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"Three times the gods saw fit to test my vows. Once when I was a boy, once in the fullness of my manhood, and once when I had grown old. By then my strength was fled, my eyes grown dim, yet that last choice was as cruel as the first. My ravens would bring the news from the south, words darker than their wings, the ruin of my House, the death of my kin, disgrace and desolation. What could I have done, old, blind, frail? I was helpless as a suckling babe, yet still it grieved me to sit forgotten as they cut down my brother's poor grandson, and his son, and even the little children..."

Jon was shocked to see the shine of tears in the old man's eyes. "Who are you?" he asked quietly, almost in dread.

A toothless smile quivered on the ancient lips. "Only a maester of the Citadel, bound in service to Castle Black and the Night's Watch. In my order, we put aside our house names when we take our vows and don the collar." The old man touched the maester's chain that hung loosely around his thin, fleshless neck. "My father was Maekar, the First of his Name, and my brother Aegon reigned after him in my stead. My grandfather named me for Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, who was his uncle, or his father, depending on which tale you believe. Aemon, he called me..."

/A Game of Thrones/

X. Dragon in wolf-skin

After the gate rang down behind him closing the tunnel, Jon, for the first time in a long while, felt perfectly peaceful. The tense wait during the weeks spent on the road, Stannis Baratheon and his five thousands men, the black brothers who did not know how they should treat him – what they did know was that they did not agree with Jon was about to do… All of these stayed on the other side of the Wall. And finally, he was able to think with a clear mind.

Here, neither Jon Stark, nor Aemon Targaryen mattered. He could be just Jon. For a few moments, at least.

He had always believed that learning his mother's name would be liberating. But when Lady Catelyn said those words, all he felt was… emptiness. He did not have a desire for a secret like that. A truth like that. Sure, he had fantasized a lot about his mother not being a common woman (which seemed the most plausible possibility) but a highborn lady, just as noble as Lady Catelyn.

And now it turned out that she had been. Moreover, for a short period, though nobody had known, Lyanna Stark had been a princess of the realm. It was an unrealistic thought, Jon did not even know how to deal with it.

He got a mother whom he believed to be dead in his whole life. He got a father whom he heard nothing but bad things of – and who was dead as well.

And in exchange, he lost whom he thought was his father and… No, that was nonsense.

He was not born a bastard and he was not born the son of Eddard Stark, but he became both of those things. He grew up this way and the truth could not have changed this. And it could not have changed what kind of man he became.

"My lord…?"

A dozen of soldiers accompanied him to beyond the Wall from those who arrived at Castle Black with Lady Catelyn and him.

She wanted him to bring more of them. The soldiers themselves tried to convince him of the same and Denys Mallister also suggested it.

But Jon knew – and he told all of them – that it did not matter how many they were, twenty or hundred, if the wildlings decided to kill them, they would be dead.

Ser Denys just nodded, reluctantly and anxiously, Lady Catelyn, however, returned to where their argument started: Jon should not go beyond the Wall at all.

"Lady Stark," he had said, "I came here not only because of Stannis. And before I return home, I would like to do something that I think can help Robb."

"For that, you have to stay alive," she had noted pointedly.

"I will," Jon had replied, hoping that he was right.

"My Lord!" The soldier repeated, more firmly this time. It was the only sound in the wintry silence.

Jon came back from his musing. "According to the rangers, the nearest wildling camp is in north-westward, about fifteen miles away."

He knew the exact place but the names used beyond the Wall would not tell the soldiers much.

He stepped forward in the deep, still untouched snow. The others, stumblingly, followed him. Blinking, as if they expected unspeakable dreads lurking there, under the Wall, waiting for them. Yes, a dozen was more than enough of them.

Grenn and Dolorous Edd offered to go with him. ('The other side of the Wall fits those who are wearing the black.' 'And, at least, there it's not so overcrowded. I would rather be stabbed to death than trampled.') But Ser Denys wouldn't have allowed it and Jon didn't think it would be a good idea to bring crows among wildlings. Not even under the flag of truce.

