The tower room smelled of sickness and despair, heavy with the bitter herbs Maester Luwin burned to ward off fever. Jon paused in the doorway, his hand tightening on the rough stone frame. Lady Stark sat where she had for days now, her auburn hair unkempt, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping and lack of sleep. She didn't look up at his entrance, her gaze fixed on Bran's still form beneath the furs.
He looked so small in that great bed. Not the boy who'd scrambled up towers like a squirrel, who'd never fallen, not once. Never until...
Jon forced the thought away. He'd come to say goodbye, nothing more. Yet standing there, watching his little brother's chest rise and fall with shallow breaths, the words stuck in his throat.
"I've come to say farewell to Bran," he managed finally.
Lady Catelyn's voice could have frozen the summer sea. "You've said it."
The dismissal cut deeper than he'd expected, though he should have been used to it by now. Still, he took a step into the room. "I'm leaving for the Wall today."
"Good." Her eyes never left Bran's face. "Leave us."
Jon lingered, something burning in his chest that tasted of defiance. Of the wolf's blood his uncle spoke of. "Please," he said softly.
That single word finally made her look at him, her Tully-blue eyes as cold as the winter winds. "I want you to leave," she said, each word precise as a dagger thrust. "We don't want you here."
We. The word echoed in his head like a death knell. Not I, but we. As if she spoke for all of Winterfell, all of the Starks. As if she could erase sixteen years of shared meals and lessons and games in the godswood with a single pronoun.
For a moment, he imagined saying all the things he'd bitten back over the years. Imagined demanding why she hated him so, when he'd never asked to be born. Imagined telling her how he'd learned to walk softly and speak carefully, how he'd made himself smaller just to ease her fear that he might somehow overshadow her precious trueborn sons.
But looking at her ravaged face, the way her hands clutched Bran's still ones, he couldn't do it. Whatever sins lay between them, her pain was real. And he was leaving anyway.
So he swallowed the words unsaid and moved to Bran's bedside. Careful not to brush against Lady Stark, he bent and kissed his brother's forehead. "I would have taken your place if I could," he whispered.
"It should have been you."
The words hit like a physical blow. Jon straightened slowly, meeting Lady Stark's gaze. The hatred there was naked now, stripped of all courtly pretense.
He should have felt anger. Instead, he felt only a deep, hollow sadness. "Goodbye, Lady Stark," he said quietly, and left without another word.
Ghost was waiting in the corridor, silent. Jon buried his fingers in his thick white fur, letting the contact steady him. "Come on, boy," he murmured. "We've one more farewell to make."
He found Arya in her chamber, supposedly packing for the journey south. In reality, she was just throwing things randomly into trunks while Nymeria watched from beneath the bed.
"Shouldn't you be on your way to the Wall?" she demanded when he entered, but her voice wavered.
"I'm not leaving without giving my favorite sister her gift."
"I'm not your favorite," she said automatically. "Sansa is everyone's favorite."
"Sansa?" Jon made a show of considering it. "Tall girl, red hair, always saying 'oh my prince' and swooning?"
That got a reluctant giggle. "She doesn't swoon... much."
Jon pulled the slender package from behind his back. "Well, I suppose she'll have to do without this, then."
Arya's eyes lit up. She snatched the bundle from his hands and tore away the oiled cloth, revealing the slender blade within. Her gasp of delight made all the secret arrangements with Mikken worth it.
"This is a proper sword," she breathed, running her fingers along the steel.
"As slim and quick as you are," Jon agreed. "You'll have to practice every day." He demonstrated the proper grip, adjusting her fingers. "And first lesson – stick them with the pointy end."
"I know which end to use!" She punched his arm, then suddenly threw herself at him in a fierce hug. "I'm going to miss you."
Jon held her tight, breathing in the scent of her hair – horses and hay and just a hint of the soap Septa Mordane was always trying to get her to use. Of all his siblings, Arya was the one who truly understood what it meant to be different.
