half blade, half silk

Chapter 7: Jon IV

Jon felt like a fool.

Now that he could take a good look at Yoren, one of his uncle's black brothers, and the pair of pair peasant boys that were dragged along with him.

"Rapers," He had heard Yoren tell his uncle.

It made him flinch.

The Night's Watch was meant for heroes. All he had heard were stories of the brave defenders of the Wall, protecting the realms of men from Wildlings and White Walkers and all those legendary creatures that Old Nan had spoken off in her stories.

These two boys, not much older than him, had their faces set in perpetual frowns, clothes ragged as if wild animals had tried to mangle them, stupid and cruel and revolting by the look of them. Yoren, himself, had a smell that made Jon grimace; his hair and beard were matted with dirt and filth and thick with lice, his clothing black and unwashed.

Rapers, Yoren had said.

The Night's Watch took in rapers.

More than fortnight into their journey, Jon had found Sansa's new goodbrother, and their unwanted guest (by the contemptuous look he had seen in his uncle's eyes, he guessed that Benjen Stark was as much of an admirer of the Lannisters as his own father was), Tyrion Lannister curled up against the base of a tree beside a stream, huddled in his furs, sipping from a wineskin with a book splayed in his lap.

"Why do you read so much?"

Tyrion looked up at that, and sighed, closing the book reluctantly. "Look at me and tell me what you see."

Jon scowled. "Is this some kind of trick? I see you. Tyrion Lannister."

Tyrion looked like he very much wanted to roll his eyes. "You are remarkably polite for a bastard, Snow. What you see is a dwarf. You are what, twelve?"

"Fourteen," Jon corrected.

"Fourteen, and you're taller than I will ever be. My legs are short and twisted, and I walk with difficulty. I require a special saddle to keep from falling off my horse. A saddle of my own design, you may be interested to know. It was either that or ride a pony. My arms are strong enough, but again, too short. I will never make a swordsman. Had I been born a peasant, they might have left me out to die, or sold me to some slaver's grotesquerie. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and the grotesqueries are all the poorer. Things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years. My brother later killed that very same king, as it turns out, but 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 honour of my House, wouldn't you agree? Yet how? Well, my legs may be too small for my body, but my head is too large, although I prefer to think it is just large enough for my mind. I have a realistic grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses. My mind is my weapon. My brother has his sword, King Robert has his warhammer, and I have my mind … and a mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge." Tyrion slid a small hand across the front of the book. "That's why I read so much, Jon Snow."

Jon pursed his lips. "What are you reading about?"

"Dragons," Tyrion told him.

Jon's brow furrowed. "What good is that? There are no more dragons." He said, determinedly.

Everyone knew that the last dragon had died during the reign of Aegon III. She had been sickly and small and misshapen, and had died with a clutch of five eggs that had never hatched.

"So they say," Tyrion replied. "Sad, isn't it? When I was your age, I used to dream of having a dragon of my own."

Jon raised an eyebrow – it was an almost amusing image, the dwarf of Casterly Rock riding a great, big dragon.

"You did?"

"Oh, yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down over the world when he's seated on a dragon's back." Tyrion unearthed himself from his furs and climbed to his feet. "I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. At other times, my sister."

Jon couldn't imagine hating his family so much that he would actually burn them to the ground, in a dream or not. Robb, Arya, Bran and Rickon loved him like a brother; his father had treated him like a son instead of one of his by-blows. And Sansa, Sansa had loved him with everything in her. Lady Catelyn had never been monstrous to him, as she could have been (but for that moment by Bran's bedside that he didn't think he would ever forget, not even when he was on his last breath), but she hadn't been kind either. But her contempt for him hadn't dulled anything he had with his half-siblings or his father, nor had it with Sansa (it still felt unseemly to consider her in the same breath as his other half-siblings – brothers didn't bed down with their sisters, baseborn or not).

Even with the thought that Sansa would be married off to some high lord or prince and he would have to leave Winterfell to join the Night's Watch, while she had trueborn children with another man, he had never dreamt of blaming her for his ill fortune. Sansa was the only good thing in his life – even if she was no longer his.

Even if she belonged to the brother of the man currently laughing at what he imagined was his stricken face.

"Don't look at me that way, bastard. I know your secret. You've dreamt the same kind of dreams."