Because of the snow they went ahead at a slow pace. The walk was long, but, at least, thanks to the rangers' reports, they found the wildling camp rather fast. Jon was relieved when he got sight of the tents. The wildlings who had been following them for hours allowed them to come this far. Jon reckoned it was an encouraging sign. Or, to be honest, an alarming one. Perhaps they were just luring him to the wildling who had demanded the Turncloak's blood most loudly.

Jon chose to go with encouraging.

He did not expect warm greetings, but he hoped that the wildlings knew that in this situation gutting him without asking any questions would be foolish. And if they asked him, maybe he could persuade them that there were more urgent things to do and better ways than keeping up the bad blood between them.

Jon knew that dozens of arrowheads were pointed at him while he was walking through between the tents, but no one stopped him. Behind his back, the soldiers were certainly glancing around nervously. Jon, however, looked ahead at the tent in the centre of the camp. Then at the man with a broad chest and a white beard who stepped out of that tent. He scowled at Jon. But he did not say a word until only a length of a spear separated them.

"Look at that, the crow flies back to us to die."

Hearing that, the soldiers reached for their swords but at Jon's wave they pulled their hands back. Some wildlings, sitting in front of the tent, were watching them, seemingly bored. But Jon knew them well enough that he did not doubt that should a fight broke out, knives would appear in their palms within seconds.

"I'm not a crow."

Tormund Giantsbane raised his brushy eyebrows. "Again? It's time to decide it, don't you think?"

"I have decided."

Tormund gave him a sharp look, then, he nodded and pulled aside the canvas from his tent's entrance.

Jon stepped in alone. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the half-light of the smoldering fire. Tormund sat down on the leathers, Jon took a place across from him.

"So, you're not a crow."

"No."

"What are you then?"

"Jon Stark, envoy of the King in the North."

Tormund's moustache flinched. Maybe it was the sign of a smile.

"Arrah! And when did that happen?"

"About two months ago. After we beat off your first attack."

"Well, you had great luck, indeed." Tormund snorted. Half in jest, half testily. "It would have been a pity dying as Jon Snow, wouldn't it, Jon Stark?"

Jon Snow would not have been killed in a battle. He would have frozen or starved to death, or hanged as a traitor. But Tormund did not have to know that. And Jon did not come to speak about himself.

"And what does the King in the North want from us?"

"A deal. Though I am not the first one who comes to you for that, right?" He wasn't, he knew it from Sam.

"The other one was sent by the King of the Seven Kingdoms." His voice made it clear what he thought about that.

"He rules over a foothold."

"Together we will conquer the rest. At least, that's what Lord Whatever promised."

'And they would start with us.'

"What does Mance say?"

Tormund sighed, his face hardened. "Mance says nothing anymore. He is dead."

The news surprised Jon and saddened him, more than he expected. "People in Castle Black believe he is just injured."

"Oh, he is injured… yes. Injured, then his wound infected. He is breathing and his heart is beating. Barely. But the rest of him… Mance is no more." Grimly, Tormund shook his head. "Although if he were here, he would be amused. Till now, all of you tried your best to keep us beyond the Wall. We were the ones you had to fight against. Then two kings say the same: come to the south and we will fight with you against the Others."

"Not the same," Jon opposed.

Something flashed in Tormund's eyes. "And why not?"

"Lord Stannis doesn't understand the North."

"You and your king do?"

"Better than him." Jon was looking for words to be able to explain the difference. "Stannis would fight against the Others, yes, but that's just a step towards taking the iron throne. He wants to save Westeros just for ruling it."

"Iron throne," Tormund growled. "You want it so badly, you southerners. Perhaps I should see it for myself once."

Jon smiled. "If you do, I will support you."

"Doesn't your king want that chair?"

"No. Robb never has. He marched to the south to rescue our father, or – when it was too late – to avenge him."

"And did he do it?"

Jon shrugged. "Not in the way he would have liked. But he took two kingdoms from his enemies."

Tormund burst into laughter. "I say that's not so bad! From a boy… And now he says that we can have a place in those two kingdoms."

"Yes."

