Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

20th Day of the 5th Moon

Val

Val thought she knew the cold well. She was born here, in the cold dark forests and raised and grown amidst ice and snow.

Yet, when she took a breath, it was so cold it burned, and her mare, obedient and calm Mara, was neighing uneasily beneath her, struggling against the reins for the first time Val could remember. No, it was not the fear of seeing icy horrors from the tales of old crawling into existence before her own eyes. It wasn't the high-pitched, keening sound that lingered sharply in the air every time rippled steel met thin ice. Nor was it the shrill screeches of the enormous spiders.

It was her every single sense telling her to turn around and flee!

But Val stood her ground and stiffly watched from the hill amid the trees, attempting to keep the unsteady Mara at bay, as it was the only thing she could do. Next to her were Jarod, Leaf, and a score of Singers, with the rest remaining back at their camp.

Yet Jon Snow and Duncan Liddle had dismounted their unruly steeds and dashed forward on foot, together with four direwolves.

Jarod and the two dozen singers stood there, bows ready, making Val wonder why they did not attack. She gritted her teeth and forced her stiff hand to pick up an obsidian-tipped arrow and notch it onto her bow. Yet, she quickly realised why no arrows were let loose- at this distance, it was hard to aim at the chaotic fight, and Jon Snow had said the men of the Watch were their allies. The heavy darkness did not help either - if it wasn't for the half-moon glowing softly from the sky, Val wouldn't be able to see much from the flickering torches.

The crows barely managed to hold their ground, the tall, gaunt, dignified one matching one of the Cold Shadows blow for blow while others seemingly struggled against the spiders and the Others.

The White Shadows were lithe, impossibly fast, and danced around the crows with little effort. But not as quick as Jon Snow when he was culling southrons as if they were sheep. The giant spiders were savage and forceful, attempting to skewer the men with their spiky legs. Three crows were quickly felled, but the last one managed to hug one of his foes in his mortal throes, buying enough time for a stone-tipped spear to bury itself into a pale neck.

A terrifying wail followed a crisp cracking sound as the icy being fell, and everything became messier. One of the spiders was felled by a sword stabbed into its eyes; the direwolves rushed ahead and pounced upon the two remaining. Two heartbeats later, Jon Snow leapt into the fray, fancy sword tearing through the frigid air.

***

Jon Snow

The keening echo lingered in the air as crystalline frost repeatedly met dragonsteel. His foe seemed to prefer sweeping blows, but his blood boiled with joy as if nothing else mattered as Jon not only resisted the onslaught but managed to slowly overwhelm it with his precise tapering strikes. As soon as he saw an opening, he struck the deadly icy blade aside, leaving his icy foe open.

Dark Sister cleaved through the neck of the last Other, making the gaunt, pale head roll to the side. Its remains collapsed on the ground, crunching like broken ice and melting rapidly.

He took a deep, shuddering breath to calm the excitement rushing through his veins. Fighting the Others had been a dull, bitter struggle after his resurrection by the Red Witch, but now, everything was more, including his joys and sorrows.

Walking the thin line between life and death amidst the heart of battle made him feel alive, whole and real in a way he didn't know he lacked and was more intoxicating than the strongest of ale. His kin and his family were alive back home, and everything was still right in the world and would hopefully continue to be so.

Still, Jon would not let his feelings rule him, though he would take his joys where he could. As he calmed down, he became aware of the cold throb in his shoulder, where the icy sword left its mark - the price of recklessly fighting two Others at the same time. It didn't feel too deep, so it could wait for now.

"You're not… wildlings," it was the tired voice of a battered, bloodied ranger that Jon recognised as Jarman Buckwell, a skilled swordsman and a better scout.

He quickly looked around; four rangers had survived, looking worn and cautious in the flickering light of the dozen torches stabbed into the ground. Jon saw two more black brothers observing warily atop the nearby sentinel pine. But, the most important of them was the ranger who had gone toe to toe with an Other and won. Despite the ambush, he had bested an Other after seeing it for the first time with pure skill. He had to squint to make out the detail in the darkness from this distance; the shape of the scabbard on his belt was intimately familiar, along with the pommel in the shape of… a black direwolf head. If Jon was a betting man, he'd bet all his meagre coin that the sword was Longclaw.

