Snow-White Pieces
Chapter 17
Snow-White Pieces
It wasn’t quite a typical morning in the North. Jon was on his way to the Wall with a company of Black Brothers, his Uncle Benjen, and surprise of all, the Lannister Dwarf, Tyrion. Since he was already so close, the halfman vocalized his interest in seeing the massive construct for himself, going to the very top, and pissing off the edge.
Jon wasn’t about to admit out loud that that was on his list of things to do there as well.
The road up to the Wall seemed to stretch on forever and there was nothing but cold and quiet the further they went. Jon both liked it and didn’t. He liked the peace of it, but he disliked that he was now forced to think. Think about so many things from his friends, their departures, how much he already missed his family and friends and Hermione and how he wished he had left her with kinder words, or really, hadn’t left her at all. Again, he brooded over the knowledge that if Harry hadn’t gone with her, Jon should have instead, not Robb.
But there was little anyone could do about that now. What was done was done. All that he could do was look forward to whatever future awaited him.
West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits. To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see. Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.
Three days ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely. The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders. When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of ice crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.
With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than Jon could ever remember seeing in his life.
"The wolfswood," Jon realized. This was the farthest north he had ever been, but he recognized the forest from the maps he had been taught from. It was made more apparent when the nights would come alive with the howls of distant packs, causing Ghost to silently scan the trees as if in wait for them to appear to him, yet blessedly, they never got near to their encampment, to all of their combined relief.
There were eight in their party, nine if you counted Ghost. There was Jon, Uncle Benjen, some fresh mounts for the Night's Watch, the Lannister dwarf, and two of his own men whom he traveled with, as befit a wealthy lord of the Westerlands. At the edge of the wolfswood they stayed a night behind the wooden walls of a forest holdfast, and there joined up with another black brother named Yoren. He was stooped and cryptic, his features hidden behind a beard as black as his clothing, but he seemed as tough as an old root and as hard as stone. With him was a pair of ragged peasant boys from the fingers. "Rapers," Yoren said with a cold look at the pair.
Jon felt his blood go cold and his mind returned to Catelyn Stark's final words about Hermione.
He knew that it wasn't likely she would find herself on those spits of land since her trip would take her right past the fingers on her way to King's Landing, but on the off chance they had to land there, Jon couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief that she had avoided getting too close to these boys just the same. Two fewer threats she needed to worry about, so to speak. His hand went to the pin clasped to his cloak in remembrance of his friend. It was something magical, something she promised would protect him. He had nothing to fear of the two rapers, but just the same, he comforted himself with the pin's presence.
With the arrival of Yoren, their party had grown to four men, one dwarf, three boys, a direwolf, twenty horses, and a cage of ravens given to Benjen by Maester Luwin. It was a curious fellowship. A foul-smelling one, too.
Jon's eyes kept switching over to Yoren and his sullen companions with dismay. Yoren had a twisted shoulder and a sour smell, his hair and beard were matted and greasy and full of lice, his clothing old, patched, and likely very rarely washed. His two young recruits were even worse and seemed as stupid as they were cruel. Jon had hoped the rumors about the Watch being mostly rapers, murderers, and thieves had been exaggerated, and that deep down they were mostly men like his uncle. Hermione had warned him, Harry too, and they had pleaded with him not to go, but he hadn't listened. Didn't want to. Yoren and his company were quite the rude awakening and a reminder that, yet again, Hermione was right.
As dismayed as he had been before, he couldn't help but smile grimly. Even hundreds of miles away, the lass was still saying, "I told you so."
Jon tried not to think too much about his current predicament or his brutal company, so instead, his mind kept returning to his final farewells between his loved ones, the tears and the promises and the repeated I’ll-miss-yous, and amidst all of them, the one that was the most significant occurred not between any of those he held dear, but the one he had exchanged with Lady Catelyn.
It had happened out in the yard while everyone was gathering for their departures. There had been no words, but for a moment Jon’s eyes had locked briefly with Lady Stark's and her words about Hermione had rattled once again in his head.