"No," Jon said, immediately, thinking of Sansa's eyes in his room the day he left Winterfell, tucking the little crow charm into his palm. "I wouldn't…"

"No? Never?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Well, no doubt the Starks have been terribly good to you. I'm certain Lady Stark treats you as if you were one of her own. And your brother Robb, he's always been kind, and why not? He gets Winterfell and you get the Wall. And your father … he must have good reasons for packing you off to the Night's Watch…"

"Stop it," Jon snapped, fists clenching at his sides, as the words rung home.

Surely his father wouldn't have thought to shove him somewhere like an embarrassment after raising him alongside his trueborn children for fourteen years?

"The Night's Watch is a noble calling," He insisted.

Tyrion laughed once more. "You're too smart to believe that. The Night's Watch is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. I've seen you looking at Yoren and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snow, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wall, watching for grumkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. The good part is there are no grumkins or snarks, so it's scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since you're not allowed to breed anyway, I don't suppose that matters."

"Shut up," Jon snapped.

Why must you Lannisters take everything?

He took a step forward, fourteen but threatening enough for a dwarf, but before he could even comprehend the violence he could deal, Ghost lunged for Tyrion himself, knocking the small man flat on his back, the book knocking out of his hands. The dwarf attempted to stumble back to his feet, but something in his spine caught and he fell again, much to Jon's dark amusement. Finally, Tyrion grabbed at one of the tree roots and attempted to hoist himself up, but to no avail. He looked at Jon with frustration.

"Help me," The dwarf urged, holding out a hand.

Ghost, ever faithful, slid in between them, simply glowering at Tyrion with eerie red eyes, his teeth bared in a snarl.

Tyrion slumped back to the ground. "Don't help me, then. I'll sit right here until you leave."

Jon's lip curled in a taunting smile, leaning down and running his fingers through Ghost's white fur.

"Ask me nicely."

Tyrion gritted his teeth. "I should be very grateful for your kind assistance, Jon."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Down, Ghost." He ordered the direwolf, who sat back on his hind legs, his eyes never leaving Tyrion's, almost like a warning.

Jon walked around the tree and picked Tyrion up bodily, sliding his hands underneath his arms, much like he would have Rickon or Bran or Arya, the dwarf not weighing much to him at all. He swept the book up from the where it lay on the forest floor and handed it back to Tyrion, no small amount of smugness plastered across his face.

"Why did he attack me?" Tyrion asked, curiously, sidelining the direwolf, as he wiped blood and dirt from his mouth.

"Maybe he thought you were a grumkin," Jon said, dryly.

Tyrion looked at him for a moment and started laughing, genuinely. "Oh, gods," He choked out, shaking his head. "I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "You don't want to know." He picked up the stray wineskin and handed it back to Tyrion.

Tyrion drank from the wineskin, heartily, and then surprisingly, he held out the skin to Jon, who took it cautiously and grimaced at the taste of the wine.

"It's true, isn't it?" He said, once he had returned the skin. "What you said about the Night's Watch."

Tyrion nodded.

Jon gritted his teeth, feeling betrayal bloom like a flower in his heart – surely his father hadn't known, but then again, how could he have not? And yet, he had still sent him here, because it had suddenly become too troublesome to continue housing his bastard son.

Jon imagined his face looked as sullen as Sansa always said it did when he replied. "If that's what it is, that's what it is."

Tyrion grinned at him. "That's good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."

I have been facing hard truths all my life, Jon thought with resignation.

Had he ever had something of his own, but for Sansa? And even then, he had lost her without even having the chance to fight for her. He could never be Lord of Winterfell like his father, not like Robb would be, trueborn eldest son that he was; he could never have Sansa, even if he loved her more than any gaudy Southern lord ever could; they would only ever refer to him as Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon's bastard half-brother, even if he had loved them all as much as any trueborn sibling would have.

No, he had never been one to shy away from hard truths – Lady Catelyn would never have allowed delusions of grandeur from him.

"Most men," Jon replied. "But not you."

"No," Tyrion admitted. "Not me. I seldom even dream of dragons anymore. There are no dragons." He scooped up the fallen bearskin. "Come, we had better return to camp before your uncle calls the banners."

Grenn stumbled backwards, raising his sword in a vain attempt to defend himself, but Jon rapped his wooden sword against the back of his knees, where he had left himself open, sending the other boy swaying unsteadily as his stance slipped. Grenn swiped at him again with the edge of his sword, but Jon dodged it deftly and his sword overarched in between them, coming down hard on his helm. Grenn, not one to give up just yet, swung his blade again, but Jon swept it aside easily and shoved elbow into Grenn's chest, who finally lost his footing and crumpled to the ground.

Jon thumped his wrist with the tip of the sword and Grenn's blade also fell, drawing a cry of pain from the other boy.