"Hm." Tormund stared at the fire. The core of black logs was glowing and beamed time to time. "If we kneel…"

"Before someone, you have to. If you want to live in the south from the Wall, you have to do it by the southern laws."

"And if I have to kneel, why would I kneel before your king instead the other one?"

"Robb doesn't ask you to fight by his side in exchange."

"Maybe we would rather fight for the land than having someone give it to us."

"The North is as much yours as ours. Why should you fight for it?"

"Over the past centuries you southerners didn't think that way."

"But I do," Jon pointed out. "Our ancestors didn't have to face the Others and their creatures for centuries. They forgot why the Wall stands here. But we know more than them, we know enough to avoid their mistakes."

"You do, perhaps. And maybe me too. But how many could we convince?"

Jon did not respond immediately. "I don't know," he said finally. "Enough, I hope."

Tormund nodded. "Well… I heard your words. How about acts? When does this king of yours allow us to go to the south?"

"When he defeats Stannis."

Tormund smiled at him. "And if he won't defeat him?"

Jon wanted to reply: 'But he will.' Because he believed so. Tormund, however, did not have any reason to believe in Robb – or in Jon.

"One more king remains then, whom you can make a deal with."

The sky was clear in all directions right to the edges of the horizon, and the land was blindingly white because of the freshly fallen snow, north and south from the Wall alike. Aloft, far away where birds flew, the Wall must have seemed as small and distant as Castle Black seemed to Catelyn on one side and the forest on the other.

Nonetheless, it created a very real border – at least, it made people believe that everything that was beyond the Wall was something different, something strange.

She heard noise of steps, crunching of boots in the icy snow. She did not turn around, only casted a sidelong glance at the person approaching.

It was a slight man, with a beard and grizzled, brown hair. Stannis Baratheon named him his Hand and therefore called him Lord Davos, but Catelyn said Ser – and the Onion Knight was content with that.

Catelyn did not wish for company, but now that she had, Ser Davos was one of the few men whose presence she did not mind.

"He hasn't returned yet."

She did not spend so much time on the top of the Wall because she was waiting for Jon's arrival. It did not bother her though that people thought so. She felt odd among Stannis' soldiers and the brothers of the Night's Watch. She did not even have any role, so every moment seemed like a waste of time. She did what she came for. She talked to Stannis Baratheon on several occasions – sometimes for a long time, other times no more than a few words, sometimes heatedly, other times composedly, but each of her attempts was as fruitless as the previous ones.

"Do you bring a message to me, Ser Davos?"

"My own words only."

That was what she expected, but the answer still reassured her. Stannis called Ser Davos Seaworth his Hand, but he did not allow him to really help him, at least not in politics.

"Lady Stark, you seem like a clever woman…"

"And you seem like a clever man, Ser Davos. Why do you serve Lord Stannis?"

"I hope I am not too conceited to say this… but I believe you already know the tale of my life." He glanced at Catelyn, expectantly, and she nodded. "In this case, I won't tire you with it. Stannis Baratheon was strict with me but fair and generous in his way. I realized he was a kind of man who deserved that I follow and serve him faithfully in my whole life. And at the end of it I would not have any shame of my service. When he inherited the throne after his brother's death, I thought that it was a good thing, because a king like him could be only beneficial to Westeros."

"I have no doubt that once he was a honorable and right-minded man," Catelyn replied. "But whom I met under Storm's End and here, in Castle Black was neither capable, nor worthy to be a ruler.

"Tommen is?"

The mention of Tommen surprised her. She thought Ser Davos would bring up Robb. "Who could say that? Tommen is just a little boy."

"A little boy born from incest. A little boy controlled by Cersei and Lord Tywin."

"Why are we talking about Tommen, Ser Davos?" Catelyn asked edgily. "Lord Stannis is encamping not in the Crownlands but in the North."

Ser Davos kept his ground. "Your son refuses him as king. But he doesn't want the iron throne for himself either. Does it mean that he supports Tommen?"

Accepting him, at most. However, he did not say that aloud – at least, not in her presence. Anyhow, it was not Ser Davos' business.

"Tommen is far away. Those who control him, as well. But Stannis came here to the North and he said a long time ago that a king had only subjects and enemies. We won't be his subjects, so we don't have another choice."