With luck, I hope that girl will have some sense beaten into her on her feeble journey for this outrage! Being raped by a band of thieves ought to show her!
He had been afraid of Lady Catelyn all his life; since the very day he learned that she would never be a mother to him in any kind of form. That he was nothing but a bastard to him. One that wasn't welcome in those walls of his father's. Had it been up to her, he knew she would have cast him out at the very moment she was allowed to, and that was exactly what had happened in the end. At every turn she had been eager to remind him of that fact and it had scarred a place in him that was so deep and aching, it was left stinging any time he was faced with her. In some part of him, he had wanted desperately to win her approval, even more than he had wanted his father’s. Because, secretly, he wanted that motherly warmth she allowed her trueborn children so dearly that he would have done almost anything for it. But she never relented to him. Not a single shred of it.
Now though, after she had said such words about his friends, he no longer feared her. He no longer wanted her warmth. After all, how warm could a mother like her be with such sinister, horrible thoughts like that in her mind?
In the moment when she had said those things, Jon had wanted to hurt her. He had never truly wanted any misfortune to befall her, not really, despite how cruelly she had been towards him. He only wanted her to change, to be kinder. But with those words, a hateful seed had been planted in him and he now knew for certain that he absolutely despised her.
Jon had locked eyes with Catelyn in that yard and threw her the dirtiest look he could. In it, he expressed everything he had ever suffered from her. In it, he hoped she knew just what he wanted to say to her.
I’ll never forget your words and you had better never forget me either.
From her eyes, a shock of fear crossed her face, and he took a moment to hold it, feeling a strange jolt of satisfaction to know it was there because of him. Then he mounted his ride and left with the rest of them.
After that, though, he didn’t want to think about Lady Catelyn. Yet even as he tried to think about his friends and family, he couldn't get her final look out of his mind. He knew he ought to have felt guilty for inspiring such fear on her, but he didn't. He couldn't. He liked knowing he had frightened her, even if it was just for a moment. It made him feel better, almost warmed him, in a way. And with the days and nights growing colder and colder, they needed all the warmth they could get.
By the end of the first week, Jon's thighs were raw from hard riding, his legs were cramping badly, and he was chilled to the bone. Even for Northmen, whose blood was full of ice and were used to the discomfort of winter, this was becoming especially unbearable, and Jon had a dismal feeling all of this hard riding was for the courtesy of the Lannister company. It was no secret that Starks and Lannisters hated each other, and Benjen seemed especially keen on making Lord Tyrion as miserable as he could, never mind that he was also extending that treatment to the rest of them. Yet, the little lord took it all with a smile on his face, never relenting for even a moment to Benjen, likely because he didn't want to give Jon's uncle the satisfaction.
Jon had to admit, he certainly was a tough man, that Tyrion Lannister.
Farms and holdfasts grew scarcer and smaller as they pressed northward, ever deeper into the darkness of the wolfswood, until finally there were no more roofs to shelter under, and they were thrown back on their own resources. On the eighteenth day they had made camp in a glade surrounded by oaks, or most of them had made the camp. Only Tyrion had held back, Benjen believing no Lannister Lord would bother getting his hands dirty, but Jon suspected it was because past experience had taught Tyrion better, likely because he was too small, too hobbled, and too in-the-way. How much help would someone like that have been, after all?
Jon couldn't help but watch him any time he found a moment to do so. The lord had found a comfortable spot just beyond the noise of the camp, beside a swift-running stream with waters clear and cold as ice. A grotesquely ancient oak provided shelter from the biting wind and Tyrion was curled up in his fur with his back against the trunk, a wine skin held against him so the liquid inside would not freeze, and a book opened in his hands.
Jon squinted and recognized one of the old histories from Winterfell's library. It was one that Hermione had read out loud to him when she had first been learning their language. Jon remembered it vividly and how he had patiently corrected her when she stumbled over a word. She had been so driven to learn all she could as fast as she could, and while the experience had been less than ideal for Jon or anyone else she had roped in to assist her, no one could deny her ruthless determination. It was a trait difficult to understand and even as she had explained it a number of times, as if the secret of all things was hidden within the dead parchment of her coveted tomes, Jon still couldn't see the appeal of living so often between those pages. Perhaps though, someone like Tyrion could explain the interest better than she had been able to.
