The Wall—this structure hailed as a miracle—had stood for a thousand years.
On its western end, it stretched out in a straight line, like a gleaming blade slicing the land in two. On its eastern end, it curved like a silver serpent and disappeared into the sea.
Together, the Wall and the Night's Watch guarded the northern gate of the Seven Kingdoms, holding back the wildlings and the White Walkers of legend.
Inside Castle Black, born in the shadow of that frozen Wall, a bearded middle-aged man sat facing an elderly man whose hair and beard had both turned completely white.
The middle-aged man was Jeor Mormont, the current Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was broad-shouldered, a man from Bear Island, and a pet raven perched on his shoulder.
Sitting across from him was an old man named Aemon, a remnant of the long-fallen Targaryen royal line.
He was so old that the new king had practically forgotten he existed. And with the way he was—ancient and blind, his lifeless eyes always angled upward—he really wasn't any threat to anyone's crown.
There was someone else in the room too: a young man of sixteen or seventeen, standing nearby as an attendant.
He was a bit heavyset, his belly nearly pressing against the edge of the table, and he was reading a letter aloud to them.
"...Honored Maester Aemon, the first time I saw you, I felt strangely close to you—like I'd run into family I'd never met.
I don't have your level of resolve. Maybe that's because I still haven't spoken the Night's Watch oath.
As a son, I can't ignore the news that my father was framed..."
When House Targaryen had been overthrown and wiped out more than ten years ago, Maester Aemon had been devastated and wanted to do something—anything.
But in the end, he chose to remain at the Wall and keep the vows he'd sworn.
The chubby Night's Watchman kept reading, but he watched both men's faces carefully as he did.
Their expressions were equally grim.
His name was Sam, and he was the letter writer's close friend.
Even if his friend technically hadn't taken the oath yet, in honor-obsessed Westeros, running off like this was basically the same as desertion.
If he got caught, the odds of losing his head were high.
Maybe being the Lord of Winterfell's bastard would buy him some mercy—but who could say?
"...Lord Commander Mormont,
Even though I haven't been at the Wall long, I can feel how much attention you've given me—what you hoped I'd become.
I don't want to hide behind 'I haven't sworn the oath yet' as an excuse.
I promise you: one day, I'll come back and fulfill my duty.
—Jon Snow, a bastard from Winterfell."
Sam finished the signature and looked up at the two old men.
One of them was the Lord Commander—the man with the most authority on the Wall. The other was the Night's Watch's maester—the most respected man at Castle Black.
Their choice decided his friend's fate.
Life, or death.
Lord Commander Mormont snorted and said coldly, "I'm sending Alliser to bring that little bastard back. Qhorin too."
Hearing that, Sam's heart dropped. His lips moved like he wanted to speak.
He wanted to plead for Jon, but he didn't have the nerve.
And Mormont's anger made sense. That old man—normally so hard and emotionally shut down—had been grooming Jon like an heir.
Jon's "desertion" was basically a slap in the face.
Alliser had never been able to stand Jon. If he got even half a chance, he'd insult him. And Qhorin was a ranger—someone who lived beyond the Wall for long stretches, side by side with brutal wildlings.
If Jon got caught by the two of them, he'd probably be half-dead before they even dragged him back.
Sam turned instinctively toward the old maester, hoping he'd speak up for Jon.
But Sam didn't dare say it out loud—and Aemon couldn't see any frantic looks anyway.
After a moment, the old maester pressed his thin lips together and said, "I'll write to Winterfell."
Sam's mind went off like a bomb. That meant they were even cutting off Jon's way back.
Mormont didn't respond. He stood and left.
Now the room held only Sam and the old maester.
"Maester Aemon..." Sam started weakly, but the maester cut him off.
"Sam—write that Jon has left the Night's Watch. And send Winterfell the letter he left behind."
...
The Kingsroad had been built back during the Targaryen dynasty.
It was called a highway, but in plenty of places, one good rain turned it into mud. Still, it was the road that connected most of the Seven Kingdoms.
On that road, a lean, dark-haired young man rode hard south, foam spilling from the corners of his horse's mouth.
Days of nonstop riding had pushed the animal close to its limit.
Behind the rider padded a direwolf, snow-white from nose to tail.
He was Jon Snow, a deserter from the Night's Watch—except he wasn't the same Jon anymore.
He knew the man he'd called "father" was actually his uncle. His real father was Prince Rhaegar of the old dynasty.
And he wasn't a bastard at all.
His true name was Aegon Targaryen.
But none of that mattered right now.
In the original course of events, Jon only wavered about going south after he'd sworn the Night's Watch vows—after he'd become a brother for real.
But he was someone who didn't belong to this world, and he'd already made up his mind. He waited for the right moment, left a letter, and slipped away.
As far as he understood it, if you hadn't taken the oath, you weren't truly Night's Watch.
At least it gave him a sliver of moral wiggle room.
So he chose his timing, rode out from the Wall at night with a stolen horse, and headed south—planning to help the "Young Wolf" who was about to raise his banners to save his father.
Only Jon—the current Jon—knew there was no saving Eddard Stark.
A few months from now, he'd die by King Joffrey's order.
And besides, the Lannister armies were already ravaging the Riverlands. With no soldiers of his own, there was no way Jon could force his way through.