"Lord Eddard thought he was the rightful heir to the throne."

"My lord husband couldn't have known what we know." Her voice hardened. "I won't give the North that Ned loved so much to Stannis' hands for him to destroy it."

"Do you believe he would do that?"

"Do you believe he wouldn't?" Catelyn turned to him. "You know the red woman, Ser Davos, better than me. Wouldn't she send everyone who denied her god to the flames? Wouldn't she kill them with shadows? Wouldn't she burn down our godswoods?"

Ser Davos lowered his head. "She would." Short words. Heavy and dark words.

"And would Stannis forbid it?"

Ser Davos, as an honorable man, could not have said 'yes', but he did not want to agree either.

"We don't have a big enough army to march to the south and defeat the Lannisters and Tyrells, but here, in the North we will defeat him."

"Maybe."

"Certainly."

Ser Davos did not respond just bowed. It was not a sign of agreement but acceptance. For a while, he watched the world beyond the Wall in silence.

"No matter what happens… Gods bless you, Lady Stark!"

"I hope, we meet again," Catelyn replied sincerely.

When the song's last chords faded, Alys Karstark looked up from her broidery.

"You play really nicely, Your Grace."

She said the title as if she were tasting it. But at least she said it.

Robb was worried what she was going to think about his marriage plan. Worried whether she would take it as an insult. The girl, however, only asked one question after she had heard the idea: 'When?'

And now, she decorated the hemline of a black velvet cloak with white suns.

"It is very kind of you." Roslin laid her hands in her lap but she did not get up from her place by the harp yet. She knew she was a skilled musician. Still, she wondered if one more song were to wear her companions' patience thin. Arya's patience, for example.

There were four women in the chamber and all of them felt uneasy.

Brienne of Tarth stood by the wall in leather armor with a sword on her side – though Roslin asked her to join them – and apparently did not understand why she had to guard three young ladies, here, in the depth of the castle. Even if one of them was Alys Karstark.

Alys – who, in the immensely honorable Brienne's eyes, was not dangerous since she had sworn loyalty to Robb – looked like the strings of Roslin's harp: stretched almost to the breaking point even in her seemingly composed moments. The tiniest action would have made her snap. Though she was safe in Winterfell – and she did know that –, it seemed like she was still running. The fear might not even leave her until she could lay that cloak on her shoulders to stand before her gods. Roslin, at least, was sure about this.

Arya could not wait to replace her needle for the only one she took in her hand willingly and with pleasure. But she had a strict routine for the day and sword-play would only come on the afternoon.

Actually, Roslin had started to play because as long as the music lasted, she could pretend that she was alone without any expectation to talk. Truth to be told, she rarely played on her harp in front of an audience. In the Twins there were a few of her kins who appreciated the music. Her lord father, for example, was not one of them. Her brothers liked indecent songs, and her sisters those ones they could dance to.

And here, in Winterfell… She did not know Lady Alys' taste. Arya, however, had declared the first time that Sansa was the one who liked the music of harp. Roslin had learned very quickly that what Sansa liked Arya didn't, if not for anything else, then simply for that. Except for lemon cakes.

As for her, she found music comforting and exhilarating at the same time. But now that it ended, awkward silence fell on them.

Before Roslin could have found something to chat about, Robb rushed into the chamber.

Hearing the sound of harp from the chamber, Robb was sure that he would find Roslin alone or at most in Brienne's company. So when stepping through the door, he was faced with four curious women's eyes, he got rattled for a moment. Of course, Roslin noticed and was greatly amused by it.

"Is there something wrong?" Arya asked him.

Robb cleared his throat. "I wouldn't say wrong. But it is not too good either. We have a guest."

Roslin knew whom he was referring to and her expression looked like a perfect mirror of Robb's.

Shipping was full of risks since autumn arrived, and in the mainland snowbound roads made travelling more difficult. Despite all of that, it was time for Jaime Lannister and his guards to reach Winterfell.

"The Kingslayer," Robb added, so the others could understand what he meant. "The Kingslayer is here."

