell when the dragon reached her limit. The north wind was fierce, too fierce for the dragon to fly into it head on. Large as Viserion was, the wind buffeted her about like a puppet on strings. She almost crashed into the armory as she descended, only barely managing an ungainly landing in the inner yard.

"You'll have to ride the rest of the way to the host," Olyvar told him, looking increasingly alarmed by the flurries beginning to fall. "Thank the gods Viserion had that aurochs last night. The day is still young; with a tailwind and a full belly, she should have enough strength to get to Sansa, sick as she is. I thought we had more time..." Olyvar's hand went to his face, touching the blemishes on his forehead with a look of dismay.

"Sansa?" Jon asked, confused. "Who's sick?"

If Olyvar heard him, he did not care to answer. The moment Jon's feet touched the ground, the dragon took flight, this time with only one rider on her back. And not a moment too soon. The flurries were already thickening; by nightfall, he feared it might turn into a blizzard.

This time, Queen Margaery did not appear to greet him. It was now the second day of seventh moon, and her babe was expected by the end of the month. As such, she had entered her confinement. Alys Karstark welcomed him instead, as she was one of the few ladies not keeping the queen company.

"Prince Rickon is at his lessons, but he will be very pleased to see you once they are over," Lady Alys told him as she led him into the Great Keep. "You are not our only unexpected guest; Lord Howland Reed arrived last night."

"Oh?" Jon could not recall Lord Reed ever visiting Winterfell before. "What brings him here?"

Lady Alys gave him a look of pity. "He has come to wait for his children." Her voice was low and sad. "They are with King Robb's host, he said."

Jon winced, then a sudden impulse seized him. "Take me to him," he said. Jojen had died for Bran; assuring Lord Reed that his daughter Meera was on the mend seemed the least he could do.

They found Lord Howland in the godswood, sitting cross-legged amongst the roots of the heart tree. He was a small, slight man, with mossy green eyes and a thatch of greying brown hair. In place of furs he wore layer upon layer of wool. His cloak was embroidered with swirling runes, and pinned by a bronze lizard-lion.

As soon as she had made the introductions, Lady Alys took her leave. Her steps made no sound on the soft floor of the godswood. There was no sound at all, save the rustling of the trees in the wind and the noise of his own breath. The hot pools were breathing too, their steam rising to meet the falling snow.

It felt wrong to break the silence, but break it he must. Jon's tongue felt clumsy and awkward as he spoke of Lady Meera, trying to remember everything of importance which he had seen or heard. "Maester Turquin believes she will make a full recovery, now that the danger is past," Jon told him.

"No doubt he speaks of her body, not her spirit." Lord Howland sighed. There was a weirwood leaf in his hands, red as blood. Slowly, carefully, the crannogman pulled it to pieces that fell into his lap. "I thank you, Lord Snow, nonetheless."

Jon knew a dismissal when he heard it. Yet he hesitated, wondering.

"My lord?"

"Howland," the crannogman said absently.

"Howland," Jon continued. "Could I- if- you rode south with my father."

The crannogman looked up, his face as blank as a mask, his eyes keen. "So I did, long ago. The Lord of Winterfell called his banners; I had no choice but to join him."

"You followed him throughout the war," Jon insisted. "You followed him all the way to Dorne, and saved his life from the Kingsguard."

Howland smiled without humor. "A knight is naught but a fish, once you catch it in a net."

"You were close to Lord Eddard," Jon went on, stubborn. "Perhaps closer than anyone else." He hesitated, gathering all his nerve. "I want you to tell me about my mother."

"No," Howland said softly. "You don't. Let the past be forgotten; it will bring you only grief."

"Who are you to tell me what I want?" Jon said hotly. "I've spent years wondering about my mother, from the moment I first realized I did not have one. I must have asked my father about her a thousand times, but he would not even say her name. Now he is dead, and there is no one I can ask but you." His voice broke. "Please, I don't care that she was a camp follower, just tell me something, anything, even if all you knew was her name."

"Your mother was not a camp follower," Howland said sharply. "The truth is far kinder and far crueller than that."

"What?" Jon did not understand.

And then, to his vast bewilderment, Howland began telling him the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. "I already know this story," Jon interrupted. "I heard it from Bran, who heard it from Meera. And then I heard it again from Lady Olenna Tyrell, of all people."

