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Chapter Text

He doesn’t knock on the Lord Commander’s door.

“My Lord,” Ned demands, startling Mormont and the bird perched on his shoulder, “- we must speak at once,”

“Lord Stark,” the Commander replies, standing up beside the Maester to his right, “-we were just speaking of you, perhaps-,”

“-I am sorry, Lord Commander, but there has been a change to our plans,”

Mormont frowns, the bird shaking its feathers out beside his ear.

Corn! Corn!

“-how so, My Lord?”

Ned’s chest heaves, his leg aching from his march up the castle stairs.

“I have decided I will not depart Castle Black alone,” he demands, his breath fast, “- I want my -,”

My Son

“-I want Jon to accompany me South,”

The words fall like blood from a wound, staining Mormont’s cheeks red.

“My Lord-,” he says slowly, “- your son is a man of the Night’s Watch,”

Ned grips his cane.

“He has sworn no vow,”

No vows - could a vow protect him now?

“He will,” Mormont insists, leaning on his desk, “- they will all swear this very night,

“I’ve had Septon Cellador make preparations, and Snow will be taken to swear before the Godswood like myself and his uncle before him,”

“Then we shall leave before then,” Ned insists, “- I can have him gather his things and be out of the Keep before the sun sets,”

“My Lord,” the Commander growls, “-I must insist,”

“I must insist,” Ned forces, stepping closer, “My Lord,”

The two men stare at each other, the Maester sitting straight in his cushioned chair.

“Lord Stark,” Mormont begins, his voice like gravel, “- you saw the same as I did last night - you saw what waits beyond the Wall,”

A dead man, walking. A single hand - twitching.

Grey eyes, burning.

“The Watch needs every man it has, and,” he pauses, considering his words, “ - I believed we both understood your Son’s situation,”

Ned bristles.

“The boy is not only yours to command,” he says, sternly, “- as his liege Lord and his Father-,”

“-as his Father,” Mormont returns, “you will want what is right for him,”

A brave Old Bear, gritting his straight, white teeth.

“You would make him stay the boy, at his sire’s side?”

How hard it is for Ned to steady his thoughts.

“I,” he begins, evenly, “- will do whatever I think is best,”

He does not see that I would keep him here till his beard goes grey.

Alas - if I cannot keep him safe, let me keep him close.

But Mormont’s temper rises.

“You know what we discussed last night, my Lord, and my course of action has grown clear,

“I would lead us beyond the Wall, and I mean to take Jon Snow with me,”

Beyond the wall. So the Bear would leave it’s den.

But Ned shakes his head.

“And I mean,” the Lord retorts, “-to take Jon South,”

“Perhaps” the soft voice of the Maester interrupts, “-we should ask Snow himself,”

Snow! Snow! the raven cries.

Ned leans back, almost relieved. He knows the answer to that already - Jon had near been on his knees. To think he would have locked that boy in the ice cells but half an hour ago.

But Mormont will not back down.

“- aye, so we should,” the Bear sighs, “-but what does a boy of four and ten know of what he wants?”

He wanted to come here Ned thinks, sadly. He asked to come here, since he had no place, and I let him.

The Lord Commander reads it on his face.

“You would take the first choice he made, as a man? You would take him South, where is name is dirt? Where he must live in the shadow of his brothers, of you?

“His siblings will be Lords and Ladies - Knights and Queens - what will he be? You would let your own fear deny him his chance to live? To lead?”

“My fear?” Ned demands, his face growing hot, “-My fear?”

What does Mormont know of his mind? What could he possibly know?

Ned steps forward, leaning hard on his bad knee.

“You would call me craven, My Lord?”

“No, My Lord,” Mormont replies, his face stern, “- but I’d tell you that you cannot hide him from the world forever,”

You cannot hide him. There is no where you can hide him.

“- you have seen what may face us - your brother may still be out there, looking beyond the Wall,”

Benjen gone - and Jon going after him? Lost in the ice and the snow, with hunger and wildlings and the dead that walk?

Ned swallows. You must remain calm. You cannot break now.

“- My Lord, I would ask you to respect my decision -,” Ned insists, but-

“Seven Hells,” Mormont shouts, slamming his fist and startling the bird from his perch.

Snow! Snow! Snow!

“-what could have changed? Days ago, we understood each other, hours ago, we knew what should best be done, last night even - after we saw the impossible, so why-?,”

“My Lords,” that soft voice asks again, “-perhaps we should discuss-,”

“Lord Mormont,” Ned interrupts, “- I came here in the hope that Jon need not steal away under cloak and dagger -,”

“You came here to protect the boy’s honour,” Mormont shakes his head, “-but he could find more here - in defending the last shield in the realm, and-,”

Steady Ned. Steady.

