The yard rang with the clash of steel on steel, though calling it swordplay would have been generous. Jon watched from the covered walkway as Ser Alliser Thorne circled his spar mate – a scrawny boy from Flea Bottom who couldn't have seen more than fourteen namedays. The boy's practice sword shook in his grip, his stance so wrong it made Jon's teeth ache.
"Is this what your whore of a mother taught you about swordplay?" Thorne's voice cut through the morning chill. "Or did she spend too much time on her back to teach you anything at all?"
The boy lunged wildly, rage overwhelming what little technique he possessed. Thorne stepped aside almost lazily, bringing his own blade down across the boy's shoulders with a crack that echoed off the ancient walls. The yard fell silent save for the boy's muffled sobs.
"Get up," Thorne spat. "The wildlings won't wait for you to finish crying."
Ghost pressed against Jon's leg, silent, but he could feel the direwolf's tension matching his own. Days at Castle Black had stripped away most of his boyhood fantasies about the Night's Watch. Oh, there were still men of honor here – Lord Commander Mormont carried himself with the same dignity as Father, and Maester Aemon's wisdom seemed to flow from some ancient, untapped spring. But for every true brother, there were three like Thorne – broken men, bitter men, men who took out their frustrations on the recruits they were meant to train.
The practice yard at Winterfell swam before his eyes – another morning, when he'd finally had enough of Thorne's mockery. The master-at-arms had been visiting to assess potential recruits, and had taken particular delight in needling the Bastard of Winterfell.
"Still suckling at your lady mother's teats?" Thorne had sneered after Jon disarmed yet another opponent. "Oh wait – you wouldn't know about that, would you, Snow?"
The wolf's blood had roared in his ears then, drowning out everything else. He remembered moving, remembered the look of shock on Thorne's face as Jon's practice blade found the gap in his guard again and again. When he finally forced the older man to yield, the yard had been dead silent.
"Not bad," Thorne had said finally, wiping blood from his split lip. "For a bastard." But there had been something new in his eyes when he looked at Jon after that – not respect, exactly, but awareness.
"You're brooding again."
Jon started at Sam's voice beside him. The heavyset boy had appeared as quietly as Ghost sometimes did, for all his size. Three days of friendship had done little to ease Sam's nervous manner, but Jon had discovered a sharp mind behind the stuttering and the self-deprecation.
"Not brooding," Jon said. "Thinking."
"About going beyond the Wall?" Sam's round face creased with worry. "Jon, you can't possibly–"
"I can and I will." Jon kept his voice low – he didn't need word getting back to his uncle that he was bragging about their upcoming ranging. "My uncle agreed."
"After you wore him down like water on a stone," Sam muttered, showing a flash of the wit that usually hid behind his fear. "I heard you arguing in the Lord Commander's tower last night."
"I'm not asking to take the black," Jon had insisted, following his uncle up the winding stairs. "Just to see what's out there. If you won't let me join now, at least show me what I'd be joining."
Benjen had turned then, his long face grave in the torchlight. "The lands beyond the Wall are not some adventure from Old Nan's stories, Jon. Men die out there. Good men."
"I know the risks."
"Do you?" Benjen's voice had turned sharp. "Or do you just think you do, the way all young men think they know everything?"
But Jon had seen the wavering in his uncle's eyes. "You're going to the Fist of the First Men. Let me come that far, at least. I'll do whatever you say, follow whatever orders you give. Please, Uncle."
Benjen had been silent for a long moment. "Your father will have my head for this," he'd said finally. "But very well. To the Fist and no further. And you'll have an extra ranger with you for the return journey – I won't risk you getting lost out there."
"He's taking Othor and Jafer Flowers," Sam said now, watching as Thorne finally tired of tormenting his victim. "And Gared for your return escort. They're experienced rangers, but still..."
"Still what?"
Sam licked his lips nervously. "Things are... different out there now. The wildlings are abandoning their villages. Rangers are going missing. Even the Old Bear seems worried, though he tries to hide it."
"All the more reason to see for myself." Jon watched as the next pair of recruits took their places in the yard. "How can I decide whether to join the Watch if I don't know what I'm really joining for?"
