Jon remembered every word Qhorin Halfhand had spoken.
"They'll make you cut your black cloak to shreds in front of the whole camp. They'll make you swear on your father's grave that you'll spit on the Watch and curse every brother and the Lord Commander. Whatever they ask, you do it. No hesitation. But in your heart you remember who you are and what you swore.
March with them. Eat with them. Fight with them. Until the moment comes.
Your job is to watch."
"Watch for what?" Jon had asked.
"I don't know," Qhorin had answered. "Your wolf saw them digging in the Milkwater valley. What are they looking for in that frozen waste? Did they find it? That's the answer you need to bring back to Lord Commander Mormont and the rest of us. This is my charge to you, Jon Snow."
Jon had forced out the words: "I won't fail you."
"But… you'll tell them the truth, right? At least tell the Old Bear. Tell him I never broke my oath."
Halfhand had stared at him across the fire, eyes unreadable.
"Next time we meet, I will. I swear it."
He'd gestured at the flames. "Add more wood. We need the warmth and the light."
And that had been the end of it.
Gods, let Halfhand live.
Jon prayed silently.
If he died, no one would ever vouch for him. Not even a bath in boiling dragon blood could wash the stain of traitor off his name.
The thought of the dragon brought a fresh wave of bitterness. Wildlings with a living dragon—that was the worst news the Watch could hear. Whatever Mance was digging for in the Milkwater valley suddenly felt a lot less important.
Was Lynn Morningstar some lost Targaryen?
The name "Lynn" wasn't common. The only one Jon could think of was Ser Lyn Corbray of the Vale, second son of the late Lord of Heart's Home. They said the man had killed as many in the lists as he had on the battlefield. He'd earned his knighthood helping Robert's Rebellion.
He'd fought against Jon Arryn outside Gulltown, then switched sides for the Trident and killed the famous Kingsguard Lewyn Martell. When his father fell, young Lyn had grabbed the Valyrian steel sword Lady Forlorn and avenged him. His older brother had carried their dying father to the maesters while Lyn led the charge that broke the Dornish flank and cut down Prince Lewyn.
On his deathbed the old lord had given Lady Forlorn to his younger son and left the castle, title, and fortune to the elder. The brother had never forgiven the slight.
When Eddard told the story to Robb and Jon he'd added that Prince Lewyn had already been badly wounded by the time he faced Lady Forlorn. In other words, Lyn Corbray's victory hadn't exactly been glorious.
Then Eddard had warned: "If you ever meet Ser Lyn, never speak of that fight. Anyone who's asked him about the truth of it has been sent straight to the Stranger to ask Prince Lewyn in person."
That tale had stuck with young Jon.
The dragon tamer sitting by the fire obviously wasn't Ser Lyn Corbray, and he didn't look Targaryen either. Black hair, black eyes, soft features—nothing like anyone from the Seven Kingdoms. Even in wildling clothes he had an unnatural calm about him. And his handmaiden was prettier than any girl Jon had ever seen, including his half-sister Sansa and all her companions.
Maybe he came from some far-off land—some forgotten dragonlord house from lost Valyria?
Jon was only a bastard; his noble education had limits. Robb or Sansa, with their full schooling in heraldry, might have recognized the name.
The Guardian Hall had gone quiet. Jon realized his mind had wandered too far. Not smart in a room full of enemies.
"Neatly summarized, Jon Snow."
The Son of the Stars' voice pulled him back. The man had promised Ygritte he wouldn't harm Jon. That had to mean he was merciful.
Lynn had no idea what storm was raging inside the boy's head. He simply thought Jon was young and still rattled by the dragon.
"Sit down. No need to stand on ceremony. Looks like the King-Beyond-the-Wall has plenty he wants to ask you."
Mance waved Jon to the far side of the long table, then picked up the wolf-head sword Ygritte had left behind and studied it.
"Valyrian steel. Longclaw. I saw it once when the Old Bear first took command."
He turned the blade, examining the pommel stone—a pale, lead-weighted disk carved into a snarling wolf's head with two tiny rubies for eyes.
"Been through fire. New grip and crossguard."
Mance sounded certain. "What happened? Why would the Old Bear give his family sword to you? That blade's worth more gold than most men will ever see."
The bear-head pommel had been replaced by a wolf. The meaning was obvious.
"I saved the Lord Commander's life," Jon said. "So he gave me the sword."
"Oh? Tell it."
Mance sounded genuinely interested. Jon figured the test had already begun, so he told the truth.
"Earlier, a few leagues from the Wall, we found the bodies of two of Benjen Stark's rangers. They were pale and cold, hands and feet black, wounds that didn't bleed. We brought them back to Castle Black. That night they rose. One killed Ser Jaremy Rykker. The other went for the Lord Commander. My wolf found it… him. Ghost saved the Old Bear. That's all."
Jon saw Mance's expression shift. Lynn sat up straighter.
"You're saying wights got inside Castle Black?"
Jon nodded.
He caught Mance and Lynn exchanging a quick glance, but neither face gave anything away.
