Jon I

Jon Snow dreamed.

Not the good dreams where he saw the world through Ghost's eyes, running wild and free. The sights and smells alone were like to overwhelm him. Reawakening as Jon Snow felt almost as if he'd plunged underwater, so muted the world around him seemed.

Underwater.

No, this night he dreamed of the Weeping Water, his first true battle. Lord Stark managed to pin the main body of Mance Rayder's wildling host against the river. Jon remembered pikemen marching forward, grim and determined. He remembered the shrill cries of the savage men who rushed into the very teeth of death. He remembered the mad screams of giant and mammoth, monsters out of old Nan's tales, as they fought to keep their heads above water. Every one of them was feathered with dozens of arrows, bristling with gray goose shafts like oversized porcupines.

Most of all, he remembered that final charge.

The wildling army was not an army, but a beast at bay. In its death throes, it lashed out like a cornered wolf. Mance hit them with everything: savages in skins, bronze-clad warriors like the First Men of old, and worse things. At his father's command, someone blew a horn, and they rode forth.

Stark men, Glover, Manderly, and more, massed in one armored fist, and lowered war lances of ash tipped with cruel steel. Jon was at the very tip of the spear, Robb the heir at his side, and their wolves. There was half a moment of shock and thunder, then the real madness began.

Jon had killed men before, in small skirmishes where they hunted Mance Rayder's scouts, but not like this. Blood and death were everywhere, and above all, drowning. The Weeping Water was swollen and flowing rapidly. The wild men fought like demons, but in the end, the river took them all.

Gods, war is terrible, he thought the next day, watching men trying and failing to fish a bloated giant corpse out for a trophy. The absurd scene was like a dream, but Jon knew it was real. He'd lived it.

When he woke, Robb and the prince were speaking softly, so as not to wake him. He kept his eyes closed for a time and listened.

"So, Blackaxe, you ever use that thing in a fight?" Robb asked. He and Joffrey already seemed fast friends, Jon thought jealously. A more appropriate boy for the heir of Winterfell to associate with, Jon had to admit.

"Yes," the crown prince answered. "I've tested it against old breastplates, and a good hard swing will rend a deep gash in the steel. None of the wildlings were so armed. Against furs and leather, they might as well have worn nothing at all." He held out the weapon. "You can hold it if you like, and Jon, once he wakes."

"It's light," Robb said in wonder.

"Well, it's Valyrian steel, and the handle is dragonbone. The maesters say it's black because of the iron content. Holds an edge like nothing else. Before we broke camp, you and Jon could fell a few trees. It hits like a mule kicks, despite the weight."

"You would share your royal weapon with a bastard?" Robb sounded surprised.

"Oh, I have a lot of bastard brothers and sisters, I told you. My biggest sister is in the Vale. We might bring her to court soon, see about finding her a man. She's pretty and tall, I hear. There is Edric Storm in Storm's End, who is a lot of fun. The youngest are by Lyra, Father's mistress."

"You seem awfully comfortable with that, if I might say so."

"Father and Mother hate each other; it's no secret. They wed to knit the realm back together, not for happiness."

"And you? Would you dishonor my sister like that?" Robb demanded, making Jon wince. One did not speak to royalty like that, but the prince's easy manner seemed to invite it.

"I swear I would not," Joffrey promised. "In any case, it would be years before we could wed. She is twelve. The maesters say young girls who get with child rarely rise from the first childbed with their health."

"You know an awful lot about what the maesters say, Joff."

"Aye, that's so. I've always been a reader, ran through all the books in the Red Keep. My Uncle Tyrion had to buy me more. By the way, whatever happens, I should like to study the piping system in Winterfell when we return. The way you manage to heat the castle from the hot spring below is a wonder. We have nothing like it in King's Landing, much to my regret."

Hearing Winterfell praised so by the prince himself made Jon's heart swell with pride, though he would never inherit the seat or bear the Stark name.

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They were camping in the Wolfswood, hunting wildlings. It had been Joffrey's idea. It was a strong camp of knights, freeriders, and mounted archers, with a thorough watch set at the perimeter, Stark and Baratheon men in chief. The plan was to divide into two columns. Lord Stark and the king would lead one, and Robb the other, with Ser Rodrik at hand to make sure ought did not go amiss. It was a test, of course. Robb had proven himself in the battle. Lord Stark asked him to prove himself again. They had three wolves with them: Gray Wind, Ghost, and Sansa's Lady. She insisted on sending her wolf to protect the prince. Gods, their sister was half in love already.

Lord Stark had Arya's Nymeria and Bran's wolf, Charger. Shaggydog stayed home with Rickon, the baby.

Something in the back of Jon's mind told him they would find the wildling band they'd been tracking for days. He and Ghost just understood one another, at times.

"Seems Jon is stirring, Stark," Joffrey observed. Through barely opened eyes, Jon could see he was petting Lady, who seemed oddly affectionate with the prince. Life truly is not fair, Jon observed. Though two years younger, Joffrey was taller and stronger than either of them. Every maid mooned over him ere he walked past. Some boys have all the luck.

"Get up, brother. It's cold beef to break our fast. We cannot risk a fire, not with the enemy so close."

Jon gnawed on a strip of meat he took out of his saddlebag and started stretching as he rose. Soft snow blanketed the ground, but it was not deep. Indeed, the clouds had passed at last, and a bright sun shone above the canopy of trees, making the ground glint like a carpet of crystal. Fine light to fight a battle by.

Soon, all the camp was roused, and the wolves resumed the chase.

Joffrey was clad in complete steel, all in black and unadorned. With the visor of his helm down, he seemed a man grown, if you didn't hear him speak. The prince's boyish voice gave his age away, which was a small mercy.

Gradually, the trees pressed closer, narrowing their path as they followed in the trail of the wolves. Ser Rodrik gave the command to dismount and lead their mounts by the bridal. When the sun climbed high, they heard screams ahead.

"They're here!" Robb cried. "Draw steel. Forward men, Winterfell!"

Joffrey, who the Baratheon men called "Blackaxe," hefted his black axe and took off at a slow run, those long legs covering ground faster than Robb's stocky ones. Fighting ahorse here was impossible, so they left their mounts with squires and followed the prince. Seeing this, Robb ran faster, determined to be the first man in the fight. Together they raced to the clearing where the wildlings had made their camp, the wolves already reaping a bloody toll.

"Kill the kneelers!" a woman wearing a shirt of stolen mail screamed. The armor hung down past her knees, clearly stolen. Lady went for her straight away, tackling the woman to the ground and opening her throat.

Jon couldn't help being impressed seeing Joff in action. That black axe of his was a whirlwind, hewing down one man after another. The eye could hardly follow it, so fast he swung, one kill chained into another like a whirling dance of death. Soon, the white ground was stained red, more than stained. At least this boy was no craven. Sansa could do worse. Robb was right beside him, cutting down his fair share.

As for himself, Jon took out his sword and joined in on the bloody business. Hardly any of these wildlings had proper armor or training, armed mostly with junk and a few oddments of iron they'd managed to steal from the unwary. For the most part, these hunts had been more butchery than battle. Hardly a man even fending off his first stroke. One thrust, and he was done. On to the next. On, and on, and on.

Their three wolves dashed into the woods beyond, hunting those who fled. Not a one would escape, Jon knew. They preferred to work together, hunting as a pack. It was like Lord Eddard said. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."

The fight, for one could hardly call it a battle, ended as abruptly as it began. There was a cave beyond where these reavers stashed their loot. It would be searched for anything of value, and then they'd be off again. The Wolfswood belonged to the wolves, and they would take it back, league by league.