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Chapter Text

Jon POV

On their eighteenth night on the Kingsroad, Jon and the rest of the party heading to the Wall set up camp in a clearing just off the road. The density of the population this far north made it unlikely to find an inn.

The Lannister mascs who accompanied Tighearna Tyrion complained about sleeping in the cold until Brathairathar Benjen put his foot down. Jon, Aly, and Jarrad silently laugh at the Southron knights as they moved around the camp.

Yoren, a Black Brother who had joined them several days prior, walked by them with the three mascs he had recruited in the South. “Sit,” he tells them gesturing to another fire nearby. “You’ll be fed.” Each of the mascs leer at the three fems as they trudge past. Jon instinctively reaches down into his boots and clutches the hilts of Wolf’s Fangs.

“Rapers,” Tyrion Lannister said from his place across their fire. “They were given a choice no doubt: castration or the Wall. Most choose the knife.”

“Why do you read so much?” Jarrad asks suddenly. And Jon couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. He himself didn’t mind reading, but it seemed every time they stopped, the dwarf had his nose buried in a new book.

Tighearna Tyrion sighed. “Look at me and tell me what you see.”

“Is this a trick?” Aly growled.

“What you see is a dwarf,” Tighearna Tyrion said looking at them over his book. “If I’d been born a peasant they might’ve left me out in the woods to die. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Things are expected of me. My father was Hand of the King for twenty years.”

“Until your brother killed that king,” Jon says.

“Until my brother killed him.” Tyrion agreed setting down his book. “Life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king, and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my house, wouldn’t you agree? But how? Well, my brother has his sword, and I have my mind. And a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone. That’s why I read so much.” He nods at Jarrad before turning to Jon. “And you? What’s your story, bastard.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll tell you, dwarf.”

Tighearna Tyrion smiles. “A bastard fem with no future, until his alpha half-brother claims him. And yet he rides for the Wall with his handmaidens.”

“I am the Luna of House Stark,” Jon bristles. “Robb and I are True Mates. That’s as good as being bonded in the eyes of the North. The only reason we haven’t done so yet is because Lady Catelyn asked us to wait.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“She knew that as Alpha and Luna of House Stark we would have very little time left to be children. She wanted us to hold off on adding the responsibilities of a bonded pair until we were older.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure that was Lady Stark’s only reason,” Tighearna Tyrion smiles knowingly.

Jon knows he’s wrong, Baintighearna Catelyn has come to accept him, respect him even. But Jon can’t help the small bit of doubt blossoming in his chest.

“Everything’s better with some wine in the belly,” Tighearna Tyrion says tossing his wineskin at Jon.

The fem takes a long drink.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

The majestic image of the Wall as the sun reflects off the icy surface is in such contrast with the run down state of Castle Black that Jon nearly startles at the sight.

A man approaches them as they dismount their horses in the courtyard, and his resemblance to Aly leaves Jon with little doubt as to who he is.

“Baintriath Stark,” the man bows to Jon.

“Ceannard Tighearna Mormont.”

“Baintighearna Aly, it’s good to see you,” the Ceannard Tighearna smiles.

“It’s good to see you too, Brathairathar Jeor,” Aly smiles back.

“Lord Tyrion,” Jeor Mormont acknowledges the half-man before turning back to Jon. “We have set up rooms for you in the King’s Tower, mo baintighearna.”

“We thank you for your hospitality, Ceannard Tighearna.”

An hour later Jon sits across from Ceannard Tighearna Mormont in his solar.

“I must admit I was surprised when I got the raven that the Baintriath of House Stark was coming to see the Wall,” Jeor says taking a drink of his ale. “It has been many years since a Stark has come to visit the Night’s Watch. I am curious as to what prompted this one.”

Jon took a moment before he spoke. “Some moons ago, my father executed a deserter. A deserter who claimed to be running from White Walkers,” Jon paused to gauge the Ceannard Tighearna’s reaction to his words. “He wasn’t lying.”

“Something is stirring beyond the Wall, mo baintighearna. I have had increasing reports of Wildlings gathering in great numbers, of the dead, come back to life. I do not know the truth of it yet, but I feel there is a war upon us, and the Night’s Watch is not as prepared as one could hope for a war against the Wildlings or the White Walkers.”

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

The morning after arriving at the Wall, Jon stands with Aly and Jarrad at the edge of the courtyard, watching the training of the new recruits.

“Grenn, show him what you farm boys are made of,” Ridire Allister Thorne says as one of the mascs moves to the center of the courtyard.

Grenn holds his blade with visible uncertainty. The other masc, Rast, swings his sword at him wildly, and Grenn tries to deflect him but his movement is shaky, and the offending blade comes down with a loud crack onto his face. Grenn takes a step back clutching his nose.

“If that were a real sword, you’d be dead,” Ridire Allister scowls. “Pyp! You're next.”

Aly snorts. “They’ll never learn like that.”

“What was that?” Ridire Allister growls, turning toward them.

“She said, they’ll never learn to fight properly if you just tell them they are doing it wrong, but don’t show them how to swing a blade correctly,” Jon says.

“And what would a fem know of sword fighting, Lady Snow?”

Jon walks to the center of the courtyard and holds out his hand for Grenn’s sword, “May I?”

