The first breath of waking was like swallowing fire. Jon sat up with a gasp, the cold night air biting into his lungs. He clutched his chest as though it were not his own, feeling the shudder of life rush through limbs that had lain still for a week.
"You're awake," a voice said.
Thoros of Myr crouched by the fire, his red robes dirtied with ash, his face lined with weariness. He had been waiting—Jon knew it at once. The priest's eyes were tired, as though sleep had abandoned him entirely.
"How long?" Jon's voice was rough.
"A sennight. Seven days since you fell." Thoros poured him water from a skin, his hands trembling slightly as he passed it.
Jon drank, the coolness sharp as ice. His memory came in shards—steel flashing in firelight, the screams of villagers, crying of women and girls as their clothes were ripped apart, husbands and fathers killed, their innocence and life taken away. And then, a stranger thing still: the dream. Or not a dream, but something else. He remembered a weirwood forest without end, ancient red eyes upon him, roots coiling with blood flowing between. He remembered whispers, a chorus of the rustling of leaves.
Jon rubbed his temples, breathing hard. Was it death again? Or something worse?
Ghost pressed against him, the wolf's white fur warm, his eyes like mirrors of Jon's own. For the first time, Jon noticed the strangeness of his reflection. His eyes had changed, gone was the grey of House Stark, his hair now white, almost same as House Targaryen. His eyes now shined crimson, as though carved from the sap of the old trees. He closed them, steadying himself. When he opened them again, the fire in his chest had not dimmed.
"I saw what they did here," Jon said, his voice low, almost a growl. He rose stiffly, his legs weak but he managed himself to stand.
He moved to his horse, strapping on what gear he had. Thoros lurched to his feet.
"Where are you going, boy?"
Jon swung into the saddle, his face set like stone. "To deal with sickness. It has plagued Westeros far too long. Someone must act."
Thoros clambered toward his own horse. "Then you'll not ride alone. My gods have no love for this sickness either."
Jon looked down at him, the red of his eyes glinting in the firelight. "What I plan may be fatal to your life. This path is no holy pilgrimage. It's death and ruin."
The red priest mounted all the same. "I've no intention of letting a lad ride headlong into peril while I linger safe. Not while I draw breath."
Jon felt it then—something beneath the words, like something was missing. A half-truth. He narrowed his gaze. "Tell me truly."
Thoros pulled his horse closer, his face suddenly grave. He looked into Jon's eyes, and for a moment seemed lost, as though he stared not at a boy, but into something deeper.
"My gods," Thoros whispered, "sent me to you."
The words rang through Jon like a bell. He could feel it—the truth. As if the eyes he bore now were more than eyes, as if they could strip lies from flesh like a knife through silk. He gave a slow nod.
"Then ride with me," Jon said. "Whether its the will of your gods, or mine."
Thoros bowed his head, and Ghost loped before them, a white shadow in the night. Together, they rode east, into the dark.
Far to the north, the ravens had come.
Winterfell's great hall was hushed as the parchment was unrolled. Robb Stark sat with his direwolf at his feet, Grey Wind's fur bristling. Beside him, Maester Luwin's hand trembled as he held the letter sealed in red wax. Ser Rodrik Cassel leaned close, his weathered face taut with anger.
The words were plain, and cruel:
Eddard Stark is a traitor now imprisoned. The realm has a new king. Robb Stark of Winterfell must come south, bend the knee, and pledge fealty to Joffrey Baratheon.
Silence weighed heavy on the hall.
Robb's jaw clenched. "My father… my lord father is no traitor."
"They'll call him one all the same," Ser Rodrik said. "It is Lannister quill that writes this, I've no doubt."
Maester Luwin's eyes darted over the words again. "If you go south, you place yourself in their snare. If you do not, you defy the throne. Either path leads to war."
Robb stared at the table, his knuckles white. He thought of his mother, now in the south with her kin. He thought of Bran and Rickon, too young to understand, of Arya and Sansa, lost in that viper's pit of King's Landing. And of his father, alone in a dungeon.
"My lord," Ser Rodrik said softly, "your bannermen will not sit idle. They will look to you. They will ride where you command."
Robb looked from the old knight to the maester, then down at Grey Wind, whose ears twitched and voiced out in a low snarl.
"Then let them come," Robb said at last. His voice was steady, though his heart thundered. "Call the banners. From the Wolfswood to the Dreadfort, from White Harbor to the Last Hearth. Send word: the North rides to war."
The hall seemed silent as cold night beyond the wall. Maester Luwin bowed his head in resignation, and Ser Rodrik set his jaw.
Robb Stark, not yet a man grown, had spoken the words of a king.
And far away, in the cold dark night, two riders and a ghostly wolf vanished into the mist, carrying a duty forgotten by those who called themselves kings.