But no, the most important thing was his face. Despite being red with blood, it was all too familiar to Jon. He cared not about the others, but Uncle Benjen was alive and well despite gasping for breath and standing unsteadily on his feet. An ugly, pulsing gash ran diagonally from the top of his face, between his brows, and ended up on the other side of his jaw. Jon couldn't tear his eyes from his uncle.

"I'm Duncan Liddle!" Big Liddle proclaimed proudly, face red from the cold or maybe the battle. "And this is-"

"Jon!" Benjen's voice was hoarse and tired but joyous.

He had seen plenty of wounds, and his uncle would live by the look of this one, albeit with quite the scar.

"Uncle!" A genuine smile couldn't help but bloom on his face.

The words seemed to bleed out the tension from the Black Brothers.

"I should be mad, but I'm glad to see you here, Jon. I'd hug you, but my legs don't listen right now," the First Ranger chuckled ruefully as he sat down on a nearby rock. "I thought I'd meet my ancestors tonight."

"You slew a Cold Shadow," Jon pointed out. "And the rangers managed to skewer another."

"Aye, but the remaining three would have finished us all if not for you and your companions. Is that Valyrian steel?" Benjen nodded at his scabbard.

"Aye, Dark Sister."

"I thought the blade was lost," Buckwell's tired voice was wary; the man squinted, "The pommel looks all wrong."

"I got lucky," Jon shrugged. "And the previous one was too gaudy; I like it more like this."

"Are… are those beasts with you?" Jaremy Rykker warily jerked his thumb at the four direwolves feasting on the remains of one of the spiders they had torn apart.

"You have nothing to fear from my dear companions. They are harmless."

Jarman Buckwell choked out a cough as he looked at the enormous spiders that were practically torn apart by the direwolves. Ghost lifted his head in puzzlement and gazed at the rangers as he crunched through a large thorny leg, snout dripping with dark ichor. In the darkness, the direwolf's shining red eyes looked particularly fiendish.

"Are you a warg, Jon?"

"Yes, uncle," he admitted with a shrug. "It's quite handy."

Benjen took it in stride while the other three rangers shuffled uneasily.

"Stark," A voice came from above. One of the rangers atop the sentinel pine. "Odd things are coming from the tree line."

"Odd things?" Benjen groaned as his hand reached for Longclaw.

"Ah, fret not," Jon waved dismissively. "Those are the rest of my companions. Don't panic - they are with me and mean no harm."

As his eyes roamed the frost-bound ground, his gaze paused as it spotted a peculiar flicker.

***

The four hounds were guarding the makeshift camp formed around the three campfires, and Jon had sent Ghost and his canine retinue to return to the forests not only to scout but to avoid unnerving the black brothers too much. Still, the presence of the Singers seemed to distress the rangers greatly, though his uncle looked unconcerned about it. His trust warmed Jon's heart, and he loved him more for it.

Unlike Benjen, Rykker and Buckwell refused to be treated by the Leafcloaks, so Dalla was fussing over their injuries. Though, they seemed to be little more than scraps and bruises. The only heavy blows they suffered seemed to have struck their ego, not their body.

Jon ignored the sharp stinging in his shoulder as Brightspot, an old Singer, gingerly worked over his new wound, applying a smelling poultice.

A new scar to be added to his collection. After the wrappings were applied, the leafcloak skirted away towards Leaf, speaking something in her ear.

"She says to use your left hand sparingly in the next few days, lest you want to risk reopening the wound."

He nodded thankfully and testily moved his limbs to determine which motions hurt or which did not. It wasn't too bad - he could still somewhat fight with his right hand if need be, and judging by his previous experience in the last few moons, he'd be as good as new within a sennight.

For a short moment, Jon's eyes darted towards Val, who was staring blankly at one of the crackling fires. The spearwife was even prettier than he remembered - her lithe yet buxom body and long legs drew his wandering gaze with laughable ease. Her sharp, clear face with high cheekbones framed by long, honeyed locks was even more pleasing to his eyes. And her eyes, oh her eyes - proud, steely blue, so gorgeous that you could get lost in them. It was no wonder that the gazes of the other men were drawn to her. Truth be told, Jon had seen only two women even come close to her beauty - Lady Stark and the Queen.

However, Val was not just a pretty face - she was brave, daring, and a great scout and could fight quite well with a spear and a knife.