Grenn gives him the blunted blade, and Jon turns towards Rast, falling into a fighting stance. Rast looks at him with a look of glee before he swings his sword at Jon.

Jon twists and turns, avoiding Rast’s swings, the masc not being able to strike the fem. But Jon lands hit after hit until finally, his sword lands at the base of Rast’s neck.

The entire courtyard is quiet as Jon hands the sword back to a gaping Grenn. Jon turns to Ridire Allister, “Never underestimate a Northern lady, Ser Allister. For we are as deadly as we are proper,” he says in his Baintriath voice, back ramrod straight and head held high, before walking out of the courtyard with Aly and Jarrad at his heel.

That evening, Jon, Aly, and Jarrad are sitting by the hearth in Jon’s chamber, a fire blazing bright and warm in its depths. All three are working on what will become their battle armour, as well as Robb, Heiley, and Theon’s.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and Antorn, one of the five Stark guards that had accompanied them to the Wall, steps into the room.

“There are two mascs here to see you, mo baintighearna.”

“Let them in,” Jon says, and Antorn ushers in Grenn and Pyp before bowing to Jon and exiting the room once more.

Jon is surprised the two Night’s Watch recruits have sought him out.

“Mi’lady,” Pyp bows with a practiced ease, and Grenn awkwardly follows his lead.

“Hello, Pyp. Grenn,” Jon acknowledges them, setting down his sewing, “What can I do for you?”

Pyp and Grenn glance at each other. “You were right, mi’lady. We will never learn how to use a sword with Ser Allister teaching us. And so, we were wondering, mi’lady, if… if…” Pyp says stumbling over his words.

“Would you teach us!” Grenn all but shouts. “Mi’lady,” he gives another awkward bow.

“As long as you don’t have a problem being trained by a fem, I don’t see why not.”

“Of course not, mi’lady,” Pyp assures quickly. “Thank you, mi’lady.”

The two mascs give one more bow before scrambling out of the door.

“Well, it’s a good thing we packed our practice armour,” Jarrad laughs.

• )()()()(•)()()()(•

Jon takes the winch elevator up the Wall. Brathairathar Benjen had asked to meet him at the top. When the slow, creaking iron cage finally reaches its destination, Jon only has to walk a few metres to find his father’s brother.

Jon comes to stand next to his uncle at the edge of the Wall. The sight of the frozen wilderness leaves him breathless.

“I wanted to be here when you saw it for the first time,” Benjen smiles before his face returns to that of a stoic Northman. “I’m leaving this morning.”

“You’re leaving?” Jon can’t help but wonder why his uncle would leave the Wall so soon; they had just arrived only a few days prior.

“I’m the Maorcoille Ceud. My job is out there,” he says gesturing beyond the Wall. “There have been disturbing reports. The kind I don’t want to believe.”

And Jon remembers his conversation with Ceannard Tighearna Mormont shortly after his arrival. A war was coming, one they were not prepared for.

“I hope to see you before I return to Winterfell.”

“Aye, let’s hope that I can,” Benjen smiles. “Come, we should eat.”

Jon and Benjen make their way down from the Wall to find Aly and Jarrad waiting at its base. They walk together to the Common Hall to break their fast.

When they enter the hall, they find it mostly empty, except for Yoren and Tighearna Tyrion jovially conversing at one of the tables.

“They have a better chance at food than glory,” Tighearna Tyrion is saying as they take their seats at the table.

“The Night’s Watch is a joke to you is it?” Brathairathar Benjen scowls as bowls of a thin stew are set before them. “Is that what we are, Lannister? An army of jesters in black?”

“You don’t have enough mascs to be an army, and aside from Yoren here, none of you are particularly funny.”

“I hope we’ve provided you with some good stories to tell when you’re back in King’s Landing. But something to think about while you’re drinking your wine down there, enjoying your brothels: half the mascs you’ve seen training will die north of the Wall. Might be a Wildling’s ax that gets them, might be sickness, might just be the cold. They die in pain. And they do it so plump little lords like you can enjoy their summer afternoons in peace and comfort.”

“Do you think I’m plump? Listen, Benjen,” Tighearna Tyrion pauses, “May I call you Benjen?”

“Call me what you like.”

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend you,” Tighearna Tyrion continues. “I have great admiration for the Night’s Watch. I’ve great admiration for you as First Ranger.”

“You know, my brother once told me that nothing someone says before the word ‘but’ really counts,” Brathairathar Benjen smirks.

Tighearna Tyrion smiles. “But, I don’t believe that giants and ghouls and White Walkers are lurking beyond the Wall. I believe that the only difference between the Wildlings and us is that when the Wall went up, our ancestors happened to live on the right side of it.”

“You’re right,” Benjen smiles. “The Wildlings are no different from us. A little rougher maybe. But they’re made of meat and bone. I know how to track them, and I know how to kill them. It’s not the Wildlings giving me sleepless nights. You’ve never been north of the Wall, so don’t tell me what’s out there.”

“Are you going below?” Yoren asks, and Jon is slightly relieved at the change of subject. Brathairathar Benjen nods his assent as he stands. “Keep well, keep warm.”

“Goodbye Brathairathar Benjen,” Jon kisses his cheek.

“Farewell, Jon,” Benjen says before nodding to Yoren. “Enjoy the capital, brother.”

“I always do.”