JON

Once he had been Jon Snow, but now he was Jon the Slayer. Grenn was also The Slayer. So was Pyp, and Maester Aemon. In fact everyone on the Wall was The Slayer. It was the new title bestowed by Lord Commander Samwell on all the denizens of House Slayer, the phoenix which had risen from the bloody ashes of the Night's Watch. The only ones who had not gotten the title were the ones who'd leapt from the Wall and become undead.

"Come on," the wight formerly known as Alliser Thorne had urged in its new, rasping voice. "I'm a big time slayer. I even slew your goddamn father, my lord. I gave up a lot for House Slayer."

"You did soften him up, but it was my pee that finished him off. And besides, it's a title for a man," Samwell said, dismissing the wight with a flick of his meaty hand. "Not a wight. If you wish, you can be Alliser the Cray Cray."

"No! What the hell is that? 'The Cray Cray'?"

"How about Alliser the… Spooky?"

The wight formerly known as Alliser Thorne groaned.

Jon put in, "Alliser the Wight?"

"That," Alliser complained, "would be like calling you Jon the Human."

"He's got a point," said Maester Aemon the Slayer. "Or like calling me 'Aemon the Old.' It's like, no shit he's old. I think Alliser should get the title."

"Hell yes!" the wight formerly known as Alliser Thorne cried. "The blind man sees the light!"

"Hell no," Lord Commander Samwell said, blank-faced. "Wights don't get the title. I'm sorry, man. That's just the way it works."

"This is goddamn racism," Alliser said loudly.

"Fuckup the Slayer, take this wight to the ice cells and lock him in," Samwell shouted.

Fuckup took the wight gently by the elbow and led him away. Fuckup had been promoted to The Slayer when Jon and Sam had found him cowering in the stables of Castle Black two days after the battle. Samwell had decided Fuckup had been treated by Randyll Tarly almost as badly as he, Samwell, had been, and that they were thusly not foes at all but blood brothers for life.

"Jon. Walk with me."

"Yes, my lord." Jon hurried after the naked Lord Commander. Samwell refused to wear any clothes at all anymore—not counting the sunglasses, of course. They walked together through the Great Hall of Castle Black and out into the courtyard, where the music of ringing swords and the grunts of new recruits filled the air. Sam gave wise nods to several of the black brothers of House Slayer as they passed. They soon reached the gates, and crossed to the winches that were used to raise buckets of gravel or potatoes or huge Lords Commander to the top of the Wall. Samwell spent about fifteen minutes wedging himself into the cage, cursing and sweating furiously the whole time. Eventually Jon had to help him tuck his gigantic penis inside so the door could close. Jon gave two quick yanks on the rope and then began sprinting up the rickety staircase.

"Race you to to the top, dude!" he cried over his shoulder. Samwell roared in fury as the cage creaked upward one inch, two, three. Jon was already on the third row of stairs.

And he won handily. He waited atop the Wall for almost an hour while nine or ten hulking behemoths who'd been builders in the olden days of the Night's Watch labored desperately to drag the Lord Commander up. When Samwell finally arrived and was pried from the cage, he was in a somber mood.

"Look out there, Jon," he said, sweeping the Haunted Forest with the thick, wobbling tube of his arm. "What do you see?"

"Just a bunch of trees and shit, my lord."

"Wrong, man. What you see is our kingdom. On this day I claim the lands north of the Wall for House Slayer."

Jon looked out over the world. It was still early, and the sky had a delicate pink cast that would be gone by midmorning. The wildling mountains stabbed up from the horizon like ragged shark teeth.

"Nice," Jon remarked. He wasn't quite sure what to say.

Samwell turned and looked at his old pal. "I'm sending you on a ranging mission."

Jon's heart leapt. Ranging! He'd always wanted to be a ranger! Of course, he already had been one, and had had to murder the Halfhand, and turn his cloak, and be called a traitor by both the Watch and the wildlings, and be locked in an ice cell, and be threatened with beheading by that candy corn bitch Janos Slynt. But he was still eager to get back in the saddle. Ranging was in his blood, the blood of Stark; his uncle Benjen was still out there somewhere, doing his own ranging. Well, Jon hoped, probably. "What should I do on my mission, Lord Commander?"

"You will seek a mystical artifact," Samwell told him, in a deadly serious voice. "A weapon from the Age of Heroes. It's said that Mance Rayder seeks it as well… your old friend." He chuckled.

"Listen, man, I'm being serious. Me and Mance are not friends. Sure, we drank a few ales together, and had a couple of inside jokes, and I mean, we definitely had similar taste in women and music. And it's true that we stayed up all night together giggling at swear words in our tents a few times when we both couldn't sleep because we were so excited. And he did loan me money on multiple occasions, and he's also the godfather of any children I might—"

"You seek the Bong of Joramun."

Jon's blood was of the Starks and the North, but that didn't stop it from running cold in his veins.

"The… the Bong…"

Samwell nodded. He surveyed the Haunted Forest again. "You leave in three days, at first light. You may gather whichever brothers you wish to accompany you. Find it, Jon. Bring me the Bong of Joramun and write your name large across history."

Forged thousands of years ago in dragonfire and infused with magical runes and properties, the Bong of Joramun, also known as the Water Pipe of Winter and Joramun's Hookah, was among the most powerful artifacts said to still exist somewhere in Westeros. Ancient King Joramun was believed to have hit it a single time and raised such a cloud of smoke that it woke the giants from the earth. The Bong of Joramun was rumored to get you so high you wouldn't even be able to speak; you'd try, but you'd sound like a racoon. Your friends would have to pull you around in a wagon and probably feed and water you so you wouldn't simply forget and die, as was common among the Bong's users. No one knew its current location. It was somewhere beyond the Wall, for certain, but after that none could say.

"I will not let you down, my lord," said Jon the Slayer.

Samwell smiled at him. "Complete this quest, young Slayer, and you and I shall have the most lit weekend of our fucking lives."

Somewhere a wolf howled. Suddenly, Jon had a strange idea. "You don't think… Uncle Benjen…"

Sam nodded. The smile was gone. "That's exactly what I think. I think Benjen found it. I think he hit it. And I think he's still out there somewhere, immobilized by relaxation."

My god, Jon realized. I will find the Bong, and Benjen Stark, too. And I shall bring them both home to House Slayer. This is my purpose. The hardships, my bastardry, everything—it has all led to this. My great work.

"My lord," he said to Samwell, smiling a smile of his own. "It shall be done."

Samwell nodded, businesslike once again. "Help me back into the cage," he said. "I'll go in face first this time so my dick won't make it hard to close the door."

"Great is your wisdom, my lord."

"Amen," said Samwell.