Yet, the spearwife seemed shaken and hesitant, though it was typical after meeting the Others for the first time. Their inhumanly cold, dark presence could frighten even the bravest of souls. In his last life, she had died a dog's death from a spear during the mutiny that got him killed. Much to his chagrin, long-forgotten emotions that had been numb for years were rekindled by the sight of the attractive young woman. And this time, she did not seem to be involved with another man, nor was Jon bound by vows of celibacy.

The more time he spent in her vicinity, the greater his desire to have her. Oh, he was tempted, so very tempted. Yet Jon made no moves - he did not lack self-control after his too-long and too-bitter life. If Val even agreed to become his woman, it would only paint a target on her back. He was well aware that his journey here, Beyond the Wall, was fraught with mortal peril, and he could die one way or another the next day.

Nor could he use her like a whore, before throwing her away. He was not Theon, after all.

A part of Jon wanted to find a piece of happiness thought long lost to a bastard, yet his gut warned him that it would slowly crumble his resolve to do what needed to be done, distract him in a selfish way detrimental both to his own goals and to Val's well-being. The memory of Ygritte and their tragic foolery had long gone dim, but the bitter lesson remained.

So, Jon shook his head, and his eyes briefly roamed the camp. A tense silence hung in the air, only interrupted by the crackling of the fires. The other rangers were warily sizing up his party, and Benjen's gaze was mostly stuck on him as if seeing him for the first time. Besides that, from time to time, he could see everyone's eyes dart with wonder and incomprehension at the unfurled piece of hide in front of him.

He sighed inwardly and finally returned his attention to the thin, crystalline sword lying conspicuously on the pelt before him. Picked from the frost-covered ground, it might have been razor thin, but it was just as heavy as one made of steel.

"Why didn't this… sword melt like the rest of the icy fucks?" Duncan finally broke the silence.

Now wasn't that the question? Never had the Others left behind anything but a frozen puddle of water after dying. Arms, armour, and bodies all melted away after being slain. Was this something new related to those small, unexplainable changes Jon had experienced so far?

And if so, what else had changed?

"I have no idea," he admitted slowly. "Leaf?"

She shook her head wordlessly and warily approached the crystalline blade.

After a moment of hesitation, she slowly reached with her clawed hand. Yet, the moment her limb touched the hilt, a sharp hiss escaped her lips, and she leapt away as if struck.

"It burns!"

"Jon picked it up with no trouble," Jarod observed from the side. "Let me try."

The old bastard also approached cautiously and extended his gloved hand forward. For a short moment, he grasped the hilt but recoiled away almost instantly.

Jarod stiffly peeled off his glove, revealing his fingers, which had a slight blueish tint. Yet it quickly gave way to an angry red.

"Careful, old fool," Dalla approached angrily. "You can easily lose your fingers like this. The Horned Lord said that magic was a sword without a hilt. There's no safe way to grasp it! Let me look at this burn."

"Jon seems to be able to grasp it easily enough," Jarod pointed out with a wince as the young woods witch brought out a jar with a foul-smelling concoction and unceremoniously shoved it in his hands.

"Don't waste all of it," she warned. "And the warg lord is special."

Benjen, whose face was half-covered by a gauze, looked at Jon quizzically, and the young man tilted his head at Maude, the grey-furred hound resting at the edge of the camp. 

Everyone's eyes were staring at him, and with a sigh, Jon reached to grasp the crystalline hilt. There was no freezing cold the others had experienced, only pleasant coolness. With a frown, he stepped away and carefully twirled the blade; its balance was perfect, and the grip was comfortable. Almost equal in length to Dark Sister but slightly heavier.

Frowning, he struck a nearby tree stump, only for the sword to sink in almost effortlessly, just like Valyrian Steel. Jon knew the bite of the icy blade well enough; he had experienced it upon his body plenty of times.

"About as good as Valyrian Steel," he offered.

"Figures," Benjen groaned. "Othor was gutted open with nary an effort - those blades cut through ringmail as if it was made of silk."

A few others volunteered to touch the icy hilt. After all, who wouldn't want a magical sword?!

Alas, it seemed that it wasn't meant to be - the hilt was unbearable to the touch of everyone who attempted to wield it.

Everyone but Benjen.

"How?" Rykker's mouth was gaping like a fish as his uncle held the sword and cautiously inspected it in his hand.

"I have about as much idea as you do," Benjen coughed out with a shrug. "It is rather cold but not too unpleasant."

The crystalline sword was once again deposited over the fur before Jon.

"The Starks are just built different," Jarod guffawed, followed by the chuckles of Duncan and two of the rangers.

