Jon Snow tightened the leather belt on the saddle, and the mare whinnied softly. "Good girl, don't be afraid," he soothed her in a low voice. A cold wind whispered through the Stables, like icy death assaulting him, but Jon paid it no mind. He bundled his bedroll onto the saddle, his scarred fingers stiff and clumsy. "Ghost," he called softly, "come here." The wolf appeared instantly, his eyes like two fire embers.
"Jon, please, don't do this."
He mounted the horse, gripped the reins, and turned the mare to face the dark night. Samwell Tarly stood in the doorway of the Stables, a full moon shining in behind his shoulder, casting a giant-like shadow, huge and dark. "Sam, get out of the way."
"Jon, you can't just leave like this," Sam said. "I won't let you go."
"I don't want to hurt you," Jon told him. "Sam, move, or I'll ride over you."
"You won't. Listen to me, please..."
Jon kicked his feet, and the mare immediately bolted towards the door. For a moment, Sam stood rooted to the spot, his face as round and white as the full moon behind him, his mouth gaping in surprise. At the last possible second before the horse and rider would collide, he leaped aside, and as Jon had expected, stumbled and fell to the ground. The mare jumped over him and galloped into the dark night.
Jon pulled up the hood of his heavy cloak and patted the mare's head. He rode away from the quiet Castle Black, with Ghost following close behind. He knew there were guards on The Wall behind him, but they faced the Far North, not the South. No one would see him leave except Sam Tarly, who was struggling to his feet from the muddy ground of the Stables. Seeing how Sam had fallen, Jon secretly hoped he was alright. He was so fat and clumsy that he might have broken his wrist or twisted an ankle. "I warned him," Jon said aloud. "And it's none of his business anyway." As he rode, he flexed his burned hand, opening and closing his scarred fingers. The pain was still there, but it felt so good to have the bandage off.
He galloped along the Kingsroad, which wound like a ribbon, the moonlight casting the nearby hills in silver. He had to get as far away from The Wall as possible before his plan was discovered. By tomorrow, he would be forced to leave the roads and travel through fields, bushes, and streams to shake off any pursuers, but for now, speed was more important than cover. After all, his destination was obvious.
The Old Bear usually woke up at dawn, so Jon had at least until daylight to put as much distance as possible between himself and The Wall... assuming Sam Tarly didn't betray him. The fat boy was dutiful and timid, but he regarded Jon as a true brother. If asked, Sam would certainly tell the truth, but Jon didn't think he had the courage to go find the guard in the King's Tower in the middle of the night and wake up Mormont.
By tomorrow, when they found Jon hadn't gone to the Kitchen to help the Old Bear with breakfast, they would search his bedroom and then see Longclaw lying alone on the bed. It had been difficult to leave the sword behind, but Jon wasn't so shameless as to take it with him. Not even Jorah Mormont had done that before fleeing. Lord Commander Mormont would surely find someone more suitable to wield that sword. Thinking of the old man, Jon felt very bad. He knew that deserting like this was like pouring salt on the Lord Commander's grief of losing a son. Considering how much the old man trusted him, this was truly ungrateful, but he had no choice. No matter what he did, Jon would betray someone.
Even now, he still didn't know if his actions were honorable. The ways of the Southerners were simpler; they had monks to consult, who conveyed the will of The Gods and helped discern right from wrong. However, House Stark worshipped the nameless Old Gods, and the Heart Tree, even if it heard, would not speak.
When the last light of Castle Black disappeared behind him, Jon slowed down, letting the mare walk at a steady pace. There was a long road ahead, and he had only this one horse to rely on. Along the road south, there were villages and farmhouses, and if necessary, he could trade for new horses, but that wouldn't work if the mare was injured or collapsed.
He had to find new clothes quickly, and he would probably have to steal them. As he was now, he was black from head to toe: high black leather boots, coarse black trousers and black outerwear, a sleeveless black leather vest, and a heavy black wool cloak. His longsword and dagger were in black scabbards, and his saddlebag contained black mail and a helmet. Every single one of these items could get him killed if he were captured. North of The Neck, any stranger wearing black who entered a village or manor would be met with cold suspicion and watched. And once Maester Emon's raven sent out the message, he would have no place to hide, not even Winterfell. Bran might let him into the castle, but Maester Luwin knew exactly what to do; he would do his duty, close the city gate, and turn Jon away. So, from the very beginning, he hadn't considered Winterfell.
Nevertheless, in his mind, he could clearly see the image of the castle, as if he had only left yesterday: the towering marble walls; the fragrant, smoky castle great hall filled with running dogs; his father's study; his bedroom in the tower. In a part of his heart, he just wanted to see Bran's laughter again, eat another beef and bacon pie made by Gage, and listen to Old Nan tell stories about the Children of the Forest and Florian the Fool.
But he wasn't leaving The Wall for these reasons: he was leaving only because he was his father's son, Robb's brother. He wouldn't become a Mormont just because someone gave him a sword, even one as good as Longclaw. He wasn't Emon Targaryen either. The old man had made three choices, and all three times he had chosen honor, but that was him. Even now, Jon wasn't sure whether the old maester made those choices out of weakness or out of a strong heart and dedication to duty. But in any case, he understood the old man's confusion, the pain of making choices; he understood it too well.
Tyrion Lannister had said: most people would rather deny the facts than face the truth, but Jon had thought through all the hardships. He knew clearly who he was: he was Jon Snow, not only a bastard, but also a deserter who had broken his vows, without a mother or friends, destined for divine punishment. For the rest of his life—however long that life might be—he would be forced to wander, a silent lone wanderer in the shadows, not daring to speak his true name. Wherever he went in the Seven Kingdoms, he would have to live a life of lies, or others would turn on him. But as long as he could fight alongside his brother and avenge his father, all of this was insignificant.
He remembered the last time he saw Robb. Robb was standing in the squares, snowflakes melting in his auburn hair. Now Jon might have to disguise himself to sneak in to see him. He tried to imagine the expression on Robb's face when he revealed his true identity. His brother would shake his head, a smile on his face, and then he would say... he would say
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