Mance handed the sword back. "You understand how I knew the Old Bear gave it to you?"
"Because of the wolf…"
Jon started to answer, then realized no one in the hall had mentioned he was Lord Eddard's bastard.
"The Bone Lord told you in advance?" (The wildlings' mocking name for the Bone Lord came from the way his bone armor rattled.)
Mance smiled. "I remember your face. I've seen it twice."
That made no sense.
Jon thought hard and finally understood.
"When you were still a brother of the Night's Watch…"
"Exactly. First time you were just a little boy. I wore the black then. I was one of twelve men escorting old Lord Commander Qorgyle to Winterfell to see your father. I was walking the inner wall when I came across you and your brother Robb. It had snowed the night before. You two had piled a huge mound of snow on top of the gate, waiting for some poor soul to walk underneath."
Jon's face lit up with surprised recognition. "I remember! A young brother in black walking the walls…"
"You swore you wouldn't give us away."
"And I kept that oath—at least that one." Mance grinned. "You dumped the snow on Fat Tom, the slowest guard your father had."
Jon remembered the two of them being chased around the yard until their cheeks were as red as ripe apples.
"But you said twice. When was the other time?"
"When King Robert came to Winterfell to name your father Hand of the King," Mance said softly.
Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's impossible!"
"It's true. Your father knew the king was coming, so he sent a raven to his brother Benjen at the Wall, inviting him to the feast. News travels faster between black brothers and Free Folk than you might think, so it reached me too. I couldn't resist. Your uncle had never seen me, and I doubted your father would remember a little crow who'd flown by years earlier. I wanted to see King Robert—king to king—and get a better look at your uncle Benjen. He was First Ranger then, the bane of my people.
So I took my fastest horse and left."
"But the Wall—" Jon started.
"The Wall stops armies. It doesn't stop one man. I took my harp and a pouch of silver stags, climbed the ice near Long Barrow, crossed the New Gift, bought a horse a few leagues south, and rode hard. Robert traveled slow with his huge wheelhouse so the queen could ride in comfort. I caught the royal party about a day's ride south of Winterfell and joined the tail of free riders and hedge knights hoping for royal service. My harp got me in easily."
Mance's smile never faded. "I know every bawdy song sung on both sides of the Wall."
"At the feast your father hosted for Robert I sat on the lower benches with the other free riders, drank, listened to Orland of Oldtown play the high harp and sing of drowned kings, and ate your father's roast and mead. I got a good look at the Kingslayer and the Imp… and at Lord Eddard's children and the little wolves at their feet."
"You're like Bael the Bard," Jon said, amazed. He remembered the story Ygritte had told him in the Frostfangs—the night he'd almost killed her.
"I wish I were. Bael lived the song. I only sing the ones better men wrote. Mead?"
"No," Jon said. "If you'd been caught…"
"Your father wouldn't have taken my head," Mance shrugged. "I ate at his table. Guest right is older than the First Men and as sacred as the heart trees."
He gestured at the table still littered with bread crumbs and chicken bones from the last visitors, then at the cup of mead he'd poured for Jon.
"So tonight you're a guest under my protection. No harm will come to you—at least not tonight. Now tell me the truth, Jon Snow. Are you a coward who ran from fear, or is there another reason?"
Guest right or not, Jon knew he was walking a razor's edge. One wrong word and he was dead.
He took a long pull of mead to buy time.
Mance simply smiled and waited. The King-Beyond-the-Wall was a confident man.
Jon took another swallow.
There was only one story that might convince him.
"You said you were at Winterfell for the feast my father gave King Robert?"
"I was."
"Then you already know."
"Know what?"
"Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen, Princess Myrcella. My brothers Robb, Bran, and Rickon. My sisters Arya and Sansa. They walked the center aisle in front of everyone and sat just below the high table."
"So?"
"Did you see where they seated the bastard, Mance?"
Jon leaned forward.
"Did you see where they put me?"
Mance studied Jon's face for a long moment.
"I think we need to find you a new cloak."
The King-Beyond-the-Wall reached out.
Jon Snow was led away by Tormund's men.
Lynn had been ready to hand him to Kassa, but Mance thought Tormund was better. He didn't explain why and Lynn didn't ask.
"You don't actually believe his story, do you?" Lynn asked once Jon was gone.
The boy seemed like a green kid to him—mouth full of lies, or maybe nothing but lies.
"At least the last part was true," Mance said quietly. "His eyes don't lie. I could feel how deep that resentment runs. If Eddard Stark had treated his bastard the way most lords do—ignored him, kept him out of sight—Jon might have had an easier life."
"…and he wouldn't be here in the snow trying to get himself killed."
"Oh?" Lynn's interest sharpened. "How so?"
He'd been hoping to make some use of the Stark bastard, but that hope was fading fast.
Word had reached them from the Eastwatch trading fair a while back: Jon Snow's king brother was doing well in the south. He'd captured an important Lannister—probably the Kingslayer, Mance said. The news was vague and old, but it was enough to kill any thought Lynn had about the North.
It also cast a new shadow over the Free Folk's future.