The laughter quickly died out, and the crisp air became solemn.

"Jon, can I have that sword?" Benjen's voice was slow and hesitant.

"All yours, uncle," Jon wrapped up the icy blade in the hide and handed it over to the First ranger. "What are you going to do with it? Try and learn to dual wield?"

Benjen didn't rise to the jibe, "As if! This can serve as good proof for Lord Commander Mormont for the return of the Others."

"Giants we knew, now Children, Others, and wargs," Rykker muttered quietly to the side, yet Jon still heard him. Leaf too, judging by the annoyed twitch in her ears. "What's next, grumpkins and snarks?!"

"What if it melts, though," Jon pointed out. "Sure, it remains whole for now, but…"

"I know," Benjen sighed. "I'll bring back the remains of the fallen rangers, along with one of the spider carcasses."

"We should burn the dead now, uncle, lest you want them to rise again."

"But the Others were already slain. Who will reanimate the corpses?" Jarod asked.

"Wait, hold on! The icy fucks can truly raise the dead?!" Buckwell groaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Aye, they can. But can you risk it? There are only six of you left. If you drag the bodies and the spiders, you might suddenly be overwhelmed when you least expect it."

"And the ice spider is only proof of the existence of ice spiders and nothing else," Leaf chimed in, earning a few suspicious looks from the rangers.

Benjen lifted his hand to rub his brow but stopped with a grimace the moment his fingers reached the gauze. "How dangerous are those wights?"

"Very dangerous if caught unaware. They are slow and clumsy but don't tire or feel pain, and a tad stronger than when they were living. Not only that, but they retain some of their experience in fighting from before they died. Muscle memory, I think, is what a Maester would call it," Jon sighed. "Yet, fire burns them as if they were doused in oil."

The First Ranger closed his eyes in silent contemplation for a few minutes before sighing heavily.

"You are indeed right," his uncle agreed. "We shall burn the bodies, all but Thoren Smallwood. He's going to be bound by all the rope and leather we can spare, just in case. That and our word should be enough."

Jon chuckled at Benjen's choice - Smallwood was still an annoying, pretentious twat, and it seemed that the First Ranger shared his opinion by the twitch of his lips.

"You should chop off a few spider legs and take them with you, too. It's not much, but the ice spiders are quite dangerous, and seeing is believing."

Benjen nodded tiredly. "We'll have to sleep here. A pity we couldn't reach Craster tonight,"

"Indeed," Jon agreed, though for a completely different reason. "We'll take watch this night, uncle, and deal with the corpses. You and your rangers should rest well and ride fast and hard for Castle Black tomorrow."

The other rangers didn't look particularly warm at the idea of trusting Jon and his party. Amidst their caution, there seemed to be a hint of curiosity, but their tiredness seemed to win out, and no objections or questions were voiced after the First Ranger remained silent. 

"A sound advice, Jon," his uncle stood up with a groan, slowly approached, and gave him a sideway hug, avoiding his wounded shoulder and whispering in his ear: "We should speak before dawn tomorrow."

***

21st Day of the 5th Moon

Val

Her sleep was uneasy, so she got up, wrapped herself in her bearskin cloak, and left her sister in their small leather tent. The skies were still dark - there was no sign of dawn. She wandered uneasily around the edges of the camp and received a few nods from the leafcloaks that stood watch. The red fur hound also looked at her for a brief moment before curling down on a dry piece of wood.

Her distress from the previous evening had Val return to her childhood habits - namely climbing. She picked a particularly tall and sturdy ironwood tree near the camp and agilely climbed up, using the bumps and branches either as footing or to pull herself up.

Once high enough to feel the cold winds, she stopped and closed her eyes, letting her unsettled mind slowly calm. Val wrapped herself well in her fur cloak, sat down the thick branch in the most comfortable and secure position she could muster, and gazed up to the clear starry sky. The stars flickered wondrously, shining on their own, with no moon in sight to eclipse their glory.

While her worries were somehow abated, they were not completely gone - the frigid memories of the battle last evening were still there. Val had hunted and fought before - taken many a life of both man and beast and while it had been hard and gruelling, it never made her falter like that.

There was not much she could have done in that battle, and she knew that - neither the leafcloaks nor the old Jarod Snow had done much besides watching. But even so, even if she had to fight, she wouldn't have been able to do much. The terrifying speed of the Cold Shadows still sent chills up her spine, along with their icy swords.