So his goal now was to find a way for the Starks to come out of this war alive.
In the original story, the Young Wolf would eventually be brought down by a plot. But before that happened, he still had plenty of chances to win.
At minimum, Jon wanted Robb to keep it in his pants, retreat safely back to the North, and then use the full strength of the North to support the Night's Watch—so the Watch wouldn't be stretched so thin.
With twenty or thirty thousand men holding a wall a hundred feet tall...
As long as Daenerys didn't do something catastrophically stupid, Jon honestly couldn't see how the Night King would ever make it across.
And if the Night King had some other trick, they'd deal with it when it happened. Anything was better than leaving the Wall's pitiful manpower to face an army of White Walkers that couldn't even be counted.
"No matter what, the Night's Watch can't save the Seven Kingdoms. If I'm going to fight the White Walkers, I have to get involved in this game of thrones."
Jon thought that silently as he looked at the direwolf at his side.
Just then, Ghost's ears snapped upright as he looked back.
Those crimson eyes sharpened with warning.
Jon felt it too. He turned—and saw more than a dozen riders in black racing toward him.
They'd come for him.
A bitter smile tugged at Jon's lean face as cold reality yanked him out of his plans.
He cracked his whip and urged his exhausted horse onward.
The animal had been on the road for three straight days, surviving on roadside grass.
Meanwhile, the men behind him each had two horses. They'd catch him sooner or later.
The terrain around him was flat—no cover, nowhere to shake them...
Jon scanned the area and found only one option: the Wolfswood.
"Ghost! Into the trees!"
At Jon's command, the direwolf—nearly as long as a grown man—became a white blur, sprinting into the forest.
Seeing Jon make for the Wolfswood, the riders behind him spurred their mounts and accelerated.
"That little bastard!"
One ranger in particular—an officer by the look of him—chased like a man possessed, as if he weren't hunting a deserter but a naked noblewoman.
His name was Alliser, the master-at-arms for the Watch's recruits.
Just like Sam feared, Alliser and Jon had never gotten along at the Wall.
Alliser loved giving people nasty nicknames. He called Jon "Lord Jon" or "my lord," knowing perfectly well that a bastard had no right to be addressed like a lord or knight.
It was mockery, plain and simple.
When Alliser learned the Lord Commander had put him in charge of bringing Jon back, he was thrilled.
He swore that once he caught Jon, he'd humiliate him in front of everyone.
Even if Jon somehow avoided execution, he'd never be able to hold his head up again.
When the pursuit reached the wide edge of the Wolfswood, Alliser turned to a silent man built like a wall and said, "Ser Qhorin, how about you take a few men and circle around to cut him off up ahead?"
Qhorin tugged his reins and replied, cold as ice, "No need."
Then he rode straight into the forest.
Rangers worked alone by habit. Moving through the haunted wilderness beyond the Wall was normal life for them—so tracking someone through the Wolfswood was nothing.
Watching the ranger disappear, Alliser's expression flickered. Without turning his head, he snapped, "Pyp—take your friend and go 'invite' our Lord Jon back.
If you don't bring him in, there'll be only one end left for him: the axe."
As soon as he finished, two young recruits rode out from the group.
Pyp was small and skinny. The recruit with him was tall—though tall in that big, clumsy way that made him look like a gentle oaf.
The big one was named Grenn. Because of his size, Alliser had slapped him with the nickname "Dummy Ox."
Alliser used it so much he'd basically forgotten Grenn's real name.
Neither of them argued. They hurried into the Wolfswood.
Alliser knew that since they were Jon's friends—and since he'd just scared them half to death—they'd search hard.
To be safe, he still sent another man to shadow them.
A lot of the men he'd brought this time were new recruits. Alliser wasn't well-liked, and it was the perfect chance to use Jon to make an example and establish authority.
He turned to the men behind him and barked, "If we catch that deserter, fine. If we don't—then you'll be on night patrol every day for a month!"
It was already brutally cold beyond the Wall, and it was worse up on the Wall itself. At night, the wind up there cut so deep it felt like it could drill into bone.
The Watch normally rotated patrol duty. A full month without a break would leave a man sick for life.
At that, most of them shrank their necks in fear.
A few pairs of eyes showed resentment and hostility—but everyone did what they were told.
Alliser was a noble by birth, and he knew exactly how to handle runaway peasants and soldiers.
At times like this, the smart move wasn't to chase—it was to seal off escape routes.
He was sure Jon couldn't get away.
And events unfolded exactly the way he wanted.
Shouts rose and fell through the Wolfswood, startling birds and animals into hiding.
"Jon! Come back with us!"
"Jon! Come back—at least you won't get your head chopped off!"
"Come back, Jon! If you come back, the Lord Commander won't kill you!"
"..."
In the trees, Jon listened to the chorus of "talk him down" voices, and the pressure inside him kept building.
His horse stumbled—then collapsed to the ground, heaving.
Jon looked at it with its head pressed to the earth, eyes closed, and let out a long breath.
"I was planning to save this for the battlefield. Looks like now's not the time to be stingy."
As his thoughts shifted, lines of colored text appeared in front of him:
[Swordsmanship]: Blue
[Archery]: Green
[Horsemanship]: Green
[Gods'-Eye View]: Green
[Skinchanger]: Green
Upgrades remaining: 1