“Jon’s honour is not your concern,”

“And is it yours?”

Ned must remain firm.

“Who else should it be?”

“My Lords,” the Maester raises his voice. But Mormont is not finished.

“What good would his leaving do? Tell me, how could one boy possibly change the fate of the South when the North has need of him?”

“- Lord Mormont, I would ask you-,”

“-No, Lord Stark, I want to know,” the Commander demands, “- Snow was the first to face the Watch’s true foe in a thousand years - saving my life, mind - and you would take him away from his place to fight some southron quarrel,”

“-this war,” Ned growls, “will be no quarrel-,”

“-and yet you lead him there eitherway,” Mormont scowls.

“Lord Stark, I implore you,” Mormont growls, reaching to calm his flapping bird.

Snow! it calls again. Snow! Corn! Snow!

“- your blood has manned the Wall for a thousand years - bastard or no, he is of your line, and by all the gods -,”

My line, my blood. Her blood, my sister’s blood. Red upon red, over her hands, the sheets - the dusty stone floor.

“-why would you take him from it? You would rob the watch of his deft blade and defter mind? You would rob him of his chance to make himself a man?”

Robb and Bran and Rickon. Catelyn and Sansa and Arya. My pack, spread so far.

“Let him make his vow, let him take his place,”

How can I leave him again?

“Won’t you do what is best for your son?”

And so something in Ned breaks.

“He is not my son,”

Lord Mormont turns white.

Not one man says a word - the crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of feathers a cushion against the truth smacking against the ground.

Knock Knock

“Not now,” Mormont murmurs, his eyes as wide as silver coins - his face drained of blood and rage.

Knock Knock Knock

“Not now, I said!” the Lord Commander repeats, louder, as Ned rocks on his cane - still reeling.

Knock Knock Knock Knock-

“Seven Hells, are ye deaf? Come back lat-,”

But the door swings open - a rush of brisk, frosty air blowing through the chamber.

Jon’s hand rests on the latch. The other - heavily bandaged past his wrist - clutches at his cloak. Jon’s mouth hangs loose, and his eyes are draped in shadow.

Oh lad.

Ned wishes he had not heard that.

“Snow,” Aemon somehow knows, beckoning him closer “-come inside, boy,”

The door clicks shut - and now four figures sit in the uneasy silence of the truth.

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Mormont demands, his voice rattling.

“Sam-,” the boy begins, drawing a sigh from Ned.

Of course.

“-he told me what happened with Rast, he-,”

Jon turns to Ned, barely looking him in the eye.

“Is it true, My Lord,” he asks, voice shaking, “-did he really hear-?,”

“Now stop right there, boy,” Mormont commands, finally stepping out from behind his table and into the firelight, “-hear what? What is all this?”

He turns to Ned.

“What in the name of Seven Hells do you mean?”

But Ned just stares, the world around him falling away like snow from a mountainside.

Mormont turns to Jon.

“Well? You know what yer father wants lad? You know what he means to do?”

And Jon looks back to Ned - three pairs of eyes, searching for answers. Searching for something. But Ned has had so much truth wrung from him in the past few days. What more can he say? What else can he do?

Words fail him. He fails.

So Jon looks to the floor.

“My Lord Mormont,” he whispers, voice cracked, “- Lord Stark, he-”

Just say it boy. Say it and free Ned from this curse.

“Lord Stark is my uncle,”

Maester Aemon looks up from his chair.

“My mother - she- she was-,”

Yes. Even now, it is not so easily spoken.

Yet, the two black brothers say nothing - letting the boy’s breaths weave a story in the air. Aemon is as still as stone - and Mormont’s mouth twitches, his eyes searching first Ned and then the boy’s face.

Then they go wide - wide as the Wall stretches East and West.

Because Mormont is an Old Bear - he may have sworn his vows long before the Rebellion took root, but he knows the reasons for the war as well as any man in the North.

And he knows the story that was told. Knows the lie.

Because there are few in the world that would make Ned Stark break his honour. Not for one night in a pleasure house - not for the comfort of some nameless woman’s arms.

But it could not be for Benjen - the lad was too young, with no reason to need a tale so bold. Yes, it may be Brandon - fierce, dead Brandon with an eager eye and wandering hands. No doubt he’d have needed many stories to keep his exploits in check.