"Patience," Howland said. His eyes were distant, and he had begun to shred another weirwood leaf. "A tale may grow in the telling. The shape changes, the color blurs. Dull truth gives way to fanciful falsehood; dogs become wolves, lizard-lions become dragons."

Yet at first, the tale seemed much the same. A crannogman left his swamp, intent on finding adventure in the world beyond. The Isle of Faces was his first destination, Harrenhal his second. A great tourney was being held there, the sort men would tell their children about.

"But the southron men looked down upon a man from the crannogs," Jon said. "Three squires set upon him, cursing him and beating him until a wolf came to drive them off."

"A she-wolf," Howland corrected. "Lady Lyanna of House Stark. She was yet a girl, slender as a sapling, but she was tall and hale for a maid. She beat them with a tourney sword, and brought me back to her tent to bind my wounds and meet her brothers."

Lyanna was not the sort of lady to tolerate an insult to her father's bannerman, no matter that he was a stranger from the crannogs. By the time she finished tending his hurts, she had decided Howland was under her protection, much to her brothers' amusem*nt. Clothes were found for him so that he might attend the feast, and by the end of it, he was fast friends with all the young Starks. When Lyanna pointed out the squires who had abused him, young Benjen offered to find him horse and armor so he might challenge them. Howland declined that offer, but he accepted Eddard's invitation to share his tent.

In the morning, Howland had risen bright and early to watch the jousting. When he went to the stands, the only Stark he found was Brandon, the eldest. "The others drank too much," he laughed. "They're still abed."

That could not be true; when Howland left the tent, Eddard's bedroll had been empty. Yet he said nothing, unwilling to break confidence with his new friend. When the jousts began, young Benjen was the only one to join them in time. Eddard's stomach had taken an ill turn, no doubt from indulging the night before. Alas, he was stuck in the privy, and likely to remain there until the jousting ended. Lyanna was sick too; the same dish must have made both of them ill.

Brandon had accepted the tale without question, but Howland wondered. When the Knight of the Laughing Tree appeared, his doubt became certainty.

"And then my father defeated all three knights whose squires had attacked you," Jon finished, "and asked no ransom save that they teach their squires honor."

"No," Howland said. "Benjen knew well enough to mix a falsehood with a truth. Lord Eddard was sick, so sick that he never touched a dish spiced with juniper again."

Jon frowned. "But if my father was sick, he couldn't joust. The only one who could joust would be..."

"Lyanna." Howland smiled sadly. "Later, she told me that she had jousted against Benjen now and then for sport, though only when their lord father was away. She was much better with her horse than with the lance, but just good enough to defeat three middling knights. Afterwards, I wished to the gods that she had lost."

"Why?" The Knight of the Laughing Tree was a fine tale, and that a maid should defeat three knights only made it better.

"Because, lad," Howland said. "Had Lyanna not won renown that day, then Rhaegar would never have thought to seek out the Knight of the Laughing Tree when he vanished, nor crown Lyanna his Queen of Love and Beauty."

"So?" Jon demanded. "What does any of that have to do with my mother?"

"It has everything to do with your mother," Howland said, "because your mother was Lyanna."

For a moment Jon stared, dull as a stump. Then, slowly, cold realization trickled down his spine. His stomach churned; he reeled back, horror-struck, and tripped over a root. He bit his tongue as he fell, filling his mouth with coppery blood. Howland was saying something, but Jon could not hear him, only the blood thrumming in his ears.

The next thing he knew, he was in the stables. Jon could not stay here, not for another moment. When Hodor brought him a horse, he leaped into the saddle and dug his heels into the horse's flank. The horse bolted out the stable door; it was a miracle that he did not trample the little crannogman in his haste.

It was not difficult to leave Winterfell. Guards tripped over each other to fling open the gate, eager to obey the King in the North's brother. But I'm not, Jon thought, trying desperately to hold back the sob threatening to rip its way out of his throat.

He failed. An awful, keening sound escaped him, as high and shrill as the wind screaming in his face. The snow was so thick he could scarce see the kingsroad, but that didn't matter. He had no place at Winterfell, he had no place anywhere, save with his men.

And if he died trying to reach them, so be it.