The first light of dawn spilled pale and summer cold over the Wall. Snow still clung to the eaves of the long hall, and smoke curled weakly from the chimneys of Castle Black. Jon stood outside the Lord Commander's cabin, his hand pressed against the door.
Last night's words with Maester Aemon had rung in his skull without pause. They had chased him through his restless sleep, and when he woke, he knew there was no choice left.
He knocked.
"Enter," came the gravelly voice.
Jeor Mormont sat behind his desk, crow perched on the back of his chair, its black eyes bright in the gloom. He looked up as Jon stepped in, his lined face grave. "Snow. You look like you've not slept."
Jon bowed his head. "I have not, lord commander. And I come to ask something I thought I never would."
Mormont's heavy brow furrowed. "Out with it."
"I cannot take the vows," Jon said. The words felt like a knife in his gut, but once spoken they could not be taken back. "I swore myself to come here freely. But I have not sworn the oath yet. And if I did now, it would be a lie. My path lies elsewhere."
The Lord Commander leaned back in his chair. The crow flapped its wings and croaked, "Elsewhere, elsewhere."
For a long moment, silence hung thick. Mormont's face was unreadable, carved from stone. Then at last he sighed, slow and deep. "You're the best lad we've had here in years. Strong. Quick. You've got the blood of a leader in you. I thought to see you rise high, maybe wear the cloak of the Commander after me."
His voice roughened, though his eyes softened. "But the Watch takes only those who swear, and you have not. I can't chain a man who came freely."
He reached into a drawer, drew out a folded parchment, and pressed it into Jon's hands. "This letter will serve as proof. No man can call you oathbreaker when you never took the oath."
Jon's throat tightened. He bowed low. "Thank you, Lord Commander. For your kindness."
Mormont grunted, waving him off, though the sorrow in his eyes lingered. "Go then. The realm beyond the Wall and south of it will be poorer without you."
The crow cawed, "Poorer, poorer."
Jon turned to go, his chest heavy.
In the yard, Grenn and Pyp were sparring with wooden swords. Edd sat watching, making dry jests about their footwork. They looked up as Jon approached, his horse saddled behind him.
"You're leaving," Grenn said, surprise on his broad face.
"I am," Jon admitted. "I wanted to say farewell."
Pyp's grin faltered, his usual humor dimmed. "You always looked too good for us, Snow. Guess we were right."
Jon clasped his shoulder. "No. You were my brothers, though not in black. Don't forget that."
He hugged Grenn, who clung tighter than expected, and traded nods with Edd, who muttered, "If the Others don't get us, boredom will. At least you'll die doing something better."
Jon managed a faint smile.
Sam came last, hovering on the edge. His soft eyes were wide with confusion. In another life, Jon had loved him as a brother. In that other life, Sam had told truths that brought ruin.
Jon forced the bitterness down. It was not this Sam. Not yet.
"Goodbye, Sam," Jon said gently.
Sam's lips trembled. "I—I'll pray for you."
Jon nodded, nothing more.
Before he mounted, Jon looked one last time toward the rookery tower. A thin figure stood at the window above, frail and bent but watching, with an aide. Maester Aemon raised a hand in farewell.
Jon bowed his head in return.
The road south stretched long and lonely. Snow thinned as he left the Wall behind, giving way to the sparse forests of the Gift. His horse's breath steamed in the morning air, and Ghost loped beside them, silent as death.
In his pack, wrapped in oiled cloth, lay the blade Maester Aemon had pressed into his hands in the stillness of last night—Dark Sister, the sword of Visenya Targaryen, older even than Longclaw. Its weight less than sword he has ever held; it had history, destiny, of a thousand years of conquest and fire.
Jon's eyes drifted often to the bundle, though he dared not unwrap it on the open road. Why me? he thought. Why must it always be me?
He rode past the fork that led toward Winterfell. He did not turn his head, though the ache in his chest was sharp. To see his brother—no, his cousin—again, to see Bran. The thought was temptation, crueler than the cold. But he could not. Not yet.
The South awaited, with all its dangers and games. He knew little of what awaited him—whispers of kings in turmoil, of Cersei's scheming, of dragons still unborn. The details were thin, not much news had arrived at Castle Black last time other than of War of 5 Kings and Robb's death.
And at night, when sleep at last claimed him, the dreams came.
A cave of stone, damp and dark, its walls carved with shapes he could not name. A hot breath upon his face, hot as a furnace with the scent of ash and smoke. A shadow moved in the dark, scales scraping against rock.
And in the dream, his own reflection appeared in black water—his hair no longer dark as a raven's wing but shimmering silver, pale as moonlight.
He woke with sweat chilling his skin, his hand clenched tight around the cloth-wrapped hilt of Dark Sister.