"Most people who join the Watch don't get that choice," Sam said quietly. "They're sent here, or they run here, or they choose between this and death." He paused. "Like me."
Jon turned to look at his friend properly. Sam had told him fragments of his story over the past few days – enough to make Jon's blood boil at the thought of Randyll Tarly and his ultimatum to his eldest son. Take the black or suffer a "hunting accident," all because Sam preferred books to swords.
"That's why the Watch needs men like us," Jon said. "Men who choose it freely. Men who want to serve."
"If you truly want to serve," came a cold voice behind them, "you can start by joining the rest of these sorry excuses for recruits."
They turned to find Ser Alliser watching them, his dark eyes glittering with malice. "Or are you too good to train with common criminals, Lord Snow?"
The old rage stirred in Jon's chest, but he forced it down. "Not at all, ser. I was just..."
"Hiding up here with the fat boy?" Thorne's smile never reached his eyes. "I remember when the Night's Watch was home to warriors and heroes. Now all they get are thieves, rapers, and high-born bastards who think they're too precious to get their hands dirty."
Jon felt Sam trembling beside him, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the tension.
"Leave them be, Thorne." Benjen Stark emerged from the armory, his black cloak swirling in the morning breeze. "My nephew's not here to train under you."
"No? Then why is he here? To grace us with his bastard presence?"
"He's here to learn," Benjen said quietly. "Though what he's learning may not be what he expected." He turned to Jon. "We ride at first light tomorrow. I suggest you both get some rest."
As his uncle strode away, Jon felt Sam's hand on his arm. "Jon, please... be careful out there. The stories my father's huntsmen used to tell about the lands beyond the Wall..."
"I'll be fine, Sam." Jon managed a smile, though his friend's obvious fear was infectious. "I have Ghost. Uncle Benjen. And three experienced rangers."
And the journey came soon.
The morning they rode out was sharp and clear, the kind that made Jon's breath crystallize in the air before him.
"Keep close," Benjen called from the head of their small column. "The forest has its own ideas about paths, and not all of them lead where you'd expect."
Jon nudged his mount forward, careful to maintain the formation Benjen had drilled into them before departure. Othor rode just ahead, he was gruff silence completely different compared to Jafer, who was a ever flowing steady stream of chatter. Gared brought up the rear, scarred face impassive beneath his heavy hood.
"Seven save me from green boys who've never seen snow," Jafer was saying, though there was more amusement than malice in his voice. "Remember that recruit last month? The one who thought he could eat snow instead of carrying water?"
"Aye," Othor grunted. "Spent three days pissing every hour. Thought his cock would freeze off."
"The cold's not kind to southron foolishness," Benjen agreed. "Though I seem to recall a certain young ranger who tried to warm his hands on his horse's breath during his first ranging."
Jafer's laugh echoed through the trees. "That was different! I was young and stupid then."
"As opposed to now, when you're old and stupid?" Othor shot back.
Jon found himself smiling despite the biting cold.
The haunted forest pressed close around them, ancient trees crowned with frost. Jon had expected to feel afraid – this was the stuff of Old Nan's darkest tales, after all. But there was a strange beauty to it, somewhat, but not entirely, it reminded him of the godswood at Winterfell.
"Uncle," he called, guiding his horse carefully around a fallen log. "How do you find your way out here? Everything looks the same."
Benjen reined up, waiting for Jon to draw even with him. "Watch the trees," he said, pointing. "See how the frost forms heavier on the north side? And look there – the way those branches grow, reaching for the sun. Every tree tells a story, if you know how to read it."
"And if you can't read the trees," Jafer added with a wink, "there's always the stars. Course, that only works if you can see the bloody things."
"Which is why we maintain supplies at specific points," Benjen continued. "Caches of food, dry wood, basic necessities. Speaking of which..." He shared a look with Othor that Jon couldn't quite interpret.
They came to a small clearing where the snow lay pristine and untouched. Benjen dismounted, gesturing for Jon to do the same. "There's a cache near here that needs checking. Want to try finding it?"
Jon scanned the clearing, remembering his uncle's words about reading the trees. Nothing seemed obviously different, but... "There," he said, pointing to a massive oak whose roots formed a natural hollow. "Under those roots?"
"Good eye," Benjen praised. "Go ahead and check it."