"I'm going to miss you too, little sister." He ruffled her hair. "Try not to stab Sansa with Needle."
"Needle?"
"That's its name. All the best swords have names."
"Like Ice," she said solemnly, then grinned. "Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I've got a better one now."
A shadow in the doorway made them both turn. Robb stood there in a fur-trimmed cloak.
"Time to go," he said softly.
The courtyard was chaos – horses being saddled, supplies loaded, men shouting orders. Jon found his mount already prepared, Ghost waiting patiently beside it. As he checked the straps one final time, Robb's voice came from behind him.
"Did you say goodbye to Bran?"
Jon's hands stilled on the leather. "Yes."
"He's not going to die," Robb said fiercely. "I know it."
"No." Jon turned to face his brother – his best friend, his first rival, the boy he'd grown beside like a shadow. "He's a Stark. Starks are hard to kill."
Something flickered in Robb's eyes. "When I'm Lord of Winterfell, I'll visit you on the Wall," Robb said suddenly. "We'll hunt beyond it together, like the old kings used to do."
Jon smiled, though his heart ached. "Careful. I might have taken the black by then."
"You'll always be my brother." Robb's embrace was fierce, crushing. "No matter what vows you take."
Over Robb's shoulder, Jon caught sight of his father watching from the covered bridge. Lord Stark's face was heavy with something that might have been regret. Their eyes met for a long moment before his father nodded once.
'The next time I see you, we'll speak about your mother. I promise.'
Jon wanted to believe it. He really did.
"Ready?" Benjen asked.
Before Jon could answer, another voice cut in. "Oh, surely you weren't planning to leave without me?"
Tyrion Lannister waddled up, mounted on a specially-made saddle that somehow managed to look both practical and absurd. "I've always wanted to piss off the edge of the world," the dwarf announced cheerfully. "And where better to do it than the Wall?"
Jon couldn't help but smile. Trust the Imp to make even a journey to the end of the world sound like some grand jest.
As they rode through the Hunter's Gate, Jon turned in his saddle for one last look at Winterfell. Home, and not home. Beginning, and ending.se now, something yet to be defined. And whatever lay ahead, he would meet it as a wolf of the N
The wolf's blood stirred in his veins, calling him north. To what, he didn't know. But as they crested the first hill and Winterfell disappeared behind them, Jon Snow felt something shift inside him, like ice breaking in spring floods.
The kingsroad stretched before them like a muddy brown snake, winding its way north through hills dusted with the first hints of autumn snow.
"Seven hells, does it ever get warmer up here?" Tyrion Lannister complained, pulling his furs tighter around his stunted frame. "I'm beginning to think the Starks have ice in their veins instead of blood."
"You get used to it," Benjen Stark replied mildly, though Jon caught the hint of amusement in his uncle's dark eyes. "Though most who take the black find the Wall somewhat... bracing at first."
"The Wall." Tyrion shook his head. "Eight thousand years old, if the legends are true. Seven hundred feet of pure ice stretching from coast to coast. Tell me, Stark, do your rangers ever piss off the top of it? I've always wondered if a man's water would freeze before it hit the ground."
"Some questions are better left unanswered, Lannister."
"Oh come now, where's your sense of scientific inquiry? I've read every book in Casterly Rock's library about the Wall, but none mention its... practical uses." Tyrion's mismatched eyes glittered with mischief. "Though I did find some fascinating accounts of the things that supposedly lurk beyond it. Ice spiders big as hounds, giants riding mammoths, dead men who walk..." He waved a hand dismissively. "Though I suppose these days you're more concerned with wildling raiders than grumkins and snarks?"
Benjen's face grew serious. "The free folk are the least of our worries. Whole villages abandoned overnight, rangers gone missing..." He trailed off, then forced a smile. "But you didn't come north to hear an old crow's troubles."
"No indeed. I came north to see the edge of the world and hopefully avoid dying of boredom at yet another royal feast." Tyrion produced a wineskin from his saddlebag. "Speaking of which – care to warm your blood, Stark? It's Dornish red, none of that watered northern swill."
