“Are you well, Snow?” Lord Mormont asked, scowling.

“Well,” his raven squawked. “Well.”

“I am, my lord,” Jon lied … loudly, as if that could make it true. “And you?”

Mormont frowned. “A dead man tried to kill me. How well could I be?” He scratched under hischin. His shaggy grey beard had been singed in the fire, and he’d hacked it off. The pale stubble of hisnew whiskers made him look old, disreputable, and grumpy. “You do not look well. How is yourhand?”

“Healing.” Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly thanhe knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. Atthe time he’d felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsomeblood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. “The maester says I’ll have scars, butotherwise the hand should be as good as it was before.”

“A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you’ll be wearing gloves often as not.”

“As you say, my lord.” It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it.

Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first ithad felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snowand shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing onhis bed, whimpering from the pain. And when at last he did sleep, he dreamt, and that was evenworse. In the dream, the corpse he fought had blue eyes, black hands, and his father’s face, but hedared not tell Mormont that.

“Dywen and Hake returned last night,” the Old Bear said. “They found no sign of your uncle, nomore than the others did.”

“I know.” Jon had dragged himself to the common hall to sup with his friends, and the failure ofthe rangers’ search had been all the men had been talking of.

“You know,” Mormont grumbled. “How is it that everyone knows everything around here?” Hedid not seem to expect an answer. “It would seem there were only the two of … of those creatures,whatever they were, I will not call them men. And thank the gods for that. Any more and … well, thatdoesn’t bear thinking of. There will be more, though. I can feel it in these old bones of mine, andMaester Aemon agrees. The cold winds are rising. Summer is at an end, and a winter is coming suchas this world has never seen.”

Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now.

“My lord,” he asked hesitantly, “it’s said there was a bird last night …”

“There was. What of it?”

“I had hoped for some word of my father.”

“Father,” taunted the old raven, bobbing its head as it walked across Mormont’s shoulders.

“Father.”

The Lord Commander reached up to pinch its beak shut, but the raven hopped up on his head,fluttered its wings, and flew across the chamber to light above a window. “Grief and noise,” Mormontgrumbled. “That’s all they’re good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird … if there wasnews of Lord Eddard, don’t you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you’re still his blood.

The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he’s been removed from the Kingsguard. Theygave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy’s wanted for treason. The fools sent somewatchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped.” Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt ofhis view of men who’d send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. “We havewhite shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne,” hesaid in disgust.

fhis view of men who’d send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. “We havewhite shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne,” hesaid in disgust.

The raven laughed shrilly. “Boy, boy, boy, boy.”

Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear’s best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chancewas there that Mormont’s letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through hisburned fingers. “What of my sisters?”

“The message made no mention of Lord Eddard or the girls.” He gave an irritated shrug. “Perhapsthey never got my letter. Aemon sent two copies, with his best birds, but who can say? More like,Pycelle did not deign to reply. It would not be the first time, nor the last. I fear we count for less thannothing in King’s Landing. They tell us what they want us to know, and that’s little enough.”

And you tell me what you want me to know, and that’s less, Jon thought resentfully. His brotherRobb had called the banners and ridden south to war, yet no word of that had been breathed tohim … save by Samwell Tarly, who’d read the letter to Maester Aemon and whispered its contents toJon that night in secret, all the time saying how he shouldn’t. Doubtless they thought his brother’s warwas none of his concern. It troubled him more than he could say. Robb was marching and he was not.

No matter how often Jon told himself that his place was here now, with his new brothers on the Wall,he still felt craven.

“Corn,” the raven was crying. “Corn, corn.”

“Oh, be quiet,” the Old Bear told it. “Snow, how soon does Maester Aemon say you’ll have use ofthat hand back?”

“Soon,” Jon replied.

“Good.” On the table between them, Lord Mormont laid a large sword in a black metal scabbardbanded with silver. “Here. You’ll be ready for this, then.”

The raven flapped down and landed on the table, strutting toward the sword, head cockedcuriously. Jon hesitated. He had no inkling what this meant. “My lord?”

“The fire melted the silver off the pommel and burnt the crossguard and grip. Well, dry leatherand old wood, what could you expect? The blade, now … you’d need a fire a hundred times as hot toharm the blade.” Mormont shoved the scabbard across the rough oak planks. “I had the rest madeanew. Take it.”

“Take it,” echoed his raven, preening. “Take it, take it.”

Awkwardly, Jon took the sword in hand. His left hand; his bandaged right was still too raw andclumsy. Carefully he pulled it from its scabbard and raised it level with his eyes.

The pommel was a hunk of pale stone weighted with lead to balance the long blade. It had beencarved into the likeness of a snarling wolf’s head, with chips of garnet set into the eyes. The grip wasvirgin leather, soft and black, as yet unstained by sweat or blood. The blade itself was a good half footlonger than those Jon was used to, tapered to thrust as well as slash, with three fullers deeply incisedin the metal. Where Ice was a true two-handed greatsword, this was a hand-and-a-halfer, sometimesnamed a “bastard sword.” Yet the wolf sword actually seemed lighter than the blades he had wieldedbefore. When Jon turned it sideways, he could see the ripples in the dark steel where the metal hadbeen folded back on itself again and again. “This is Valyrian steel, my lord,” he said wonderingly. Hisfather had let him handle Ice often enough; he knew the look, the feel.