Yet the boy spoke not of his father, but his mother. And that can only mean-

Aemon shuts his clouded, milky eyes.

“By all the Gods,” Mormont whispers, leaning against the table. His raven hops beside him, nipping at his shirt.

Snow! Snow! Snow!

“Did you know this, boy?” the Commander demands, fixing his gaze on Jon, who has yet to look up from the floor.

“I-,” the boy stutters - like he still scarce believes it himself.

“He did not,” Ned replies, softly, “no-one knew,”

No one North of the Neck, at least.

“And that means-,” Mormont mutters, gripping one hand in his beard, “-yes, yes it does mean … Seven Hells,”

He turns to Ned.

“So, is this your reason Lord Stark? This is why you’d take him?”

Jon looks up at last - his face as open as a book. It is not quite hope. Ned feels the pain of it in his chest.

“- Jon and I … we discussed this matter some days ago,”

You foolish man, Ned. You should have taken this to your grave.

“- I hoped it would … would explain some events that have come to pass … of reasons and … and-,”

I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to be safe. I wanted him to know I did not send him here for nothing, and I did not spurn him without love in my heart.

He shakes his head.

What use have such feelings to a soldier and a Lord?

“- but one of the boys heard some of what was said,”

“Rast,” Jon interrupts, softly, “-Rast heard us, I don’t-,”

Mormont frowns.

“The Riverlands boy? What did he-?”

“It matters not what he heard,” Ned implores. I doubt the boy himself understands it. He thinks of a petty plot as means to revenge - perhaps a pardon should things work out in his way, “-what matters is who he told,”

Ned thinks of black, flinty eyes. Smiling.

“-and he rides for King’s Landing this moment,”

Mormont’s brows crease.

“Ser Alliser? My master-at-arms?”

Ned nods.

“Thorne is a man of the Night’s Watch,” Mormont states - like a fact.

“I do not deny it,” Ned replies softly.

“He swore to take no part,”

“I am sure he did,”

“So what makes you think he-,”

“My Lord,” Maester Aemon calls out, his gentle voice startling the other three. The old man rests his hands lightly in his lap.

“You know as well as I that the Master of Arms has no love for Jon Snow,”

Snow! Snow! Snow!

“Aye,” Mormont interjects, “-but what you’re suggesting is … what possible reason would he have? He has served the Wall loyally for near on fifteen years, and besides - Rhaegar-,”

Jon flinches visibly - the name of the man leering like a spectre over the scene.

“-was his liege lord,” Mormont continues, “- the man who he took the Black for defending,”

“Aye,” replies the Maester, “-and look what that loyalty earned him,”

The wind rattles the window shutters - a puff of frost creeping through the cracked wood.

“All we know,” Aemon hums softly, “-is that a man has left Castle Black with a secret-,

“A secret that could put the fate of a boy he hates in grave danger,”

“Something that could remove him from his troubles for good,”

Aemon sighs - how old is he, Ned wonders? The Maester sounds as if he was there himself the day the Wall was built.

The Lord Commander nods.

“All the more reason for you to swear,” he states, looking Jon Snow in the eyes, “-the Night’s Watch has no time for the wars and plots of men, and-,”

“My Lord,” the Maester interrupts again, “-we both know it will not be enough,”

Jon shuffles on his feet, still staring at his shoes.

“It was enough for you,” the Commander counters, “-was that not why you joined us, Maester Aemon? Was that not why you took the Black?”

The Maester nods.

“Aye, ‘twas enough for me. But things were different then - the world was younger, and dragons were still a memory kept bright by the living,”

He shakes his head.

“But much has changed,”

He will not be safe here. Ned thinks, again. He has never been safe here.

“I had a brother, with good men around to guide his hand and guard his back - and my House was still a beating heart on this side of the sea,

“My life was no threat - no weed to stamp out,”

Beside him, Ned feels Jon shiver. As if only now he realises who sat before him - who he helped feed the ravens and read by candlelight. Not just a wise old Maester - a blind, frail man. A secret flame, tucked away beneath the Wall.

“I expect,” Aemon reasons softly, “-that our new King will not be so merciful as the one who followed my Father,”

King! the Raven cries suddenly - like a nail scraping across melted steel. King! King!

“We would let a few misplaced words drive our hand?” Mormont asks, “the King’s Road is long, Maester Aemon, and we shall soon be far beyond the Wall - besides, the boy is still a bastard, dragonseed or no, so unless-,”

Then Mormont catches Ned’s eye. Lord Stark shakes his head and the Old Bear turns a deeper shade of puce.

