Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web

Please forgive me, everyone, I will try my best to make up for the delays before the end of the month. Thank you.

Jon Snow tightened the straps on his saddle, and his mare whinnied softly. “Good girl, don't be afraid,” he murmured to soothe her. The cold wind whispered between the stables, like an icy death approaching, but Jon paid it no mind. He secured his bedroll to the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy. “Ghost,” he called softly, “come.” The direwolf appeared instantly, his eyes like two embers.

“Jon, please, don't do this.”

He mounted his horse, gripped the reins, and turned to face the darkness. Samwell Tarly stood in the stable doorway, a full moon behind his shoulders casting a giant shadow, large and dark. “Sam, get out of the way.”

“Jon, you can't just leave like this,” Sam said. “I won't let you.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Jon told him. “Sam, move aside, or I'll ride over you.”

“You won't. Listen to me, please…”

Jon kicked his heels, and the mare bolted towards the gate. For a heartbeat, Sam stood frozen, his face as round and white as the moon behind him, his mouth a gaping circle of surprise. At the last possible moment, he leaped aside and, just as Jon had predicted, stumbled and fell. The mare jumped over him and charged into the night.

Jon pulled up the hood of his heavy cloak and patted the mare's neck. He rode away from the silent Black Castle, Ghost running silently beside him. He knew there would be men on the Wall behind him, but they would be facing north, not south. Only Samwell Tarly, struggling to rise from the muddy ground of the stable yard, would have seen him go. Jon hoped he was all right, seeing him fall like that. So fat and awkward, he might have broken a wrist or twisted an ankle. “I warned him,” Jon said aloud, “and it was none of his affair.” As he rode, he flexed his burned hand, opening and closing his scarred fingers. The pain was still there, but it felt good to be rid of the bandages.

He rode hard along the winding ribbon of the kingsroad, the moonlight turning the nearby hills to silver. He needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Wall before his plan was discovered. Come morning, he would be forced to leave the road and travel across fields, through woods and streams, to throw off pursuit, but for now speed was more important than cover. His destination, after all, was obvious.

Jeor Mormont was always up before dawn, so Jon had at least until first light to put as many leagues as he could between himself and the Wall… assuming Samwell Tarly did not betray him. The fat boy was dutiful enough, and craven, but he loved Jon like a brother. If he was questioned, Sam would tell the truth, but Jon did not think he had the courage to go searching for the guards on King's Tower in the middle of the night and wake Mormont.

Come morning, when Jon failed to appear in the kitchens to help Old Bear with his breakfast, they would come looking for him in his chamber, and find Longclaw lying alone upon his bed. It had been hard to leave the sword behind, but Jon could not bring himself to take it. Not even Jorah Mormont had done that when he fled into exile. The Old Bear would find someone worthy to wield it.

Thinking of the old man made Jon feel even worse. He knew he was adding salt to the Lord Commander's wounds by deserting like this, betraying the trust Mormont had placed in him, but he had no choice. Whatever he did, Jon would be betraying someone.

Even now, he did not know if what he was doing was honorable. Southrons had it easy; they had septons to tell them what the gods required and help them sort out right from wrong. The Stark gods were nameless, though; the heart tree might hear, but it did not speak.

When the last lights of the Black Castle had vanished behind him, Jon slowed his pace, letting the mare pick her way. He had a long ride ahead of him, and only this one horse to depend on. There were villages and crofters south along the road, and he might be able to trade for fresh mounts if need be, but not if his mare went lame or fell.

He would need to find new clothes soon, and likely steal them. He was black from head to heel: black leather riding boots, coarse black wool breeches, black tunic, black leather jerkin, heavy black woolen cloak. His longsword and dagger were sheathed in black leather, his saddlebags contained black ringmail and a helm. Any of it could be his death, if he were taken. North of the Neck, any stranger in black who rode up to a holdfast or crofter's village would be regarded with cold suspicion and closely watched. And once Maester Aemon's ravens took wing, there would be no place for him, not even Winterfell. Bran might let him in, but Luwin would know his duty. He would close the gates and turn Jon away. He had never considered going to Winterfell, not truly.

Even so, he could see the castle clearly in his mind's eye, as if he had only left it yesterday: the tall grey walls of stone, the smoky, scent-filled Great Hall with dogs running underfoot, his father's solar, his own bedchamber in the tower. A part of him wanted nothing so much as to see Bran laugh again, to eat another of Gage's bacon pies, to hear Old Nan tell her stories of the children of the forest and Florian the Fool.

Yet that was not why he was leaving the Wall. He was leaving because he was his father's son, and Robb's brother. He would not let them make him into a Mormont, not even for a sword like Longclaw. Nor was he Aemon Targaryen. The old man had made his choice, and he had chosen it three times, but that was him. Even now, Jon could not be certain if the old maester had stayed because he was too weak, or too strong. But he understood the pull of duty; understood it very well.

Tyrion Lannister had said that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it, but Jon had looked hard at his. He knew who he was: Jon Snow, bastard, oathbreaker, deserter. Motherless, friendless, and damned. For the rest of his life—however long that might be—he would be condemned to be an outcast, a shadow amongst shadows, hiding his true name. Wherever he went in the Seven Kingdoms, he must live a lie, or die. But none of that mattered, if he could stand with his brother and avenge his father.

He remembered the last time he had seen Robb, standing in the yard, the snow melting in his auburn hair. Now Jon might have to disguise himself to steal a glimpse of him. He tried to picture Robb's face when he revealed himself. His brother would shake his head, smile, and then he would say… he would say…

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