“It is,” the Old Bear told him. “It was my father’s sword, and his father’s before him. TheMormonts have carried it for five centuries. I wielded it in my day and passed it on to my son when Itook the black.”

He is giving me his son’s sword. Jon could scarcely believe it. The blade was exquisitely balanced.

The edges glimmered faintly as they kissed the light. “Your son—”

“My son brought dishonor to House Mormont, but at least he had the grace to leave the swordbehind when he fled. My sister returned it to my keeping, but the very sight of it reminded me ofJorah’s shame, so I put it aside and thought no more of it until we found it in the ashes of mybedchamber. The original pommel was a bear’s head, silver, yet so worn its features were all butindistinguishable. For you, I thought a white wolf more apt. One of our builders is a fair stonecarver.”

When Jon had been Bran’s age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. Thedetails of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father’slife. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice inhis hand. Even then he had known it was only a child’s folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield afather’s sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother’s birthright? Ihave no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throbof pain deep under the skin. “My lord, you honor me, but—”

r’slife. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice inhis hand. Even then he had known it was only a child’s folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield afather’s sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother’s birthright? Ihave no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throbof pain deep under the skin. “My lord, you honor me, but—”

“Spare me your but’s, boy,” Lord Mormont interrupted. “I would not be sitting here were it notfor you and that beast of yours. You fought bravely … and more to the point, you thought quickly.

Fire! Yes, damn it. We ought to have known. We ought to have remembered. The Long Night hascome before. Oh, eight thousand years is a good while, to be sure … yet if the Night’s Watch does notremember, who will?”

“Who will,” chimed the talkative raven. “Who will.”

Truly, the gods had heard Jon’s prayer that night; the fire had caught in the dead man’s clothingand consumed him as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones old dry wood. Jon had only to closehis eyes to see the thing staggering across the solar, crashing against the furniture and flailing at theflames. It was the face that haunted him most; surrounded by a nimbus of fire, hair blazing like straw,the dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull to reveal the gleam of bone beneath.

Whatever demonic force moved Othor had been driven out by the flames; the twisted thing theyhad found in the ashes had been no more than cooked meat and charred bone. Yet in his nightmare hefaced it again … and this time the burning corpse wore Lord Eddard’s features. It was his father’sskin that burst and blackened, his father’s eyes that ran liquid down his cheeks like jellied tears. Jondid not understand why that should be or what it might mean, but it frightened him more than hecould say.

“A sword’s small payment for a life,” Mormont concluded. “Take it, I’ll hear no more of it, is thatunderstood?”

“Yes, my lord.” The soft leather gave beneath Jon’s fingers, as if the sword were molding itself tohis grip already. He knew he should be honored, and he was, and yet …He is not my father. The thought leapt unbidden to Jon’s mind. Lord Eddard Stark is my father. Iwill not forget him, no matter how many swords they give me. Yet he could scarcely tell LordMormont that it was another man’s sword he dreamt of …“I want no courtesies either,” Mormont said, “so thank me no thanks. Honor the steel with deeds,not words.”

Jon nodded. “Does it have a name, my lord?”

“It did, once. Longclaw, it was called.”

“Claw,” the raven cried. “Claw.”

“Longclaw is an apt name.” Jon tried a practice cut. He was clumsy and uncomfortable with hisleft hand, yet even so the steel seemed to flow through the air, as if it had a will of its own. “Wolveshave claws, as much as bears.”

The Old Bear seemed pleased by that. “I suppose they do. You’ll want to wear that over theshoulder, I imagine. It’s too long for the hip, at least until you’ve put on a few inches. And you’llneed to work at your two-handed strikes as well. Ser Endrew can show you some moves, when yourburns have healed.”

“Ser Endrew?” Jon did not know the name.

“Ser Endrew Tarth, a good man. He’s on his way from the Shadow Tower to assume the duties ofmaster-at-arms. Ser Alliser Thorne left yestermorn for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

Jon lowered the sword. “Why?” he said, stupidly.

Mormont snorted. “Because I sent him, why do you think? He’s bringing the hand your Ghost toreoff the end of Jafer Flowers’s wrist. I have commanded him to take ship to King’s Landing and lay itbefore this boy king. That should get young Joffrey’s attention, I’d think … and Ser Alliser’s aknight, highborn, anointed, with old friends at court, altogether harder to ignore than a glorifiedcrow.”

“Crow.” Jon thought the raven sounded faintly indignant.

“As well,” the Lord Commander continued, ignoring the bird’s protest, “it puts a thousand leaguestwixt him and you without it seeming a rebuke.” He jabbed a finger up at Jon’s face. “And don’t thinkthis means I approve of that nonsense in the common hall. Valor makes up for a fair amount of folly,but you’re not a boy anymore, however many years you’ve seen. That’s a man’s sword you havethere, and it will take a man to wield her. I’ll expect you to act the part, henceforth.”

ut you’re not a boy anymore, however many years you’ve seen. That’s a man’s sword you havethere, and it will take a man to wield her. I’ll expect you to act the part, henceforth.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jon slid the sword back into the silver-banded scabbard. If not the blade he wouldhave chosen, it was nonetheless a noble gift, and freeing him from Alliser Thorne’s malignance wasnobler still.

The Old Bear scratched at his chin. “I had forgotten how much a new beard itches,” he said. “Well,no help for that. Is that hand of yours healed enough to resume your duties?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. The night will be cold, I’ll want ho............