"Enough!" Ser Alliser Thorne called out, sharply.

Grenn looked up at him with such a black look that it had Jon rolling his eyes. "The bastard broke my wrist." He grumbled.

"The bastard hamstrung you, opened your empty skull, and cut off your hand. Or would have, if these blades had an edge. It's fortunate for you that the Watch needs stableboys as well as rangers." Ser Alliser waved at Jeren and Toad. "Get the Aurochs on his feet, he has funeral arrangements to make."

Jon pulled off his helm and shook his dark curls free, while the other boys pulled Grenn to his feet. The sweat was smothered across his face, his skin warming under the helm with every swing of his sword, and the cool air eased his discomfort greatly. He braced his sword on the ground and let himself rest for just a moment.

"That is a longsword, not an old man's cane," Ser Alliser admonished, coldly. "Are your legs hurting, Lord Snow?"

Jon gritted his teeth against the name. Lord Snow, Lord Snow, what a great jape.

"No," He returned, just as icily, as he slid the longsword back into its scabbard.

Thorne marched towards him. "The truth now." He commanded.

Jon pursed his lips. "I'm tired." He grudgingly confessed, shaking out the burn in his arm, starting to feel the bruises that Grenn had left on him, despite his few hits.

"What you are is weak."

"I won," Jon protested.

"No. The Aurochs lost."

One of the other boys sniggered, either because seeing him shamed in front of the other recruits brought him the greatest joy or because he genuinely found the old knight's jape to be amusing (although, Jon couldn't possibly see how this was true).

Jon, of course, didn't reply. How could he, when it was clear that Ser Alliser had no affection for him, at all?

"That will be all," Thorne growled. "I can only stomach so much ineptitude in any one day. If the Others ever come for us, I pray they have archers, because you lot are fit for nothing more than arrow fodder."

Jon followed the rest of them back to the armoury, on his lonesome. He had no friend here, out of the twenty that he trained with (of whom, none could fight him like Robb would have), but he had no interest in being of any of their friends – rapers and boys who'd never held a sword a day in their lives.

Inside the armoury, Jon put away his sword, ignoring the others milling around. He stripped off his leathers and as if wanting to add to his misery, the cold immediately assaulted him, despite the coal burning in iron braziers at either end of the long room. Castle Black was much colder than Winterfell had been – the chill never seemed to leave, encouraged by the giant wall of ice that they guarded.

He missed Winterfell then, the warmth in the keep where if you pressed just right against the stone walls, you could feel the thrum of the hot springs that flowed underneath the keep. He missed Rickon, wild red hair and a wilder spirit; he missed Robb, his dearest brother and his dearest friend, who never looked at him as something to be shamed by; he missed Bran, eager for stories of Ser Ryam Redwyne and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield (although Sansa had always been better at telling them) and a turn at the sword, who dreamt of being a great knight like Ser Barristan Selmy. He missed Arya, with her scraped knees and tangled hair and dirt-strewn dresses, who looked more like him than any of their siblings, who could always make him smile.

But most of all, he missed Sansa. He missed her hair and her eyes and her smile and the way she upturned her palms when she wanted him to hold her hands. He missed the way her red hair would flutter in the breeze when she would watch them train in the yard from the bridge between the armoury and the Great Keep. He missed the way that she would sneak into his chambers in the dead of night and crawl into his bed, curl up against him for warmth. He missed holding her as she slept, even if it were only for a few hours at most, his hand splayed across her belly, their fingers threaded together. He missed the way she'd kiss him, her mouth soft and willing, as if he were the only one who could give her life (in truth, it was the other way around as well). He missed the warmth of her, how she'd hold him against her and stroke her fingers through his curls, lulling him into rest.

He would have none of that here.

Jon tugged at the little crow charm around his throat, the bauble giving him something akin to comfort and courage.

Sansa would want me to be strong. If she must suffer the likes of Jaime Lannister for me, I can stomach these fools, Jon told himself.

"You broke my wrist, bastard boy."

The sullen voice drew Jon from his thoughts. Grenn loomed over him, three of the other recruits lining up behind up as pillars of support.

Jon slid to his feet. ""I'll break the other one for you if you ask nicely."

"Maybe we'll break you," One of the rapers that Yoren had brought with him said.

"Try," Jon taunted, reaching for the sword he had just hung up, but one of them grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.

"You make us look bad."

Jon snorted. "You looked bad before I ever met you."

The hand that had his arm jerked upward and Jon gritted his teeth against the pain that surged from his elbow up to his shoulder, refusing to cry out.