What were they thinking when they decided to follow Jon Snow?

The image of him leaping undaunted into what seemed like a certain death would be forever branded in her mind.

But Jon Snow did not die; he won.

She was terrified and impressed in equal measure.

No, it was not the danger that bothered her so much; living in the Haunted Forest had never been free of peril. Though she was afraid for her sister's life, Dalla was clever enough to get by without her help. It was the feeling of weakness - Val hated feeling weak; she hated it with a burning passion. The burning sensation of fear and helplessness grated upon her as nothing else did. It reminded her of when she was just a wee girl, and other older children used to mock her and push her around in the snow.

She could never truly fight against the Cold Shadows. Not on her own, never on her own. But did she truly need to? Even Jon Snow didn't fight alone.

Did Val regret her decision to follow the Warg Lord?

No.

His warning when they voiced the desire to join him proved true. And now, Val arrived at the second reason she felt so rankled - she had promised her aid in fighting, yet when the fighting had come, she turned out useless. Unlike her sister, who tended to the wounded and helped prepare foodstuff and supplies, Val had nothing to show after enjoying Jon Snow's hospitality and protection.

It was unacceptable.

Stop crying, my daughter. Can you do anything about it? If so, why waste precious energy on whinging? If not, accept it and move on.

Her mother's words echoed in her mind, and Val let out a wan smile. As usual, Valla's words were true, even so long after the cold took her.

So, what could she do?

Her skills in tracking felt wasted - even Val knew she couldn't compete with a pack of wolves, let alone Ghost and the other three direwolves leading them. The little leafcloaks were all annoyingly helpful - they worked seamlessly to keep the camp going and helped in every way possible without complaint.

The answer came quickly - she would join the southrons in their mock fights, learning what she could. Val would not get left behind! As for the rest - Jon Snow already knew of her skill and hopefully would be the one to entrust her with tasks - like a proper chieftain.

Mind finally assuaged, Val nodded to herself, tore her gaze from the starry sky, and slowly began climbing down as renewed resolve bubbled inside her breast. She would hone all her skills, do better, and there would be no freezing and no failure when the moment came.

More than halfway down, she stilled as she heard two sets of quiet footsteps from the other side of the massive tree.

Val hesitantly paused her descent as Jon Snow and Benjen Stark, his crow uncle, stood just a few metres below the branch she was perching on. If they looked up, they would easily spot her…

"So, you wanted to speak with me privately, uncle?"

The voices were not too loud, but she could hear them clearly in the silence of the night.

"Aye, Jon," the black-cloaked man sighed. "Gods, words can barely describe how glad I am to see you alive and well!"

At that moment, Val keenly wanted to be somewhere else. She wanted a peaceful place to clear her wary mind, not to listen in on a secret talk. Once again, Val hesitated whether to jump down and alert them of her presence or simply remain here silently-

"Me too, uncle, me too."

"You know… Ned showed me your letter," the crow's voice was weary.

"Ah," a heavy sigh escaped the warg lord. "And… does he think me a madman still?"

"No, not a madman," Benjen barked out a laugh. "Ned believes you, Jon. He's making preparations. More importantly, he worries about you. And so do I."

Val wondered who this Ned was. Perhaps the Wolf Lord himself?

"There's no need to fret," Jon straightened up. "I know what I'm doing."

"Aye, I saw that well enough for myself last night," the crow's voice grew forlorn. "By the gods, how you've grown."

"It was that or death. You mentioned preparations. What are they?" Jon's voice was thick with curiosity.

"Well, Ned has the clans and the Skaagosi mine for dragonglass and passed the warning to the Watch. That's why I'm here instead of attending my nephew's wedding."

"Robb's getting married?!"

"Aye, to Princess Myrcella."

"Gods," the warg lord rubbed his brow in confusion. "How old was she again?"

"Five and ten."

Jon Snow muttered something under his nose, but it was too quiet for Val to hear. "That changes things."

"Indeed it does," the dignified crow agreed. "Ned took back the New Gift as a dowry, along with other generous benefits. My brother means to strengthen the Watch as much as possible."

"That's far more than I expected," Jon sighed. "That's the biggest dowry I have heard of. What did it cost?"

"Ned had to take the Handship despite his reluctance."

"Kings are not so easily declined," there was a worry in the young man's voice.

"Fret not. Everything will be fine - Ned has heeded your warning and is being cautious about things. Howland Reed will be there to advise him."