As the two men traded the skin back and forth, Jon let his thoughts wander. His father's promise burning heavy in his mind; Next time we see each other, we'll talk about your mother...
A sudden pain lanced through Jon's head, sharp as a blade of ice. The world tilted sideways, colors bleeding together like wet paint. For a heartbeat, he was somewhere else entirely – soaring over endless snow fields, while below him a massive white tree reached skeletal branches toward a blood-red sky. A raven perched in its uppermost branches, regarding him with three burning eyes...
"QUORK!" The harsh cry echoed in his skull, and suddenly he was staring into those eyes, falling into their crimson depths while whispers like rustling leaves filled his mind...
"Snow? You look like you've seen a ghost – though I suppose that's redundant in your case."
Tyrion's voice snapped Jon back to reality. He blinked, the phantom images dissolving like morning mist. His head still throbbed, but the strange vision was already fading.
"I'm fine," he managed. "Just... tired."
"Tired? Gods, boy, you're young enough to be tireless! When I was your age, I could drink all night, fight all day, and still find energy to tumble a willing wench or three." Tyrion grinned wickedly. "Speaking of which, tell me you're not really planning to waste your youth freezing your balls off at the Wall? There's a whole world out there waiting to be tasted!"
"The Night's Watch is an honorable calling," Benjen said sharply.
"Oh, absolutely. Very honorable. Also bloody cold, bloody boring, and effectively the same as cutting off your cock – which I'm rather attached to, personally." Tyrion took another long pull from the wineskin. "You should see King's Landing first, Snow. The brothels of the Street of Silk, the wine sinks of Flea Bottom, the tournaments where a man can win glory and gold... Seven hells, even the library of the Red Keep would be worth your time. Did you know they have scrolls dating back to Old Valyria?"
Despite himself, Jon felt a flicker of interest. "Truly?"
"Dragonlore, battle histories, even a few books of spells – though those are probably less useful these days." Tyrion's eyes gleamed. "The world's full of wonders, boy. Why rush to lock yourself away from them?"
"Some of us serve a higher purpose than seeking pleasure," Benjen said, though there was more resignation than heat in his voice.
"And how's that working out for you, Stark? Keeping the realm safe from..." Tyrion waved vaguely northward. "Whatever it is you guard us from these days?"
Something dark crossed Benjen's face. "Mock if you will, Lannister. But winter is coming."
"So your family keeps telling us. Rather obsessively, I might add." Tyrion offered the wineskin to Jon. "Here, Snow. You look like you could use it more than me at the moment."
Jon accepted it gratefully, letting the rich Dornish red wash away the last echoes of his strange episode. The sun was sinking now, painting the snow-dusted hills in shades of gold and crimson. Soon they would need to make camp.
Ghost had ranged ahead, but now the direwolf returned, silent. His red eyes met Jon's, and for a moment that strange double-vision threatened to return – but then Ghost simply pressed against his leg.
"Remarkable creatures, direwolves," Tyrion mused, watching them. "I don't suppose you'd consider selling this one? I've always wanted a fearsome beast of my own. Might help make up for my... abbreviated stature."
"Ghost isn't for sale," Jon said quietly.
"No? Pity. Though I suppose a lion should know better than to try to buy a wolf." Tyrion stretched, his shadow grotesque in the failing light. "Well, I believe I'll find a convenient bush to water. Don't talk about anything too interesting while I'm gone."
As the dwarf waddled away, Benjen turned to Jon. "The headache – it's passed?"
Jon started. "How did you...?"
"I saw your face. Like you were seeing something that wasn't there." Benjen's eyes were sharp.
Before Jon could reply, Tyrion returned, already launching into a ribald story about a honeycomb, a jackass, and a brothel. But as darkness fell and they made camp beneath the stars, Jon found himself watching the shadows between the trees.
Ghost curled beside him as he drifted off, and in his dreams, a three-eyed raven watched him with eyes like burning coals, while all around them, the snows fell and fell and fell...