"The little lordling has a mouth on him," Another said. "Is that your mommy's mouth, bastard? What was she, some whore? Tell us her name. Maybe I had her a time or two." He laughed.

Jon slammed his foot down on the instep of the boy holding him, who cried out in pain and released him. He flew at the one that had insulted his mother, knocking him backwards, over a bench, with both hands around his throat and smashing his head against the ground.

The rapers from the Fingers pulled him off, throwing him roughly to the ground, while Grenn began to kick at him. Jon was curling on himself, avoiding the blows when a booming voice cut through the gloom of the armoury.

"STOP THIS! NOW!"

Jon pulled himself to his feet, only to find Donal Noye, one of Castle Black's armourers, standing at the doorway to the armoury, glowering down at all of them. "The yard is for fighting," He said. "Keep your quarrels out of my armoury, or I'll make them my quarrels. You won't like that."

The boy that Jon had been beating into the ground, slowly, rose upwards, feeling the back of his head when Jon had managed to pound a bloody hole.

"He tried to kill me," The boy complained.

"'S true. I saw it," One of the rapers added, immediately.

"He broke my wrist," Grenn insisted, holding it out to Noye for him to have a look.

Noye barely even glanced at the wrist. "A bruise. Perhaps a sprain. Maestor Aemon will give you a salve. Go with him, Todder, that head wants looking after. The rest of you, return to your cells."

Jon started, but Noye's voice stopped him.

"Not you, Snow. You stay."

Jon's shoulders tightened, but he sat heavily on the long wooden bench in any case. He shook out the arm that was still throbbing, both from the raper's grip and his exertion out in the yard.

"The Watch has need of every man it can get," Donal Noye said, finally, once they were alone. "Even men like Toad. You won't win any honours killing him."

Jon scowled. "He said my mother was—"

"—a whore. I heard him. What of it?"

"Lord Eddard Stark was not a man to sleep with whores," Jon said, sharply. "His honour—"

"—did not prevent him from fathering a bastard. Did it?"

Jon's fist clenched from the rage that curdled like sour milk in his stomach – he didn't quite like the truth in what the armourer had said.

"Can I go?" He asked, belligerently.

"You go when I tell you to go."

Jon averted his gaze, choosing to centre his eyes on the smoke rising from the burning coal, until he could no longer, as Noye had seized him by the jaw, forcing him to twist his head around.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy."

Jon looked.

"Words won't make your mother a whore. She was what she was, and nothing Toad says can change that. You know, we have men on the Wall whose mothers were whores."

Not my mother, Jon thought stubbornly.

Not that he could know for sure; his father had never spoken to him of his mother – the subject itself was unspeakable within the walls of Winterfell, both by his father to him, and by the servants in Winterfell (lest Lady Catelyn hear any of the gossip), who had always looked at him so curiously, as if his very existence was incongruous (and he supposed it was, but for all of the talk of the honourable Eddard Stark, he had fathered a bastard in the end). But he imagined she knew the truth of his mother's identity – otherwise, why else would she hate him so much? Surely, she would hate him for being his mother's son more than she would hate him for being some unnamed woman's son.

There had been rumours, rumours he had unwittingly heard as a child, that spoke of an Ashara Dayne, the sister of the Sword of the Morning, who had guarded the Tower of Joy where Rhaegar Targaryen had held his Aunt Lyanna prisoner. His father had told him, Robb and Bran once that Ser Arthur Dayne had been the greatest knight he had ever seen. His father had killed him to get to his sister and returned his sword, Dawn, to the lady Ashara, who had killed herself soon after. The servants had whispered that it was not her brother's death that been the end of Ashara Dayne, but the child that Lord Eddard had stolen from her.

They whispered that Jon was that child.

He hadn't wanted to believe that truth – he hadn't wanted to believe his father would snatch a babe out of a mother's arms after killing her brother; he hadn't wanted to believe that his mother was dead. He had whispered to Sansa (shamefully, because while had no great affection for Lady Catelyn, his father's wife loved her children, loved Sansa, very much and he had never wanted that stolen from Sansa, knowing what it was to lack a mother's love) that he wanted to believe she was out there, somewhere, beautiful and highborn with kind eyes. Sansa, with a great deal of kindness, had wanted that for him as well – she had told him that she hoped he would find her one day (only for his sake, of course, because in her eyes, her father had only ever loved her mother and she would never want her mother hurt).

