A faint grey bled into the sky by the time Jon had opened his eyes.
Not drawn nor day. Just a bruised light caught between gold and ash. For a moment, he stayed still and listened for the sounds that never came.
No crows.
No wind clawing at shutters.
No snores of tired watchmen.
Only the dying crackle of the fire and the low hum of a land that never rested.
His back ached as he sat up, stone made for a poor bed even when tiredness numbed him. The merchant, Kalé was already awake and sorting wares by the light of Grace.
"Sleep didn't take too much from you, then," Kalé said without looking up from his wares.
"I've known worse nights," Jon replied, stretching his arms to the sky.
The merchant paused for a moment, "I imagine you had," he said with a laugh.
Jon rose and brushed off the grit off his cloak and stepped outside the ruined sept. Morning washed the plains in pale gold, the kind of light that made every blade of grass shine. Large stormy hills rested in the distance, and behind them, jagged and dark cliffs loomed.
A familiar tug appeared in the corner of his sight.
Jon ignored it. He scanned the plains the way he had learned to read the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall, following the tilt of grass, the shadows and the silence that was louder than noise.
He looked around and found no silhouettes on the hills nor thunderous hooves where the Sentinel was. Good. Hopefully.
Jon went back to the ruined sept, "I want to know more about whatever waits out there before I leave."
Kalé looked up as he tied a strip of dried meat and set it aside. "What exactly do you wish to know?"
Jon sat on a broken slab of stone. "What roams these plains? Wolves? Bears? Any place I should avoid?"
Kalé took his lute in his hands and tapped a knuckle on it. "Avoid men. Always. Soldiers of Godrick roam the region, and they are always hostile to Tarnished," he said thoughtfully.
Jon leaned in, "Aye, do I need to worry about hunters as well? Can they track?"
"No, at least I don't think so," Kalé responded. "These men are unled and unkind; they hunt the weak folk who stood against Godrick and his ilk. They go after the weakest."
Jon knew well men like that; he had seen countless at the Wall. He had led some of them. Something cold and hungry coiled inside of him, but he kept it tightly under his control lest he succumb to it.
"Wolves hunt the forest," Kalé continued, "packs of them. They're quick and clever, but they won't rush a man without testing him first."
He started playing his lute. "There are bats, larger than hawks, near the cliffs. Don't venture near them, and if you hear leathery wings, go the other way."
Jon nodded and committed it to memory.
"And there are things…" Kalé hesitated, "Bound to places, ruins most often. Echoes of the past. Most are harmless and are stuck in the past, but some are… dangerous."
Jon leaned closer, "What about the… Sentinel?"
Kalé's expression tightened, "A relic of the old order. It judges travellers by its own measure and has killed countless Tarnished. Don't face him unless you are ready."
Jon nodded with a grim expression. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, "What else do I need to fear?"
Kalé's hand stilled, "Night."
Jon frowned, "The sky barely darkened."
"All the more reason," Kalé said quietly. "There are things that hunt at night. Terrible things. Night riders. If you hear a rider where none should be—turn back and run."
Jon nodded slowly. "Anyone worth believing here? Anyone making a stand against Godrick."
"A few," Kalé chuckled softly. "I know of a wandering scholar and a wolf-man that could be interested. But trust is dearer than runes in the Lands Between. Guard yourself well."
Jon turned and studied the far horizon, where Stormhill loomed like a dark promise. "I don't know what I'm meant to do here," he said quietly, his voice thickened with something he hadn't let himself name since waking in the coffin.
"I don't know why I was dragged back. But I refuse to live in ignorance. And I refuse to be used."
The merchant's eyes softened just a tad, "I have met many Tarnished in my days, and most have followed Grace without question. They have all met an unfortunate end."
Jon met his gaze, "I want answers. I want to know why. And until I know what hand dragged me here—" he reached for Longclaw— "I'll decide my own path."
Kalé nodded approvingly, "Good. I'd tell you to start with a map. I know of one guarded in the Gatefront ruins. Some dozen of Godrick's ilk loiter around, a lazy attempt at stopping us from going through the Stormgate and to the Stormhills."
Jon rose and strapped Longclaw's scabbard to his hip. "Aye, that's a good start."
"Follow the road until the forest. From there, keep your eyes sharp and your ears sharper."
Jon nodded, "You've been honest with me," he stated.
An obvious olive branch. A Merchant wouldn't freely give away such knowledge.
Kalé saw his attempt for what it was and shook his head. "Honesty's worth nothing if a man dies before using it."
A favour then.
That was fine too.
Jon allowed himself the briefest of smiles. "Fair enough."
He stood by the doorway and looked out toward the endless gold horizon. "If I live," he said, "I'll come back."
Kalé gave a dry laugh. "You will. The Church of Elleh makes a fine home for the lost."
Jon shook his head, smiling, and stepped out into the open. And strode into the plains, following the rough path. "Keep to the shadows!" Kalé called out after him. "And if you must cross into the open, cross it fast!"
Jon raised a hand in acknowledgement and continued down the path.
The further he walked, the more the world shifted around him. The silence deepened, and the wind thinned, blocked out by the forest ahead. The grass seemed to brush his legs with a strange, listening patience.
It felt like he was no longer a wandering traveller but a trespasser.
The path narrowed as the land guided him east into the forest. He smelled the change first: rot, faint but sharp, carried by a wind too warm for morning.
Jon slowed down and paid closer attention.
The trees around him rose like crooked sentries, oaks twisted by time, their bark veined with moss. Their branches wove into a dense canopy that smothered the light until the world dimmed to a half-lit hush.