"I admire your confidence, uncle. But you're right - it's out of our hands now."

"Forewarned is forearmed, and Ned will not be caught unaware this time. You know him as the kind, loving father, yet the Quiet Wolf is the most dangerous. Robert might have struck down the silver prince with his hammer, but it was my brother who crushed the dragon's armies and won the war, and he was barely older than you are right now."

"Prowess on the battlefield doesn't make you impervious to scheming and knives in the dark," Jon coldly pointed out.

"That is true, but do not underestimate Ned."

"I want to be optimistic, but…" A heavy sigh was followed by an uneasy silence. "I never asked, but why join the Watch so young?"

"Winterfell had become… unbearable for me," Benjen's voice became solemn. "I walked the halls expecting to meet a laughing Brandon, a wild and playful Lyanna, or my stern but fair father. Yet, they were gone, and I only saw ghosts and bitter memories. And when Ned came back with a wife of his own, I felt like a stranger in my own home. Everyone had moved on, one way or another."

"Yet, why take the Black? A Stark never lacks for options, even as a third son."

"That is true, yet… the Watch offered me a new family. A purpose for a young boy feeling lost. And most importantly - they needed men."

"Just like that?"

"Aye, just like that. It all just seamlessly fit together. It has often been hard but rewarding, and I've had no reason to regret."

"You've never dreamt of taking a wife and fathering some children?" Jon prodded; there was something odd in his tone that Val couldn't figure out.

"Well, maybe a few regrets," the crow amended with a cough. "I won't deny I've known a woman's warmth, but passion and lust are far from everything in life. It's easier to put your heart and mind into your duty if you have no wife and children to worry about. Besides, I'm blessed with plenty of nieces and nephews to spoil instead. Soon enough, Robb might provide me with more hellions to fret over. That's enough for me."

The warg lord chuckled mirthfully. "I somehow can't imagine Robb with children. My mind just refuses to conjure the image."

"It was the same with Ned, but lo and behold, he's got half a dozen now. But, it seems he might not be the only nephew to provide me with more sprogs to spoil."

"Oh?"

"I saw you looking at that fair-haired spearwife, Jon." Val leaned in closer. She had felt Jon Snow's gaze upon her, but it was rare and impassive. The warg lord was incredibly hard to read. "I've never seen you look at a woman like that before, but I know that gaze."

"It takes two to make children." Jon didn't deny it.

"She seemed just as interested in you, if not more. Do you know how the wildlings take their wives?"

Was Val truly so obvious?

"Aye, I know of 'stealing'. But it hasn't even been a moon since Val joined my party," Jon sighed. "And well, it's complicated."

"Ah, but I've found out that things are oft far simpler than they seem," the crow countered. "Come now, what's truly stopping you?"

"Well, the whole 'stealing' thing is… not to my taste, not really. Besides, my path forward is fraught with peril and death - maybe in a sennight or a moon, I will be dead."

That didn't matter.

"All the more reason to find some joy before you go. Although, it seems death won't take you just yet, nephew mine."

Val grudgingly agreed with the crow.

"Sometimes it feels that everything I touch turns to ash," Jon's voice was hollow.

"Horseshit! Come now, is that a reason to give up? Aye, life is hard and sometimes cruel, but it's a man's due to fight it."

"I don't feel ready just yet."

"Fine," the crow snorted. "But, let me tell you this - if you wait too long, she might slip away from your grasp, and you'd regret it."

"If she tries to steal me, I won't struggle too hard."

Val preened and wanted to laugh out in joy but held it in. While odd, this whole conversation finally made her feel some relief. Jon Snow would be hers. She just had to figure out how to sneak around the direwolves and hounds guarding his fancy tent at night.

Some might say it was too early, too sudden, but Val knew what she wanted. Besides, for the last fortnight, she only found him more and more to her liking with every passing day.

"Ah, I suppose this is the best I'll get out of you," Benjen chuckled ruefully. "Now I know how Ned felt when trying to convince me not to take the Black. Don't gape at me, Jon. For all their differences, Ned, Lya, Brandon, and Father were the same. Being as stubborn as a mule runs in our family."

"Do you know what really happened with… her?" Jon's voice was quiet yet thick with longing.

"Lyanna?"

"Aye."

"No more than you do," the crow sighed. "Rhaegar, my sister, and the three kingsguard took that secret to their graves, I'm afraid."

"Maybe it's for the best."