He wondered, then, if Sansa ever bore Jaime Lannister a child, as he would eventually want, would Jon hate the babe, as Lady Catelyn hated him, the son of the man she loved that wasn't hers? Could he look at a child, who had Sansa's red hair and blue eyes and the smile that he loved, and only see the face of the man who had sired him or her, a man who was not him? He had always thought he'd love any part of her, including a child that wasn't his, but perhaps he would be no better than Lady Catelyn.

No, Jon thought, stubbornly. I would love Sansa's child. Any child of Sansa's would be as beautiful and kind and good as she is. How could I not love her child?

And if Sansa had a child, it would bring her something like happiness, there in the lion pit, surrounded by strangers and people who weren't her family, to have something that was Stark and hers. He didn't want her miserable, even for the sake of him – and how could he hate something that brought Sansa joy in a place where she had none, in a place that she hated?

Moreover, Sansa would only bear the Kingslayer's child because he forced her into his bed, not because she had gone willingly. She would love her child because Sansa was a sweet, kind girl who loved with everything in her heart, even if she despised the child's father. But his father had married Lady Catelyn and then bedded his mother. His father had chosen to dishonour his wife and dishonour himself – for all that he loved his father and had no great liking for his father's wife, he could not deny his father's mistake left an unpleasant taste for him to bear – he could never betray Sansa in any way, not in look or in deed; it was why he had decided to join the Night's Watch in the first place; so, then, how could his father have acted so faithlessly?

"You think you had it hard, being a high lord's bastard?" Noye continued, unaware of Jon's brutal contemplation. "That boy Jeren is a septon's get, and Cotter Pyke is the baseborn son of a tavern wench. Now he commands Eastwatch by the Sea."

"I don't care," Jon said. "I don't care about them and I don't care about you or Thorne or Benjen Stark or any of it. I hate it here. It's too … it's cold." He finished, lamely.

"Yes. Cold and hard and mean, that's the Wall, and the men who walk it. Not like the stories your wet nurse told you. Well, piss on the stories and piss on your wet nurse. This is the way it is, and you're here for life, same as the rest of us."

"Life," Jon scoffed.

"Yes, life," Noye replied, scowling. "A long life or a short one, it's up to you, Snow. The road you're walking, one of your brothers will slit your throat for you one night."

"They're not my brothers," Jon retorted, sharply, taking immediate offence – he had real, true, good brothers, who were nothing like the boys who had just attacked him. "They hate me because I'm better than they are."

"No. They hate you because you act like you're better than they are. They look at you and see a castle-bred bastard who thinks he's a lordling." Noye leaned forwards. "You're no lordling. Remember that. You're a Snow, not a Stark. You're a bastard and a bully."

Jon's eyes widened. "A bully?" He shouted, incredulously, his heart hammering away inside his chest. "They came after me. Four against one, that's hardly fair."

"Four that you've humiliated in the yard," Noye reminded him. "Four who are probably afraid of you. I've watched you fight. It's not training with you. Put a good edge on your sword, and they'd be dead meat; you know it, I know it, they know it. You leave them nothing. You shame them. Does that make you proud?" He asked, mockingly.

Jon didn't want to admit how much that rang true in him. He had been proud when he thrown them into the dirt. He had felt smug when it was only him left standing. But that sure as hell didn't make him a bully – it wasn't a crime to be better than others.

"They're all older than me," Jon retorted, defensively, but his words were lame.

"Older and bigger and stronger, that's the truth," Noye agreed. "I'll wager your master-at-arms taught you how to fight bigger men at Winterfell, though. Who was he, some old knight?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Ser Rodrik Cassel," Jon replied, warily.

Donal Noye leaned forward, into Jon's face. "Now think on this, boy. None of these others have ever had a master-at-arms until Ser Alliser. Their fathers were farmers and wagonmen and poachers, smiths and miners and oars on a trading galley. What they know of fighting they learned between decks, in the alleys of Oldtown and Lannisport, in wayside brothels and taverns on the kingsroad. They may have clacked a few sticks together before they came here, but I promise you, not one in twenty was ever rich enough to own a real sword." He looked at Jon, grimly. "So how do you like the taste of your victories now, Lord Snow?"

"Don't call me that!" Jon said, sharply, the shame thickening in his throat until his anger was more for show than it was for just reasons. "I never… I didn't think…"

"Best you start thinking," Noye said, warningly. "That, or sleep with a dagger by your bed. Now go."