Lady Alys put her broidery aside and stood up drawing herself up to her full height. "I want to meet him."

Robb nodded. He expected as much. "So do I."

He glanced at his wife who signaled 'no' with her head.

Everything that Robb knew or presumed about Lady Brienne's emotions was reflected on the knight's face. But she did not say a word.

Arya either, however, when Robb and Alys left the chamber, she followed them.

Lannister was taken to the dungeon, beneath the castle. There were not elegant quarters but after his attempt to escape in Riverrun, he could have got used to not getting one fit to his high-born rank. This time at least he could not complain about the cold. The hot springs saved these corridors from the freezing weather.

"What an honor," Lannister whooped when he saw his visitors. He was in better shape than the last time Robb met him in the Twins, and in a much better mood, nearly too good. "The King in the North himself in the flesh. Did you come to welcome me in Winterfell? Then let me welcome you as well in my modest home."

Truth to be told, Robb was not interested in his welfare. What did interest him was whether he would see the Kingslayer in a different light after Lady Brienne's stories – and the stories themselves would become more believable now that Lannister stood in front of him.

The man helped him to decide the question. "Did you already lose your interest in your wife?" he asked. "Because this one," he stabbed at Lady Alys with his chin, "is too northerner and too pretty to be the Old Walder's daughter."

"She is Lady Alys Karstark," Robb introduced the girl to him. "My queen wasn't curious about you."

"Ah." The Kingslayer was still speaking to him but meanwhile he turned to Alys, smiling. "So she thought that after her father's murderer, she wanted to see her brother's too?"

The girl did not reply. Slowly, she looked Lannister up and down. Robb envied her for her stone-cold face. The man's smile disappeared.

"That was enough," Lady Alys said.

She turned on her heels and she was about to leave when Arya asked Robb, eagerly: "Are we going to execute him?"

"We can't." He would have said 'yes' though, just to see Lannister's reaction. The man did everything to conceal how much his future concerned him. But he was too blatant, too testy to fool Robb. He did not want the Kingslayer to feel satisfied, so he added: "But we can bargain on him."

Evening had fallen hours ago and Catelyn returned to her own chamber from Samwell Tarly's. The boy braced himself up to ask her to take Gilly and her baby to Winterfell. Apparently, he was loath to part ways with the girl but he did the right thing: the Wall was not a good place for women and little children. Moreover, Catelyn thought, young Samwell had taken an oath to give up both of those things.

They would easily find work for Gilly in Winterfell. And later a husband, perhaps, if the girl wished for one. And the child… well, time would tell what he could become.

She barely opened her chamber's door but she would have rather slammed it back. However, she composed herself and stepped in. Shutting the door, she tried not to think that she just locked herself in a trap.

Lady Melisandre was waiting for her; red witch in the red light of flames. Her presence proved to be as disturbing as if she had sent one of her monsters.

Catelyn was unable to brush aside the suspicion that the woman came to her because – thanks to gossiping mouths or the flames – she knew about her conversation with Ser Davos.

"Did you come all this way to persuade me?"

Lady Melisandre smiled delicately. Men started wars for a smile like that. "I am afraid your contumacy is beyond my power, Lady Stark. In that, you are similar to my King."

"Your power," Catelyn repeated while, against her better judgment, she sat down across from the witch. "Every man in the North knows what kind of power you have. And if one night a shadow appears in Winterfell…"

Nothing, they could do nothing, she knew that, but it was unnecessary to finish the sentence because Lady Melisandre interrupted her, shaking her head: "If the Lord of Light had wanted him dead, the King in the North would have died long ago."

The title did not go unnoticed by Catelyn. The red priestess stubbornly insisted that she was serving the one true ruler of Westeros. But her opinion seemed more flexible – at least, if Stannis was not present.

"According to your King, he will soon." 'And I believed you were ready to help him in that.' "Does he know that his god doesn't agree with him?" 'Did you dare to tell him?'

"The ultimate purpose is constant but the way leading to it could change," Melisandre replied evasively. "It is human weakness that we can't admit that. A weakness which not even the greatest are exempt from."