"Maybe. But regardless of everything, I'm proud to have a nephew like you," Benjen Stark coughed. "Ah, damn it, enough of past sorrows. Let's speak of the future - care to share your plan with your dear uncle?"

"I'm going to string up Craster at a Heart Tree next."

"Has the old bastard done you harm, Jon?"

"Not to me. But bedding his daughters and granddaughters offends gods and men, more so when he gifts his sons to the Others, and they leave him alone in return."

"Are you sure of this?"

"As certain as the coming of winter."

A storm of curses erupted from the older man, and it took him a whole minute to calm down. "Fuck, I always thought Craster was a shady man, but I was willing to close my eyes because of his generous aid to the Watch."

"I understand, uncle, needs must. You are bound to the Watch, and there are no laws but the sword on this side of the Wall. Still, you're quite lucky, you know. Craster is why I was here - he has a child on the way, and I was preparing to ambush the Cold Ones if it was a son."

"And after old Craster is dead?"

"To Mance Rayder and his ilk."

The crow shuffled uneasily. "What do you want with the King Beyond the Wall?"

"With Rayder? Not much. They might have all grouped up, but they're running nonetheless. I mean to teach them how to fight the Others."

"You should know that the wildlings are a quarrelsome lot. Most would die rather than listen to people South of the Wall."

"Maybe so," the warg lord chuckled. "But their feud is more with the Night's Watch than anyone else. That and themselves, if not for Rayder, they'd be killing each other instead."

"Obsidian is no better than stone against plate armour…" Benjen murmured. "You mean to use the wildlings as your sword against the Others!"

"Crudely put yes," Jon Snow shrugged. "But, what is the alternative? They would attempt to cross the Wall to hide from the Others. You know the North would never accept them south of the Wall. Bad blood has run for thousands of years, and as things stand now, the northerners would rather see every one of the free folk dead. Any attempts to cross the Wall will be met with slaughter, one way or another. I just mean to give them the chance to stand their ground and fight instead of run."

"Bold!" the crow chortled. "But there's one tiny problem. Mance Rayder is no more."

Val froze. How could the King Beyond the Wall die?

"How in the seven hells did the fool die?"

"Ned caught him sneaking in Winterfell after the king arrived, and Robb lopped off his head for desertion."

"That… certainly complicates things," Jon Snow rubbed his brow tiredly. "So Lord Stark has Robb meting out justice now?"

"Aye, he's quite good at it."

"Ours is the Old Way," the warg lord let out a sad chuckle. "When did Rayder die?"

"Little less than three weeks ago."

"So there might still be some time before Mance's army finds out of his demise. I just have to hurry up, I suppose."

"Jon, I know you've set your mind to things here, but be careful."

"I try to be. But your task is not going to be easy either, uncle. But before you go, I have one final gift for you."

Something white darted amidst the trees, grabbing Val's attention.

"I have everything I need, Jon. There's no need-"

"Hush," Jon Snow interrupted as the enormous form of Ghost appeared beside the warg lord. The direwolf was massive, as tall as his master, and if Val heard correctly, he was still young and could grow more.

Ghost leaned forward with his enormous head and gently placed a pitch-black furry ball straight into the crow's stunned hands.

"Is this…?"

"Aye, a direwolf for you."

"Gods, what about its mother? I don't want an angry den-mother the size of a horse stalking after me with a vengeance."

"Fret not - Ghost and his pack found him nearly a moon ago, starving and alone. His mother probably died at birth or shortly after. Come now, don't hesitate; I can feel a budding bond between the two of you."

"I'm a warg?" The crow stood there, stunned.

"I think so. Uncle, you can't be the only Stark missing a direwolf. He will be your most faithful companion for life. I mean, look at his fur- it's only fitting. The Night's Watch can't really object. He can already pass as one of them."

Benjen Stark sighed but kept the young squirming pup close to his chest.

"The sun will rise soon; I should wake the others and get going. Thank you, Jon."

"And uncle, please avoid leaking my plan if you can."

"Aye, I can do that."

A few moments later, the two formidable men headed back to the camp. Ghost paused, and his enormous head looked up. The spearwife froze under the scrutiny of the pair of baleful red eyes. Before she could blink, the direwolf turned around, shaggy white tail wagging happily, and disappeared into the dark forest.

To the east, a faint pinkish hue heralded the approach of the dawn while Val stood still on that branch, feeling more lost and confused than before.