Indeed, Ned thinks, remembering that last whisper from his sister’s lips, two lovers meeting beneath a red and white tree.

… Unless.

The Raven caws happily from the Commander’s table. That word again. King! King! King!

“Aye, My Lord, words are wind,” the Maester agrees, what others see he must hear in their laboured breath, “-but how far can one breath travel?”

Ned hears his own thoughts given voice in the two - one proud Lord, one aged Prince. Jon watches like a shadow of himself.

“If the boy told Ser Thorne - what few crumbs he gathered, anyway - and then was fool enough to tell Tarly, who told Lord Stark, who had no choice but to tell you? Who else might see the truth in his folly? What might they say in Queenscrown? In Wintertown, or beyond?”

Ned sees the sense reveal itself in Mormont’s eyes. His fists clench, as does his jaw. He looks up at Jon.

“-and you, boy?” the Commander asks, folding his arms, “- speak your mind - as you so often do,”

But Jon has no fight left in him.

“-I, I -,” he tries to start, “- I have asked my Lord - my Lord Stark if I should-,”

“I would take Jon South,” Ned says again. “- I would keep him by my side,”

Now you will see, he prays, looking to the Lord Commander.

But it is the Maester who speaks again.

“My Lord,” he asks softly, “-what was it that made you tell the boy?”

Ned frowns.

“Pardon, Maester?”

“Why did you tell him now, after all you have seen? Why did you do what you did, and when?”

Ned opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Because-,” Aemon continues, “- I believe to tell him such a thing would not be something that a man like yourself would do lightly,”

You would hide me from them, his boy had cried, shivering and covered in snow at the forsaken, edge of the world. He looked so like her - full of righteous fury - and he’d asked, like the young lad he was, if his father was ashamed.

And he could not bear to see another child of his turn away in tears.

“- ask yourself, My Lord,” the Maester says, “- would Jon Snow truly be safe in the South?”

Ned bristles.

“Yes,” he implores, resisting the urge to take Jon by his arm, “- yes, he would,”

Safer with me he thinks, his heart pounding in his chest.

Aemon nods.

“For a day, perhaps,” he sighs, “-for a week, a moon even,”

He opens his white eyes for the first time.

“But we both know that Westeros is no place for my kin, not any more,”

My Kin Ned thinks. By all the gods..

“And My Lord,” Aemon says, delicately, “-all that would keep him safe is a wall of men - of lives,

“We both know what the Red Keep has done to secure its hold - we know what the Lion thinks of innocents,”

Ned shuts his eyes - yet all he sees is streaks on blood on a Castle Wall.

They have Sansa - perhaps Arya too. Robb loves his cousin like a brother, because to him that’s what Jon is. Bran likes Jon’s stories the most (after Old Nan’s) and little Rickon always finds a spare blob of jam on his bastard brother’s plate.

They love him, and he loves them. It is everything Ned could have wished.

Even now, House Lannister would cut them all down to get what it wants - that is war, after all. Yet what else would they do to reach the last Dragonseed in Westeros?

Beside him, Jon stiffens.

But the Old Bear still growls.

“Maester, this is madness - where is safer than here? The wall has been a haven for many man cursed by birth or deed since it began,

“Let him come North, past the forest, the Fist of the First Men, even - No southron King would follow Snow there,”

King! Snow! King! the Raven calls, as if to remind them the boy they speak of is still there, lost in thought.

“Aye, perhaps,” Aemon agrees, “-but surely we would not doom the boy to hide behind it forever?”

And who knows what could be waiting for him when he returns.

If any of them return.

Ned leans on his cane. It is too much, all of this. His head swam in Baelish’s account books and Pycelle’s droning - he has the head for soldiers, for battle, for strengthening a keep. This is a story that stretches the length of the realm - too much to guess, nothing to see.

I would keep them all in my den. Yet to save one might hasten the doom of the others?

Ned sighs.

This was the risk you took, four and ten years ago. This was the price you knew you might pay for playing the mummer - perhaps the traitor too.

But we cannot just-

“So what would you have me do?”

Jon’s voice is hoarse, his bandaged hand loose by his side. He holds his head high, looking between Mormont and the Maester as if facing down an army - though his shoulders tremble.

Both Ned and the Lord Commander open their mouths when-

“East,” the Maester states simply, “- you must go east, child,”

And yes. Yes, Ned knows, in his heart, the old man speaks the truth. He has had the thought too many times to count, and how long he has known it and tried to hold back the tide?