"That's why you have to let him go to war. Even if it goes against your god's will."

"I can't know if that is really the truth."

"Do you know how it ends?"

"The king is asking me the same thing over and over again." For the first time, Lady Melisandre seemed worried and a bit uncertain. She turned from Catelyn and stared at the flames. Catelyn, unwillingly, followed her gaze. "And I have no answer for him. He is interested in tomorrow and days after, in the marching through the snow and the battle waiting at the end of the road. But what my Lord shows me is… different. I don't understand and the king wouldn't want to hear." She sighed softly. "I saw wolves in the flames. Only wolves. A grey one with blazing eyes and recently… another too, white as snow with eyes like blood."

Catelyn tore her glance away from the fire. Now, the priestess was looking at her. She tried to read from Catelyn's face like she read from the flames.

In a hurry, Catelyn stood up so Lady Melisandre had to do the same.

"It is getting late, my lady, and I am tired. Please tell Lord Stannis that as soon as the prince returns, we are going to leave. If he doesn't change his mind, we will see each other again on the battlefield."

Jon was calling Ghost. Or, at least, he hoped that what he was doing would somehow lead the direwolf to him. He thought of Ghost as strongly as he could and messaged 'Come, find me!' Last night in the wildlings' camp, he saw light of fires through Ghost's eyes. He was startled out of his sleep, and – if so happened – he went out to look around beyond the tents. He tumbled in the snow for hours in vain.

Maybe Ghost was not even near but he was lurking around another camp, miles away from there. Or – as Tormund said when Jon asked him about the direwolf – he was afraid of the other skinchangers, so he stayed in a safe distance.

Jon could not tell how much time passed between the dream and his awakening. It seemed like a moment to him but it could have been much more.

And now, he ran out of time. The Wall stood in front of them, high and dark grey beneath the swirling thunderclouds. If Ghost was not nearby, if he did not catch up to them in an hour, the chance for Jon to find him might be lost forever.

If there ever was a chance.

Catelyn was eager to leave Castle Black. She wanted to see Robb and make sure – independently of the mercy of Lady Melisandre's god – that he was healthy and unharmed. She wanted to see Arya turning round and round on the courtyard in the snowfall with a sword in her hand. She wanted to meet Roslin, to find out how she was adjusting as her son's wife. And, above all, she wanted to know as many miles between herself and the flaming – and changing – heart of R'hllor as possible.

By choice, she would have mounted in the very moment the horn blew singing Jon's return. But before a weeks-long journey – especially in the North and when winter was coming – they needed preparations and some rest. So they had to wait, at least for tomorrow morning.

Besides, Jon would have liked to speak with Maester Aemon, and Catelyn understood that he could not have let that opportunity pass, because who knew whether there would be another. She hoped a talk with the old man would lift his spirits a little, too.

Jon, right after his arrival, told them about what he had done in the wildlings' camp, then, he allowed the Watch's rage to pour on him. He was in a bad mood already anyway, and he did not have to say why. He had hoped that beyond the Wall he could find Ghost, or rather Ghost would find him. But the direwolf was not with him when he stepped out of the tunnel beneath Wall.

After lunch, when Jon was on his way to Maester Aemon, Clydas arrived with a wolf sigiled letter in his hand.

He gave it to Jon, then, left the chamber immediately. Jon waited for Catelyn's approval nod before he broke up the letter's seal and started reading the message.

He read it too long. He did not look upset – at least not more than he was before – but Catelyn was alarmed.

"What is it, Jon?"

At her voice, the boy looked up. "I'm going to get married," he replied simply.

"What?!"

Jon himself seemed a bit astonished. He handed the letter to her. She skimmed through it without really comprehending its content. She was looking for the sentence that grabbed Jon's attention, and she found it at the bottom of the parchment. Robb in fact wrote that: 'I would like you to take into consideration to wed Lady Alys Karstark.'

Though, he obviously was sure what Jon's decision would be. Catelyn thought it over and realized she was not surprised either.

"You can refuse," she noted.

Jon's voice was light and as emotionless as his face. "On what grounds?"

He could not have any reason for it. At least, nothing that someone in his position was allowed to have.