"You read more than my friend does," Jon commented as he came up to collect water from the stream.
"I assume you mean the curly-haired lass you were sparring with out in the yard during the king's feast," Tyrion responded with barely a glance up from his book. "The same one the Stark heir ran away with. Hermione, correct?"
Jon nodded, wondering who had told the lord her name.
He smirked as he fully looked up from his book. "Such a terribly romantic scandal, I suspect they'll be talking about it for months in the capital. Though, I can understand why a lass like her would drive a man to pursue her. I had the pleasure of a conversation with her in the library." Jon was jolted by that news. Tyrion had spoken to Hermione himself? The dwarf went on about the encounter, closing the book on a finger as he continued with a fond look. "Respectful lass, if only a little... eccentric. She dearly loves your household and family."
"I know," Jon mulled, thinking about all the times she had wanted nothing but the best for them, for Jon especially because he had fewer options than his trueborn half-siblings.
That was about the same moment Tyrion's smile turned sly. "I'll bet you were quite disappointed when Robb ran after her. Perhaps you thought you should have done so yourself. That way it would be just you and her all the way down the continent, all alone together." Jon almost upturned the water bucket he was hauling, and the lord laughed. "Ha. Knew it. You're likely regretting your decision now, especially seeing the company you have to look forward to up there."
"The Night's Watch is a noble calling." Even as Jon said it, the lie had never tasted more bitter than in that moment.
"You're too smart to believe that," Tyrion responded, almost scolding. "The Night's Watch is a midden heap for all the misfits of the realm. I've seen you looking at Yoren and his boys. Those are your new brothers, Jon Snow, how do you like them? Sullen peasants, debtors, poachers, rapers, thieves, and bastards like you all wind up on the Wall watching for grumpkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. The good part is there are no grumkins or snarks, so it's scarcely dangerous work. The bad part is you freeze your balls off, but since you're not allowed to breed anyway, I don't suppose that matters. No pretty, clever lasses with curly hair to warm your beds."
"Stop it." Jon couldn't believe how suddenly the dwarf had turned cruel and perhaps the finality of his choice hadn't quite hit him until that very moment, but Jon felt himself staggering back, the bucket falling from his hands as the full weight of what he had to look forward to for the rest of his life hit him then and there. His fists tightened and he felt tears burn his eyes just as he saw the dwarf getting to his feet, looking guilty as he reached a hand towards Jon, maybe intending to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder or offer some word of apology. But he never got the chance.
One moment, he was walking toward Snow and the next, Ghost was there, knocking the dwarf to the ground, the book spinning away as he fell. Tyrion scrambled back, reaching for a root but doing so painfully, almost like he had pulled a muscle in the fall.
"Help me," he said to the boy, reaching that same hand out to him.
Ghost got between them, making no sound while he probed the dwarf with his blood-red eyes and showed him his teeth. Tyrion sagged to the ground with a grunt. "Don't help me, then. I'll sit right here till you leave."
Jon stroked Ghost's thick white fur, feeling his mood cheer with the intervention of his good boy. He felt always confident with his wolf by his side and shot the dwarf a cheeky smile. "Ask me nicely."
Tyrion looked furious. It was likely not the first time he had been humiliated, but just the same he bit back whatever barb he had wanted to react with and used every ounce of politeness he had in him. "I should be very grateful for your kind assistance, Jon."
"Down, Ghost," the boy said. The direwolf sat on his haunches yet his red eyes never left the halfman. Jon came around behind him, slid his hands under his arms, and lifted him easily to his feet. Then he picked up the book and handed it back.
"Why did he attack me?" Tyrion asked with a sidelong glance at the direwolf. He wiped blood and dirt from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Maybe he thought you were a grumkin."