Four and ten years, he thinks again, dumbly, since Stannis Baratheon sent word of a ship fleeing Dragonstone.

“-Essos,” Mormont frowns, “- the Narrow Sea is called as such for a reason, Maester - you truly believe-?”

“My family is of the East,” Aemon nods, softly, “- and I have oft heard word of my grand niece and nephew making their way across it’s lands,”

He frowns slightly, as if searching his memory - remembering when last he had word.

“Pentos, I heard - perhaps-,”

“No,” says Ned, “-not Pentos,”

Robert’s voice bellows across the room- one of the last words ever spoken to him by his eldest friend. Drowned in wine and fury - he wanted to kill her, and her baby. Let alone her brother too. The last dragons in the world - little more than children, walking further and further east.

Ned shakes his head.

What would you have done at the sight of my Bastard son?

“The last council … before,” he says, lost in thought, “- the Spider told us that Daenerys and Viserys travelled with Khal Drogo - the Dothraki took her as his wife, and she carries his child,

“-Word says they were making for Vaes Dothrak,”

If she still breathes, Ned prays.

“Essos is no place for a green, Northern boy,” Mormont growls, “-let alone the Great Grass Sea,”

Ned agrees - and yet neither is the Haunted Forest. The Lord of Winterfell would send his bastard there nonetheless.

And there are few Lions across the Narrow Sea. And if Ned is right about the intent of the Spider’s many legs...

He turns to Jon.

Such a skinny thing, his boy - but tall, and strong. Once his hand is healed, he will be fearsome with a sword, and even now his eyes are full of questions. He is no fool. What parts of Jon that are still green will soon grow.

But if he lets him do this …

Robb and Cat. Bran and Rickon. Arya and Sansa. My pack is here, they are here - and this war was mine to bear, though I did not see it.

I cannot go with him.

Jon sucks in a staggered breath.

“I can’t-,” he starts, “- I cannot …,”

He looks between Ned, Mormont and the Maester - as if one of them has any answers.

“-my family, Arya and Robb and Sansa - and Sam! A-and Pyp and Grenn - they …. I can’t just-,”

To think, Jon was so sure earlier - begging his father to take him from this place. Perhaps it is easier to run towards something than to take flight for yourself.

A boy with no name, finding a place of his own. Now a boy with too many names, with not one rock to call home.

And his soul is bleeding.

But Ned doesn’t know what to say - not when he’s the one to cause all of this. Not when he’s spent his whole life pushing Jon away, thinking of what is decent. What was safe.

Yet, he still steps toward the lad, searching his memory for something soft and true, when-

“Jon,”

The Maester reaches out from where he sits - pale hands, painted with blue veins and brown spots, open palmed in mid-air.

“Come here, child,” he soothes, beckoning the boy forward.

Jon blinks, swallowing something thick in his throat. Yet he moves slowly across the stone floor, boots striking the slabs with a heavy echo, before kneeling at the Maester’s side.

The old man leans over, reaching with his shaking hands. Gently, as if calming a startled horse, he rests his fingertips on Jon’s cheeks, pale skin meeting a long, tanned jaw. Then, like a sculptor, he traces the line of his brow, the curve of his nose - the shape of his chin.

Jon accepts the ministrations with eyes wide, like the moon - holding his breath as if searching for something of his own in the old man’s features.

Aemon repeats the patterns a few times more - wrinkled brow furrowed in concentration. The fire crackles brightly behind them, casting the two figures in warm, orange light - wreathing them in flame.

Then Aemon nods, leaning back and taking not his face, but Jon’s one, unbandaged hand.

“My dear boy,” he says softly, “-if what you and Lord Stark says is true, then … then you are the only kin left to me that I’ll likely ever know,”

Jon’s face is flushed red, his eyes shining - as if only just now he understands who they are to each other. He watches the blind man break into a smile.

“- I … I cannot describe to you, how it feels to - to-,”

He looks down, without seeing, to where is hands grip the boys tight. He raises them closer to his chest - full of affection. Of feeling.

“- I knew your father,” he says simply - and Jon stiffens, even as Aemon draws his hand nearer.

“- he would write to me,” the old man explains, “- to tell me word from King’s Landing, asking for advice- or simply to see how his old uncle faired,”

The maester laughs then - a croaky, wheezing thing.

“He loved music, and starlight - and would ask for what I knew of times long past, when I was a boy,

“He was fierce, and proud - would fight for what he believed in,

“-yet, he carried something - a burden - a weight that he would not even share with me,”

Jon swallows - Ned can see how he hangs on every word.