Bare earth replaced grass.
Packed and trodden. A path worn by time and heavy boots.
Farmers and smallfolk didn't wear such boots.
Jon lowered his swordhand to Longclaw.
He continued his way slowly, quietly and stopped.
Shapes hung from the thick branches of the oaks.
At first, he thought them old sacks or remnants of banners. But the warm wind brushed one, and a bare foot turned slowly. People. Smallfolk. Their heads bowed by rope-bitten necks. Callused hands stiff with death. The ropes had been tied with care, meant to hold, to last. Whatever punishment this was. It was not done in haste.
Jon's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. His chest tightened, and he felt the same instinctive recoil he had felt seeing the pyres at the Fist and the children the Thenns roasted for sport.
Smallfolk weren't meant for war. They could only endure until they were grounded down by pompous lords.
Jon stepped closer to one of the bodies. A woman his age. A rough plank of wood hung against her chest; the writing wasn't truly familiar—there were too many hard angles and too many broken curves, but some shapes still echoed the letters Maester Luwin had drilled into him as a boy.
Enough to guess the meaning but not enough to trust it. He hated that uncertainty almost as much as he hated the rope around her neck.
"Unfit."
The word struck him hard. Rage surged sharp and cold, biting like northern wind. Whoever had done this will pay for it.
Jon forced his jaw to unclench and forced his legs to move. There was nothing he could do for them now but remember. The deeper he went, the heavier the silence pressed. No birds. No insects. Even his footsteps felt swallowed by the quiet.
Then—
Bootsteps.
Jon dropped behind a large, gnarled root of a tree.
Two soldiers walked down the road. Their armour was dented and neglected, patched with twine, and their weapons seemed rusted and dulled. Men who knew violence but not discipline.
One of the two sneered at the hanging smallfolk. "Ropes wasted on them."
"If they had fight in 'em," the other said, "they'd not be swinging."
Jon's fingers creaked tight around Longclaw's leather.
But this was not the place for an execution.
He waited until their voices faded, then continued deeper into the forest. Bodies hung in great numbers, and the only thing Jon could do to control his rage was to keep his gaze forward.
And finally, the forest spat him out onto a slope. Jon saw smoke drifting from a half-collapsed ruin up ahead. He quietly made his way to the smoke, silent as a winter wolf, and hid behind a broken wall. The stone was cold under his palm, and the smell of moss gave way to oil, soot and rusted metal.
He peered over the edge.
Tents slouched under their own neglect, soldiers clustered around firepits. Armour clanked, and dice rattled. A stick stabbed idly at embers. Kalé had called this place 'held' by soldiers, but Jon only saw squatters gnawing over leftovers.
And somewhere, there was a valuable map.
Jon moved discreetly along the broken stone walls, slipping between walls as fires flickered high enough to cast misleading light. A pair of soldiers argued loudly over rations. Others dozed, helms tilted forward and over their eyes.
Jon ducked behind a statue and scanned the heart of the ruins.
There.
On a table near a broken wagon. A large parchment pinned beneath a dagger.
The map had locations, patrols, settlements, and routes.
One guard stood over it, arms crossed and posture hunched.
Jon let out a small breath. He had already made his choice.
He waited for the guard to look away and moved; three quiet strides were all he needed. He went around like he was taught by the free folk, and he grabbed the back of the neck and brought the head down in a brutal slam on the table.
The man dropped, like a stringless puppet.
Jon took the dagger with him and grabbed the map, and shoved it into his leathers.
Steel screamed behind him.
Jon dodged too late.
Steel tore across his ribs. Pain bloomed hot, then cold. A soldier with a wide grin lunged again. Longclaw sang out of its scabbard, and Jon parried the blow; the ring of steel echoed through the ruin.
He slammed his shoulder into the man, sending him sprawling.
Shouts erupted in the camp. Boots thundered towards him, blades whistled out of their scabbards.
Shit.
Pain flared up in Jon's side, and every movement threatened to buckle him, but Jon was a ranger of the Night's Watch.
A half-dressed soldier charged with its sword raised overhead, and Jon slipped past the strike and brought Longclaw up and sliced behind the knee. The man fell to his knees, screaming.
Jon ran.
Arrows whistled past, shattering on the stone walls, and one sliced a hot line across his shoulder. The forest's edge was too far and the soldiers too close. Shit, this had been a very bad decision. His ribs ached like splintered ice.
Jon ran to the only place he could find.
The Stormgate.
The soldiers who ran after him with bloodlust slowly faltered as he moved away from the camp and closer to the massive stone battlements guarding a massive archway. Old banners hung, and wind howled through the gap.
Jon ran and ran and went through the gate. His legs burned. His ribs ached with each breath, but he reached the base of the climb and hauled himself upward.
Jon pressed between the cliffs, his breath whitening in the cold draft that funnelled through the archway. The soldier's shouts faded behind him. Deep crescents scarred the stone road, like something heavy had been dragged across it.
Jon crouched and traced a groove with two fingers.
And suddenly realized too late why the soldiers didn't follow. Why they guarded the gate so half-heartedly.
It was a trap.
A rasping growl brought Jon back to the present.
And Jon was now very aware he was not alone as something caught his gaze. High above the gatehouse, on a jut of broken stone, a shadow stood. Broad. Jagged. Wrong. Its outline shifted unnaturally, and blades glinted in its hands—or claws as it leaned forward.
Not a man.
Not a beast he had ever known.
Jon brought Longclaw forward, and his slow steps echoed far too loud on the stone road.
Above him, the shadow moved.