Jon walked out of the armoury, his shoulders hunched over in shame and regret, his skin prickled by the armourer's words. He stopped short as he stared up at the Wall, the sight of it still knocking him sideways after more than two weeks of being at Castle Black. He had heard stories of the Wall's resplendence, but nothing had matched the actual sight of it – having to crane his neck back to even see edge of it going past the skyline, the streaks of blue that raced along the white of the ice when the sun hit it just right.

"Makes you wonder what lies beyond," A familiar voice said.

Jon turned around to see Tyrion Lannister standing behind him, thoughtfully, bundled up in his furs which alerted anyone who looked at him that he was as strange to the cold as any Southerner could be (although, Jon supposed he wasn't one to scorn someone for being sensitive to the cold – Castle Black's chill was nothing Winterfell had ever raised him in).

"Lannister. I didn't see-" He fumbled. "I mean, I thought I was alone."

"There's much to be said for taking people unawares. You never know what you might learn," Tyrion said, slyly.

Jon scowled. "You won't learn anything from me."

He hadn't seen the dwarf much since they had reached Castle Black, Queen Cersei's brother being an honoured guest of the Night's Watch, housed in the King's Tower and dining with the Lord Commander at every meal, while Jon had been cast out to Hardin's Tower with the other recruits and brothers of the Night's Watch. In some ways, he had missed the dwarf's company – for all of his blunt nature, Lord Tyrion had been the only one to speak the truth to him; not even his own father and uncle had done him the same courtesy.

"Oh, I learn things everywhere I go," Tyrion gestured at the Wall. "As I was saying… why is it that when one man builds a wall, the next man immediately needs to know what's on the other side?" He narrowed his mismatched eyes at Jon. "You do want to know what's on the other side, don't you?"

Jon pursed his lips. "It's nothing special." He said, finally; although, he knew better.

From the stories told by his uncle, Jon wanted to see the Bridge of Skulls and the haunted forest and the Fist of the First Men, climb the Frostfangs, fight Mance Rayder's wildling soldiers and see if Old Nan's stories were just that, only stories. But he doubted he'd get the chance anytime soon, if his uncle and Ser Alliser had their way.

"The rangers say it's just woods and mountains and frozen lakes, with lots of snow and ice."

"And the grumkins and the snarks," Tyrion japed, grimly. "Let us not forget them, Lord Snow, or else what's that big thing for?"

"Don't call me Lord Snow," Jon snapped

The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "Would you rather be called the Imp? Let them see that their words can cut you, and you'll never be free of the mockery. If they want to give you a name, take it, make it your own. Then they can't hurt you with it anymore. Come, walk with me. They'll be serving some vile stew in the common hall by now, and I could do with a bowl of something hot."

Jon had nothing better to do, and he could feel the pangs of hunger settle in his stomach, so he followed the dwarf, his long strides matching the dwarf's awkward steps easily.

"I don't see your wolf," Tyrion said, casually.

"I chain him up in the old stables when we're training. They board all the horses in the east stables now, so no one bothers him. The rest of the time he stays with me. My sleeping cell is in Hardin's Tower."

"That's the one with the broken battlement, no? Shattered stone in the yard below, and a lean to it like our noble king Robert after a long night's drinking? I thought all those buildings had been abandoned."

Jon shrugged. "No one cares where you sleep. Most of the old keeps are empty, you can pick any cell you want."

Tyrion laughed. "I'll be sure to tell your father to arrest more stonemasons, before your tower collapses."

There was mockery in his words, but there was also truth in what Jon said. Only three of the Night's Watch nineteen castles were manned, and in each of those three castles, the Watch was seriously lacking numbers – that was why most of the old keeps were empty for them now. They had been built for a stronger force, a proper army to guard the Wall, founded in the wake of the Long Night, but nothing remained of the strength the Night's Watch had given forth when it was the Others, and not wildling raiders, they were fighting.

The Watch desperately needed men – men more skilled than rapers, poachers and thieves.

"It's better that I'm by myself," Jon told Tyrion. "The rest of them are scared of Ghost."

"Wise boys," Tyrion snorted. "The talk is, your uncle is too long away."

Jon grimaced, thinking of how he had begged his uncle to take him out on his ranging, but he had steadfastly refused – apparently the bonds of blood that made him Benjen Stark, the First Ranger's nephew all fell to pieces the moment he had walked through the gates of Castle Black as a new recruit – he would get no favour here by virtue of his uncle.

"He said he'd be back by my name day," Jon told him, hoping his worry was muted.