"Besides, Robb needs the loyalty of Karhold."

And the power of Karhold, of course. Like he needed the Freys of the Crossing. Like Ned needed Riverrun in the times of the Rebellion. And the lords and ladies had to do their duty.

"You have met her," she spoke up suddenly. "Alys Karstark."

"I don't remember."

"No… of course." She did not understand why she brought it up. "It happened a long time ago."

Lord Rickard would have liked to betroth her daughter with Robb. He did not say a word about it, but his intentions were clear. That night, sitting together by the high table and watching with a smile on their faces how Robb was dancing with Alys, Lord Rickard saw the future Lord and Lady of Winterfell. However, Ned – though he was not against the idea – saw two awkward children who tried to behave like solemn grownups. So in the end, the arrangement was not made, either then, or after.

But Lady Alys was dancing with someone else, too. Ned watched them as he had watched his trueborn son before, Lord Rickard and Catelyn were talking. The Lord of Karhold was not interested in a bastard boy, and Catelyn tried to pretend that he did not even exist.

And they were here now. Rickard Karstark chose Robb to be his king, then, he died by his hand. And his daughter was going to marry Jon. Who would have thought back then that it would come to this?

Jon did not know where to start. In the last few days beyond the Wall, he had thought up a hundred of versions and he had thrown away all of them. So now, sitting in Maester Aemon's chamber, he was unable to say a single word.

"What are you concerned about, Jon?"

"It isn't a concern, it is…"

Fear. He was afraid how the news he was about to tell would affect such an old and anguished man.

Aemon did not push him.

"I learned something not long ago."

How many days passed since then? Three or four? It felt like an eternity.

"I learned my mother's name." 'And my father's. And my own.'

"Is that a good kind of knowledge?" the Maester asked him.

"Yes. I think, it is. Though it is painful." 'And frightening.'

Aemon did not say anything but he nodded as encouragement, signing that Jon could continue if he liked.

"My mother died on the day I was born. In the mountains of Dorne." He was speaking slowly, watching the Maester.

Aemon's expression changed. He slid forward in his chair, his toothless mouth forming mute words.

"She died like my father and my brother and sister before her." Jon took a deep breath and said aloud for the first time: "My mother's name was Lyanna Stark. My father's Rhaegar Targaryen."

Aemon drew the air in with a sharp, whistling sound, and suddenly he reached out for Jon but he grabbed nothing. They were sitting too far away from each other.

So Jon knelt before him, caught his hand and held it strong in his own but with less force than Aemon held his.

For now, there was not anything else he could say.

"Is it true?" Aemon gasped. He was crying, softly whimpering. Tears were running down on his elderly, wrinkled face. "Could it be true?"

He did not doubt Jon, but he wanted to hear it.

"It is true," Jon replied.

In that moment Aemon's other hand moved forward, too. Tremblingly, he smoothed Jon's forehead, mapping his features inch by inch.

Jon still sat on the floor beside Aemon's chair. His uncle did not let go of his hand and Jon did not try to draw back.

He could not have understood how the old man felt. Jon found a family in him that he had not even known about. Aemon found the family in him that he had lost and mourned for all of these years.

"Come to Winterfell with us!"

Aemon laughed hoarsely. "So there it is. My fourth test."

And Jon realized what he would say. "You will stay here."

"I will stay here."

"But…"

"When duty confronted duty and the realm called for me, I chose to come here," Aemon explained gently. "Do you believe I would break my oath and leave now for my own sake?"

"And for your life? That priestess of Stannis… people say…"

"The power in my blood is hardly enough to keep me alive. How could it give life to stones?"

Jon was not so sure that the red priestess thought the same.

"I told you months ago," Aemon continued, "you can serve the Watch without serving on the Wall. But I can do the little I still can only here. You can't take that away from me, Jon. Jon? Is that your real name? Lord Stark named you that, right?"

"After Jon Arryn. Like he named Robb after Robert." His real name could have been one of the last words his mother said. It was a strange thought. A strange feeling. "My parents wanted me to get your name. Or the dragon Knight's. I don't know."