They shared a look before the dwarf bent over and laughed, a raw snort of amusement that came bursting out through his nose. "Oh gods, I suppose I do rather look like a grumkin. What does he do to snarks?"
"You don't want to know." Jon hid a smile as he bent to pick up the wineskin and handed it back to Tyrion. He uncorked it and poured a bit into his mouth before offering a bit to Jon, who accepted the bitter-sweet refreshment with no complaint. Tyrion looked down at his book and sighed.
"Reading is a fine enough pastime, but it can grow boring at times. I'll miss playing the games your other ward invented. Your sister Arya played a hard game of chess, though I have to wonder about her strategy, since she's had more time to practice it, compared to a novice like me."
Jon’s mood cheered however marginally at that. He didn’t know Tyrion had learned during his visit, especially since Jon, his father, little brother Brann, and most of the household had been off trying to get Robb to come home. It made sense that they would need to entertain the king and his family somehow if there was to be no hunt for them.
“I've got my own set with me," Jon offered, thinking a game between the two may have been a good peace offering. "We could play, if you would like?”
Tyrion agreed and Jon left to grab the bag he had stored the board and pieces in. Even as Harry had informed Jon that it was just a generic design, there was always a certain kind of satisfaction he got with touching the little wooden pieces. He especially liked the horse head knights. Jon set up the board and allowed Tyrion to choose his side. Just as Harry had taught him, white moved first and then they were playing. For only a few days of practice, the lord was already quite good. As they played, they spoke more.
"What you said about the Night's Watch. It's true, isn't it?"
Tyrion looked up from his side of the board and nodded.
"If that's what it is, then that's what it is," Jon accepted, moving a septon to take one of Tyrion's pawns.
"That's good, bastard. Most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it."
"Most men, but not you," Jon noted shrewdly.
"No, not me."
"And yet you fill your head with thoughts of dragons," Jon noted his choice of literature.
"Aye, dragons. When I was even younger than you, I dreamed of having a dragon of my own."
"You did?"
"Oh yes. Even a stunted, twisted, ugly little boy can look down on the world when he's seated on a dragon's back," Tyrion moved one of his rooks in place to intercept Jon's rook. "I used to start fires in the bowels of Casterly Rock and stare at the flames for hours, pretending they were dragonfire. Sometimes I'd imagine my father burning. And other times, my sister." Jon stared at him and saw Tyrion's mismatched eyes looking at the board between them like it was that same fire he had envisioned his father and sister dying inside. His green and black eye snapped up to Jon and saw his horror and fascination. "Don't look at me that way, Jon. I know your secret. You've dreamed the same kind of dreams."
Jon was about to deny the accusation, but his words caught in his throat and so Tyrion went on.
"Yes, I'm sure the cruel words of Lady Catelyn hoping your friend finds herself on the wrong end of a band of rapists certainly had you foaming at the mouth to push her into a burning blaze of her own."
Jon's face drained of blood. He hadn't known that the dwarf had seen that. Even worse, had his deepest, darkest thoughts been so easy to read while they had been on the road together? Had Benjen seen the same in his eyes?
"I-it was cruel," Jon explained, wanting to justify his thoughts, "to hope such things on Hermione."
"No doubt. I don't blame you for them. A man who can bare abuse to himself but refuses to endure it on others is a rare and noble character."
Though his earlier words had started out as accusatory, Tyrion's last ones had been ones of comfort. "You think so?" Jon asked, moving a pawn out of danger from one of Tyrion's septons.
Tyrion only shrugged. "It's only in your mind. As long as it stays there, what harm does it do?" To his astonishment, Jon missed the moment when the dwarf had outsmarted him and the rook who had taken his septon had been allowed to box Jon's king in between a pawn and a knight. Tyrion smiled wide, knowing the game was his. "After all, the only damage dragons can do anymore is what's in our heads, though I seldom ever dream of them anymore. There are no dragons."
It was a sad declaration, one that left Jon's defeat all the more bitter, but he still offered another game to the dwarf while they sat near the camp's fire and ate squirrel stew with hard cheese and brown bread until they were at last ready for bed.