“- I do not know what took place between your mother and him,” Aemon confesses, running a shaking hand over Jon’s knuckles, as if searching for something else to remind him of things long dead, “- but I know that, to me, he was a great source of comfort in the coldest winters,

“- so if a little of him survives in you …,”

Jon tries to pull away, but Aemon holds firm.

“-then that is a blessing,”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss that holds a thousand lifetimes to the boys fingers. An old man - sharing a joy, long drowned in grief. His toothless smile lights up even his clouded, withered eyes.

Ned feels like he should look away. This is private - not meant for him, nor Mormont for that matter, to see. This is something quiet, shared between kin.

“I know that this is difficult,” Aemon says quietly, “- I know what it is to watch the world go on from afar,”

Ned sees Jon open his mouth then - his lips already forming the worries of an elder brother, and a younger. Of his siblings and his friends - once so easily left behind, now like a weight on his spirit.

“But while I stayed at my post,” the Maester says, “as I vowed to long ago - you must do something far worse,”

The old man leans closer.

“You must run, dear boy,”

Aemon shuffles closer, and Jon leans nearer too.

“You must remember what you learned here - what you heard and what you saw - and you must carry that with you to see another sunrise,”

Jon stares and stares.

“You have made friends - and enemies too - but you can do so again - you could be half a hundred things, take on half a hundred names and lives,

“But first you must live - and to live, for a little while, you must flee,”

The Maester looks over to where he knows Ned and the Lord Commander stand. He nods, solemnly.

“- and we shall not let them catch you,”

Jon says nothing - but Ned can see the Maester’s words settle behind his eyes, quelling the protests on his tongue. He keeps looking where their hands are joined - the old and the young, already known to one another, seeing with eyes anew.

“- how can I leave?” the boy whispers, his voice full of doubt, “- how can I run, just abandon them, abandon all of you and- and-,”

Aemon hushes him, softly.

“Some people see this world … as a game,” he says, “- see men as pieces to move and to bargain - lives as things to sacrifice for some greater goal,

“You, my boy, have become a piece on that board - in some ways you have been all your life - as have all your siblings and your friends,

“I dread to think what they might play,” he says, mournfully, “- with you and the ones you love - I have seen it myself, too many times,

“Sometimes,” the Maester says, as if quoting some words spoken long ago, “- the best you can do, is to take yourself off the board,”

His empty eyes catch the light then - a flash of fire, flickering with a wisdom of near-on a hundred years.

“-at least,” he continues, gesturing over the boys shoulder to Ned himself, “- for a little while,”

He shakes the lad.

“Do you understand me, child?”

Ned does. Curse him for a thousand lives, he does.

Jon swallows, his bare hand slowly curling around the older man’s wrinkled, thin fingers.

“But,” he says softly, “but they need me,”

Aemon grips his hand tight.

“They need you alive,” the Maester says, “-and my boy -,”

Aemon taps his bandaged hand.

“We know the dead do not rest easy,”

Ned shudders. He’s just watching now. His words mean little, his actions even less. He has no power here. Perhaps he lost it long ago.

“My Lord Commander,” Aemon asks, looking up, “-what say you?”

Mormont stands stiff as a board, tugging on the end of his beard and gritting his teeth. Yet even he says nothing now - looking at the boy kneeling at the Old Man’s side, there is something in his eyes Ned recognises in himself.

“Aye,” he grunts, his face purple, his jaw tight, “Aye, so it is,”

Aemon nods.

“And you, My Lord Stark?”

Ned swallows.

Forgive me, Lya,

“Aye,” he whispers, far away, “- aye,”

Then Aemon looks back to Jon.

A few moments pass. The raven pecks about the studded wood on Mormont’s table - each knock like a post being struck into the ground.

“Alright,” he says simply, looking into the Maester’s white, honest eyes, “-alright,”

Lord Stark shuts his eyes.

May the Gods forgive me.

But Aemon is not done. Grabbing the boy’s arm, he shakes him again.

“Do you trust Samwell Tarly?”

Jon blinks.

“Of course,”

We owe him much Ned thinks, after all

“Then fetch him,” the Maester asks, leaning back in his chair, “-fetch him with a quill and some parchment - tell him what he does not already know - and bring him to me,

“I have need of his hands and his eyes,”

Then he turns back to Ned, who swims in pain and the past.

“-and you, My Lord Stark,” he sighs, as the boy sweeps from the room and Mormont takes a long gulp from his drinking horn, “we shall need you most of all,”