"An Aemon to the Aegon." Aemon toothless smile widened for a moment then disappeared.

Jon knew what came to his mind.

"But only I remained."

"Only we remained." Aemon nodded. "And one more. Somewhere, far away…"

Daenerys Targaryen, the Mad King's daughter who had never stepped on the lands of Westeros. She was Jon's aunt, but he did not even think of her until now. The silver haired princess who became a Khaleesi of the Dothraki riders and ravaged cities in Slaver's Bay… here, at the Wall, she was nothing more than a fascinating tale of the East.

"I didn't know your mother and I barely knew your father, "Aemon said. "But what I do know… what I do know I could tell you if you'd like."

Hours passed before Jon left Aemon's chamber. It was getting late. Though he did not feel tired, he knew he had to sleep. But before he could have reached the steps leading to the courtyard, Ser Alliser appeared from the dark.

"We should have hanged you, Lord Snow," he declared by a way of greeting.

"Would you like to try now, Ser?" Jon made sure that his voice remained calm and the man could not take his question as a challenge. He thought that he did not have to be afraid of Thorne – not here and now – but it was better to be careful. Imperceptibly, he positioned himself so that he could ward off an attack.

Thorne stared at him, snarling, but he did not move. His hands, however, were covered by his cloak. He could have grabbed a dagger or a sword.

"Letting the wildlings through the Wall? I am sure northerners wouldn't come up with such a thing without you."

"No, I don't think so either," Jon admitted. He himself would not have thought of such thing if his fate hadn't led him to the wildlings. If he hadn't seen the human in the enemy.

"Did you go mad, boy?" Ser Alliser flung high with his hand – his sword hand – from the covers of his cloak. It was empty. "Your brother made you a Lord of the North and you show your gratitude with destroying his kingdom."

"The Others will destroy his kingdom and the wildlings will march on the head of their horde if we don't let them through."

Disdainfully, Ser Alliser snorted. "They don't need blue eyes and black hands for that. They want to kill us anyway."

"They want to kill us because we are in the way of their survival. At least, a part of them would kill us because of that."

Ha went through this argument hundreds of times.

With Denys Mallister who tried tenaciously to stay respectful and courteous towards the brother of the King in the North – and not to snap at a sixteen year old boy who had been a brother of the Night's Watch a short time ago.

With Cotter Pyke who inveighed him, long and vehemently, then calming down a little he said that he appreciated that unlike Stannis, Jon, at least, allowed him to do it. Even if he was a stubborn, foolish mule.

With Othell Yarwick who declared, point blank that he was not going to share the Wall, his Wall, with the rabble of wildlings.

With Bowen Marsh who almost begged him to change his mind – together with his king.

With countless brothers who mentioned him the names of Lord Mormont, Donal Noye, Qhorin Halfhand and – above all – Benjen Stark.

Jon answered the same to all of them. The same he had told Robb. And those who had been in the Fist of the First Men – reluctantly accepted the truth of his words.

In fact, Ser Alliser should have accepted it. After all, he undoubtedly remembered Othor and Jafer Flowers.

"You do know what they will turn into if they stuck beyond the Wall. And what will you do then, Ser Alliser? Killing all hundred thousand of them?"

It was obvious – from his gaze – that he would try it, at any rate. However, beyond his hatred towards the wildlings and Jon, he was a soldier.

"A lot of them are old and women and children, but those on the other side are still an army. Who should have it? The living or the dead?"

"If they came here, we'll be also dead soon enough," Ser Alliser growled. He sniffed harshly and stepping closer to Jon he looked into his eyes. "You better be right, bastard! Otherwise if I can't kill hundred thousands of wildlings, I will kill one for sure. And that one will be you."

Jon nodded. "I accept that."

Ser Alliser spat out. He turned his back on Jon but as he was leaving, he said over his shoulder:

"By the way, I came to tell you that your beast is waiting for you beyond the gate. Bless your gods that the man who kept watch had good enough eyes to recognize him. Someone else might have shot him. And bless your gods it wasn't me on watch. My eyes are good enough, but I might have shot him anyway."

Next time: King's Landing