His name day had come and gone over a fortnight ago, and it left something unpleasantly heavy in his chest. That night, few hours of short of midnight, he had curled up in his bed, tossing and turning over the hard mattress and wincing from the bruises that littered his body, and thought of Winterfell and his last name day, where his father always had the cooks prepare him a leg of lamb despite Lady Catelyn's glowering, and Robb and Theon had taken him to the Smoking Log for a flagon of ale. The boys had even urged him to visit the girls in the brothel but he had refused, thinking of Sansa and how she'd be ever so cross for even considering the idea. Of course, he hadn't gone his name day without her sneaking into his chambers once everyone else was asleep and slipping her shift over her shoulders, leaving her bare, for the first time, to his eyes.

That was the night he had taken her maidenhead, and he supposed, she had taken his as well (she had japed as such when they had finished, damp with sweat and holding each other, her maiden's blood still tinging his cock a dull pink).

His name day this year paled dearly in comparison.

"They were looking for Ser Waymar Royce; his father is bannerman to Lord Arryn. Uncle Benjen said they might search as far as the Shadow Tower. That's all the way up in the mountains."

"I hear that a good many rangers have vanished of late," Tyrion remarked, as they climbed the staircase that led to the common hall. He grinned and pulled open the door. "Perhaps the grumkins are hungry this year."

Jon bit down on his tongue so he wouldn't laugh.

He and Tyrion sat at a table at the far end of the hall, so as to not draw the attention of any of the diners, who had taken a disliking to him.

Tyrion leaned in and sniffed at the stew, as if he didn't quite trust what was in it. "Barley, onion, carrot." He muttered. "Someone should tell the cooks that turnip isn't a meat."

"It's mutton stew," Jon told him, dryly, rubbing his glove-free hands together, and inhaling the stew as quickly as he could, hours of hunger finally breaking his will.

"Snow."

Jon grimaced at the sound of Ser Alliser's voice and forced himself to turn his head.

"The Lord Commander wants to see you. Now."

Jon tensed. Had he done something wrong already? Or worse, had something happened to his Uncle Benjen?

"Is it my uncle?" He asked, quickly, jumping to his feet. "Is he returned safe?"

"The Lord Commander is not accustomed to waiting," Ser Alliser replied, crossly. "And I am not accustomed to having my commands questioned by bastards."

Jon bit back his instantaneous retort.

Tyrion swung off the bench and gave Ser Alliser a grave, warning look. "Stop it, Thorne. You're frightening the boy."

"Keep out of matters that don't concern you, Lannister. You have no place here."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "I have a place at court, though," He grinned, conspiratorially. "A word in the right ear, and you'll die a sour old man before you get another boy to train. Now tell Snow why the Old Bear needs to see him. Is there news of his uncle?"

"No," Ser Alliser said, reluctantly – clearly, the dwarf's threat had hit a nerve. "This is another matter entirely. A bird arrived this morning from Winterfell, with a message that concerns his brother. His half-brother." He amended.

Jon swallowed hard, feeling the words hit him like a brick to the stomach. "Bran." He breathed. "Something's happened to Bran."

No, no, no. Bran wouldn't just die. He wouldn't leave us so soon. He wants to be a great knight, like the ones in the stories Sansa would tell him. He can't be a great knight if he's dead.

Jon barely registered Tyrion putting his hand on his arm and offering him condolences. But he brushed the gesture away and ran to the Commander's Keep, his feet almost slipping on the old snow a few times, but he didn't care much. He burst into the Lord Commander's solar without a knock to be polite, his eyes wild and panting from his sprint.

"Bran," He said, immediately. "What does it say about Bran?"

Jeor Mormont shook the raven that had its claws curled into his forearm. "I am told you can read." He drew a roll of paper and handed it to Jon.

Jon's finger ran over the direwolf in white wax and he broke open the seal. His eyes ran over Robb's handwriting before tears started to come, unbidden, from what he could read.

"He woke up," Jon choked out. "The gods gave him back."

"Crippled," Mormont said. "I'm sorry, boy. Read the rest of the letter."

He didn't care. He didn't care if Bran had to stay in a bed for the rest of his life – as long as he lived, he didn't care.

He ran down the stairs, out of the keep, back to the common hall where Tyrion was still eating. He seized the dwarf by the arms and tossed him in the air, spinning him around.

"Bran is going to live!" He cheered. Ignoring the dwarf's less-than-pleased look at being thrown in the air like a child, he shoved Robb's letter into his hands. "Here, read it," He said, smugly.

Everyone had thought Bran would die, but he lived. Jon knew he would. Starks were direwolves; they didn't die from falling off a tower, no matter how great the fall.