Jon approached the hollow, Ghost at his heels. The direwolf's ears were pricked forward, but he showed no sign of tension. Still, something about the situation made the hair on Jon's neck stand up. He knelt, reaching into the darkness...
"GODS BE GOOD!" Jafer's voice cracked like thunder. "THE WIGHTS ARE ON HIM!"
Jon leaped back with a strangled yelp, only to find the clearing filled with laughter. Even Ghost looked amused, if a wolf could look amused.
"Your face!" Jafer wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Oh, that was perfect. Just perfect."
"We do that to all the new rangers," Othor explained, actually smiling for once. "Though usually they draw steel first and shit themselves second, not the other way around."
"You should have seen your uncle's face his first time," Gared added unexpectedly. "Screamed like a girl and fell in a snowbank."
"I did not," Benjen protested, though his eyes danced with mirth. "I executed a tactical retreat."
"Is that what they're calling it now?" Jafer grinned. "Come on, lad. There's actually supplies in there, once you're done having heart failures."
The cache, when Jon finally checked it, contained dried meat, firewood, and several sealed jars of what smelled like strong spirits. They replenished what needed replenishing, Benjen explaining the importance of maintaining these lifelines while the other rangers shared stories of times the caches had saved their lives.
As they rode on, the forest grew deeper, darker. The rangers' banter faded into watchful silence, broken only by the crunch of hooves in snow and the whisper of wind through branches. Jon found himself studying everything with new eyes – not just the frost patterns his uncle had shown him, but the way the horses moved, the subtle signs Ghost gave when he caught an interesting scent.
"Why do you range?" he asked during a brief rest, watching Benjen check their bearings against the wan sunlight filtering through the canopy. "I mean, beyond watching for wildlings. What are you looking for?"
Something flickered across his uncle's long face – concern? Fear? But it was gone before Jon could be sure. "Changes," Benjen said finally. "Patterns. Things that don't fit. The wildlings are part of it, aye. But there's more to the North than wildlings."
"Like what?"
"Like why entire villages are being abandoned," Gared cut in, his scarred face grave. "Why game is moving south in numbers we haven't seen in centuries. Why the cold feels... different."
"Different how?"
But Gared just shook his head, touching the stub where his ear had been with an almost unconscious gesture.
They rode on as the day waned, the forest growing stranger. White trees that weren't weirwoods stretched their pale limbs skyward, their bark seeming to glow in the fading light. Snow fell in lazy spirals, but the flakes were oddly shaped, almost crystalline, catching what little light remained and throwing back prismatic flashes.
"Pretty," Jafer commented. "Like the stories say the Others' crown was, all twisted ice and cold fire..."
"Save the ghost stories for Castle Black," Benjen cut in sharply. "We've another hour's ride before we make camp."
But Jon couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. The forest felt... aware, somehow. Even Ghost seemed to feel it, pressing closer to Jon's horse than usual. The direwolf's breath came out in clouds that hung strangely in the air, not dispersing as they should.
He was about to mention it to his uncle when Othor suddenly made a wet, choking sound.
Jon's voice stilled in his throat.
He turned just in time to see something sharp, thin as bone, and glimmering like the edge of a glacier—punched through Othor's chest, breaching from his back in a glistening, jagged shard.
For a moment, the world seemed to freeze.
The sounds around them vanished, leaving only the ragged sounds of Othor trying to breathe around the ice lodged in his chest. Jon felt every heartbeat thud dully in his ears, matching the shallow, struggling gasps that broke from Othor's throat.
It seemed as though the blood itself recoiled from the spear, the warmth of it hissing and popping as it met the unyielding ice.
Othor's hands twitched on the reins, and for a second, Jon thought he saw the ranger try to reach for the weapon, as if it were nothing more than a splinter he could pull free. His gloved fingers stretched and clawed, just inches from the spike, before falling away, limp.
Othor's mouth worked, opening and closing soundlessly, and Jon thought he might say something—some last words to cling to, a prayer, a curse—but nothing came. Only that terrible look, the stunned disbelief frozen on Othor's face. And with a sickening wet crunch, he toppled sideways from his saddle.
Then the horses screamed, and time snapped back into motion.
"Othor!"