Jon pulled his white fur-lined cloak tight around his strong swordsman's body, trembling inside from the bitter, soul-stealing cold of the Far North or Beyond-The-Wall or the Land of Eternal Winter or a dozen other names, depending on who you asked. He refused to show the weakness, giving away no sign of his bone-deep chill before the men of the Night's Watch – including their sharp-eyed and grizzled-cheeked Lord Commander who owed him a life debt. It was his idea for this Ranging – and only by putting pressure on said Lord Commander had Jon been able to talk his way into their company, as Mormont had originally refused to allow Jon passage beyond the Wall, which had held him up for several turns at Castle Black as he tried to make the Old Bear see reason.
Men of the Night's Watch were naturally suspicious, few if any ever joined of their own choice, most being disgraced sons of noblemen and the high born while the remaining numbers were swelled with the thieves, rapists, and sundry criminals from the prison cells of Westeros.
To bring along Jon who while highborn was rumored to be a bastard – though his status was frustratingly unclear to much of Westeros with only the Lord Commander and the Maester Aemon among the Watchmen having any idea of his true station – grated on most of the seasoned members of their party. An irritation and cause for grumbling that worsened with each and every night they spent in the unforgiving Far North.
He wasn't about to give them any reason to strike out at him.
Not when such an encounter may very well cost his life and sunder his chances at fulfilling his purpose for leaving Winterfell and coming North in the first place.
Lifting his torch higher, shining a meager few spark of light on the foreboding carved-rock wall of the cliff's face located flush against the mountainside known to most as the Fist of the First Men, Jon lifted a gloved hand and delicately brushed away the fat flakes of new snow that attempted to shield the sigils and runes he spied from his sight. Such carvings were common-place this far North, where the remnants of the First Men were able to be found by those who knew how to look – those such as the Starks who were of the direct bloodlines of the First Men and the Age of Heroes. More than that, they also remembered their beginnings when others of their same kind – Lannisters, Arryns, etc. the oldest bloodlines of the noble houses of Westeros – forgot them in the wake of time.
Oh, they still sung songs about Lann the Clever or Bran the Builder, but they had slowly and surely forgotten their true origins in the test of time.
Leaving only the Starks to remember and to warn the others: Winter is Coming.
And hell follows with it.
Bran was too young and Theon not of their bloodline so neither recognized the danger of the deserter's tale. A story and a warning to those canny enough to listen. There was a reason outside of fear for his life that had led that Black Brother to venture into the lands of the Starks.
The North Remembers.
Robb had had – and still does at that despite the awful turn their paths had taken – duties to Winterfell and the North and couldn't be spared.
Lord Stark himself had planned this journey that Jon had undertaken but had been called to King's Landing before he could set out – a delay that ultimately cost him his head.
Jon had gone to the Wall in his stead, and now with news of his murder – for that was what it truly was – was trying to succeed in the duty his uncle had given him.
A gust of fogged breath was the only sign of his relief and jubilation as he finally deciphered the riddle cut into the stone.
Wincing as he peeled off his glove, Jon quickly nicked his palm open on Longclaw as Ghost bounded over to his side with a warning growl, a moment later shouts sprang up around the camp.
"We're under attack!"
Cursing, Jon slammed his palm down onto the "key" portion of the riddle, nerves wracking him for several long seconds as he heard the men surrounding him bellowing in pain or anger or death, the Lord Commander calling for them to form up and head off the attack.
"Stark!" Mormont cried out, swinging sword and torch in unison. "Where are ya lad? We'd best be usin' that sword of yours I gave ya about now!"
Jon's knees almost buckled in relief when the raucous "SNAP!" of ancient locks and mechanisms releasing reverberated across the snow, temporarily drowning out the sounds of the skirmish.
"Quickly!" Jon shouted back, shoving the door open with his shoulder and waving his torch, signaling to the Watch, Ghost bounding in and leading the way. "Into the tomb!"
Mormont paused for a split second eyes wide with shock at the sight of the gaping chasm where shear solid rock had stood mere seconds before.
"Aye!" He called, beheading another wraith with glowing eyes. "You heard the lad, boys! Into the tomb!"
:::
Part 1 available to download.
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