He looked around, finding Grenn amidst the crowd that had gathered around him and Tyrion, to see what had him in such high spirits (Sansa would have laughed at that, said it was an unprecedented event in history to see him so not-sullen – Gods, he missed her, now most of all, when all he wanted to do was kiss her everywhere, so great was the joy in his heart). Grenn clutched his hand to his chest, almost as if he feared Jon would advance on him and injure it further. It almost made him falter – perhaps Noye was right and they did see him as a bully – he had always been the one to be bullied, by Theon Greyjoy, by stable hands and the alike who didn't see why Eddard Stark's bastard son was so uppity like he was trueborn – he didn't want to be like them.

Jon bit his lip and approached him, but Grenn backed up, putting up his hands in surrender as best he could.

"Stay away from me now, you bastard," Grenn scowled.

Jon smiled. "I'm sorry about your wrist. Robb used the same move on me once, only with a wooden blade. It hurt like seven hells, but yours must be worse. Look, if you want, I can show you how to defend that." He offered, kindly.

And, with his luck, Ser Alliser heard his words and immediately took offence.

"Lord Snow wants to take my place now." He sneered. "I'd have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs."

Jon bit back a smug grin (nothing could touch him now, not when Bran was awake and alive).

"I'll take that wager, Ser Alliser," He said, almost mockingly. "I'd love to see Ghost juggle."

There was nothing but silence in the common hall, as the black brothers waited to see what Ser Alliser would do to him (in truth, Jon too was worried he may have pushed it too far – this was not Winterfell and Ser Alliser could hurt him as he liked).

But then, Tyrion Lannister started laughing, and soon everyone joined in to the point where Grenn even chuckled.

Ser Alliser didn't taking the ridicule well, clearly shamed in front of a new recruit he didn't see fit to wipe his boot on; his face darkened, his hands tightening into fists at his side, and Jon feared he may have made a grave enemy with his words today.

"That was a grievous error, Lord Snow."

Jon found Tyrion standing on the top of the Wall that night, alone, with his back to him, as urine gushed in an arc over the edge.

Apparently, Sansa had been telling the truth about Tyrion's intentions of accompanying him and his uncle to the Wall.

"I'm sorry to see you leave, Lannister," Jon called out.

Tyrion shook his cock and tucked it back into his breeches. "It's either me or this cold. And it doesn't appear to be going anywhere." He remarked, amused.

Jon pursed his lips. "Will you stop at Winterfell on your way South?" He asked, hopefully.

Tyrion's brow furrowed. "I expect I will. Gods know there aren't many feather beds between here and King's Landing." He said, dryly.

Jon took a deep breath, letting the cold air rush out of his lungs and mouth when he exhaled. "If you see my brother Bran, tell him I miss him," He hesitated. "Tell him I'd visit if I could."

Although Lady Catelyn would most likely object if I tried to get past the gates, Jon thought, bitterly.

Tyrion inclined his head. "Of course."

"He'll never walk again," Jon mused, grimly.

He imagined that was a great blow to Bran, who lived to clamber up the walls of Winterfell. He didn't deserve that fate.

"If you're going to be a cripple, it's better to be a rich cripple," Tyrion told him, knowingly.

"You'll be heading to King's Landing… if you see my sisters…" Jon wondered if it were smart to tell Tyrion, despite his candour and understanding towards him, this – he was, after all, the Kingslayer's brother. "Tell Arya to keep up with her needlework; she'll need to practice, day and night." He sobered. "And Sansa…"

Tyrion sensed something in his hesitation. "My brother is not half the monster that others claim he is, Snow." He said, gently. "He won't hurt her. She'll not want for anything, I promise."

Would that I could believe that, Jon thought, miserably.

He cleared his throat. "Tell her that I wish her all the happiness she can find, and not to worry, I won't let the Others carry me off before she sees me next. I may not be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight or any of the other knights in her songs, but Ser Jon the Sullen can watch the Wall and keep the realm safe for her."

It was only when the words had rushed out like blood, Jon thought that he may have spoken too much – his ribcage caved in as he waited for the dwarf's reaction.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "She calls you Ser Jon the Sullen?"

"As you have most likely presumed, I was not the happiest child," Jon returned, dryly.

"A most apt name," Tyrion japed.

Jon's lips twitched. "Yes, it is."

"I shall be glad to give them your words," Tyrion held out his hand, which Jon shook. "Take care, Snow."

Jon nodded. "Farewell, My Lord." He hesitated. "Friend." He amended.

Tyrion's smile was wry. "Friend. All my friends are bastards. Yes, I should be glad to call you friend as well."