At midday, the scorching sun—rare and fleeting—pierced the gaps in the window shutters, jolting Jon Snow from a heavy, dreamless sleep. He lay atop the sheepskin mattress, breathing deeply, his limbs feeling as heavy as cold iron. The day before, he had mended twenty-one men, nearly emptying the infirmary of Riverrun, but the toll on his spirit was immense. As a Sunwalker, this was his first experience with such a staggering workload. He found himself wondering how Aldric had carried the burden alone for so many months without him and Kevin. The thought only deepened the guilt gnawing at his heart.
From the scattered words of Ser Brynden "The Blackfish" Tully, Jon had pieced together Robb's strategy: secure the Frey alliance, strike north through the Neck, and retake Winterfell. Jon believed that if he helped Robb through these dark days, he could return to St. Maur's and resume his duty to the Order. His teacher had once said: Since the dawn of time, loyalty to the cause and loyalty to the blood have rarely walked the same path.
Jon hoped Aldric would understand.
He rose, dressed in his black brigandine, and found Ser Brynden inspecting the repairs on the keep's inner gates. The old knight smirked. "Awake at last? I thought we might have to bury you in that bed."
"The work was worth the weariness, Ser," Jon replied humbly.
Brynden tossed a small leather pouch. Jon caught it, the weight of coins clinking inside. He frowned, pulling the drawstring. "Ser Brynden, this isn't necessary—"
"Thirty gold dragons," the Blackfish interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "It's your due. Commander Aldric's rule is clear: healing is a service, and services are paid in coin. I won't have it said I cheated the Order while the Master was away. If I break his rules now, what right will I have to ask for his help later?"
Since it was the Teacher's decree, Jon didn't argue. The Golden Dawn still paid its men in grain and cloth; he was essentially penniless. He pocketed the gold. "If there is nothing else, I'll take the road. Every day wasted is a day Robb faces the storm alone."
Brynden nodded. "I've prepared a packhorse with enough salt-beef and hardbread to see you to the Twins. I've also found five men to ride with you. They know the river-paths. Go with the Warrior's favor, boy."
As Jon turned toward the stables, he was intercepted by Queen Jeyne and her handmaidens.
"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing.
"Lord Jon," Jeyne said, her voice soft and shy. "Ser Brynden says you ride to join Robb. Will you... will you carry a letter for me? I miss him terribly."
Jon felt a twinge of awkwardness at the raw affection in her voice—a stark contrast to the cold politics of the war—but he nodded gravely. "Is it ready, Your Grace? I leave within the hour."
"Yes, yes!" One of her ladies handed over a scroll sealed with blue wax. "She spent the whole night at the desk. Please, put it in his hand yourself."
Jon tucked the letter into his tunic, bid the Queen farewell, and led his horse to the gate.
His escort consisted of five veterans. Three were men Jon had personally healed the night before; the other two were devout followers of the Seven who had been moved by the "miracle" in the Godswood. They knew the terrain between Riverrun and the Twins like the backs of their hands, allowing Jon to focus on the road ahead.
By afternoon, the sky turned a leaden grey. A thin, persistent drizzle began to fall, turning into a steady downpour by twilight.
The next day, the sun never appeared. The world was a monochrome of grey and brown. The men pulled their cowls low, riding in a miserable silence broken only by the rhythmic splash of hooves in the muck. The rain was relentless; fields were turning into ponds, and the rivers were beginning to swell with the runoff of late autumn.
Rand Carlton, a veteran whose sword-arm had been crushed by a Lannister warhammer at the Red Fork, rode beside Jon. Maester Vyman had set the bone, but had warned Rand he'd likely never grip a hilt again. Jon had mended it with a single flash of golden Light.
Seeing Jon's grim expression, Rand tried to offer comfort. "Don't fret, Lord Jon. This rain slows the King's host as much as it slows us. With three thousand men and a baggage train, they'll be struggling to cross the fords. We'll catch them in a few days."
Jon nodded absently. "More men walk slower, aye. Thank you, Rand. I'm just... anxious."
From his companions, Jon learned the state of Robb's force: three thousand five hundred men. These were the iron core of the North—survivors of the Whispering Wood, the Camps, Oxcross, and the Crag. They were veterans of the Western mines and the scorched fields of the Reach. But they were alone. Most of the River-lords had stayed behind to guard their own charred lands, watching to see if the Young Wolf could actually win back his home.
Jon remembered the day they left Winterfell. Thousands of spears under the Direwolf banner. By the time they hit Moat Cailin, they were eighteen thousand strong. When the host split at the Twins, Robb took nearly eight thousand riders south.
Now, only three thousand five hundred remained.
The math hit Jon like a physical blow. More than half the men who had followed Robb south were dead, buried in foreign soil, never to see the snows of home again. Robb had won every battle, but he was losing the war of attrition.
How many more victories can we afford? Jon wondered.
Worse was the betrayal of the River-lords. Robb had come south to save them from the Lion's claws, yet in his hour of greatest need, they sat behind their walls and watched.
Maybe the Teacher is right, Jon thought bitterly. Nobility is a parasite that chokes the life out of the soil.
The trail led them through the Whispering Wood. It felt like a cruel joke of the heavens. They rode along the narrow, stony creek-bed where Jaime Lannister's host had been shattered. When the battle was fought, it had been summer; the trees were lush, the stream a gentle trickle.
Now, the autumn leaves choked the water. The trees had shed their green for a dress of gold and sickly brown. Some leaves were a dark, bruised red, reminding Jon uncomfortably of dried blood and rust. Only the firs and soldier-pines remained green, standing like black spears against the grey sky.
Everything has changed, Jon thought.
Back then, his father was still alive in a black cell beneath the Red Keep. Bran and Rickon were safe behind the walls of Winterfell. Theon Greyjoy had fought at Robb's side, boasting of how close he'd come to the Kingslayer.
Aldric had told him later that Robb's entire guard—twenty men—had nearly failed to stop Jaime's final charge. If the Kingslayer had reached Robb, Theon might have died that night... and Bran and Rickon might still be alive.
Rickon... he was so small. A shudder wracked Jon's frame, a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain.
"Are you ill, my Lord?" Sergio, one of the uninjured guards, asked with concern. "If the chill has taken you, we can find a dry hollow to rest."
Jon shook his head, spraying droplets from his hood. "Keep moving. So long as the horses have legs, we ride."
Sergio frowned. "Speed is fine, Lord Jon, but a fever will only delay us further."
Jon let go of his reins with his right hand. A tiny, golden spark ignited at his fingertip. It hummed like a bee, circling his hand before sinking into his skin.
"It's no matter, Sergio. My teacher taught me to mend the winter-fever. If any of you feel the shakes, tell me."
Sergio stared at the fading light, his voice trembling. "Lord Jon... could I... could I feel it? I've had a cough since the moon turned. See?" He coughed twice, his face flushing with the effort.
Jon had plenty of mana. He didn't care if Sergio was truly sick or just curious. He cast Purify. The golden spark leapt to Sergio's head, swirling around his body in a warm veil.
Sergio closed his eyes, whispering, "So this is the Grace... I feel as though I've been washed in a summer spring." He looked at Jon with burning intensity. "Lord Jon, I wish to follow you. Can I earn this gift?"
Jon shook his head. "No. Only the Lightbringer, Aldric, can grant the Solar Seed. And it requires a faith that doesn't waver. I am staying with King Robb for now, but when we reach the Twins, I can write you a letter of passage. Take it to St. Maur's on the Gods Eye. My teacher will find a place for you. If you can accept his Word, you may one day be a Sunwalker."
Sergio bowed low from his saddle. "Thank you, my Lord."
As they crossed the old battlefield, Jon saw the refuse of the war: rusted helms half-buried in the silt, snapped spear-shafts, the bleached ribs of horses. Stone cairns marked the graves of the fallen, but the scavengers had been busy. Beneath the tumbled rocks, Jon saw flashes of rotted surcoats and the dull glint of metal. One face stared up from the mud, the skull's features sharp beneath the decaying, brown flesh.
What a waste, Jon thought. If the Teacher were here, he would have salvaged every scrap of that iron and forged it into something for the living.
Five days later, they reached Fairmarket. The once-prosperous town was a hollow shell. The Blue Fork had risen with the rains, washing away the wooden bridge. Sergio, eager to prove his devotion to the Light, tried to swim his horse and the pack-beast across the Ram's Ford. He lost both animals and the supplies, barely surviving by clinging to a rock until his comrades hauled him out.
"The river hasn't been this high since spring," Rand Carlton noted, looking at the churning brown water. "If the rain holds, it'll swallow the banks."
"There's another bridge upstream near Oldstones," Sergio said, shivering as he wrung out his sodden tunic. Jon had already mended his scrapes, but the cold was deep. "It's small and narrow, but—"
"It's gone, soldier," another man named Wade cut in. "I asked the locals while you were playing in the rapids. The floods took that bridge before this one fell."
Jon looked at Sergio. "Any others?"
"None," Sergio sighed. "And the fords will be death-traps in this current."
"Then we can't cross the Blue Fork," Jon realized. "We have to go around. Through the Seven Springs and Hag's Mire."
"Aye," Rand warned. "It's a swamp of muck and rot. It'll cost us time, but it's the only way to reach the Twins."
Jon looked at the churning river. Time, he thought. The one thing Robb doesn't have.
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