Chapter 13: Squire

Jon stood by the fire, its embers spitting like they were mad at the world, and stared at Arrax. The big bastard sat there, tearing into a strip of dried meat—slow, methodical, like he was chewing on time itself. Ryk perched next to him, grinning through a busted lip, blood dried black between his teeth, like the whole damn thing was a lark.

The crows had slunk off, back to the Wall or wherever crows go to whisper, but their words stuck: God's fist. No mortal man. He sucked in a breath, sharp and cold, and stepped forward, boots crunching loud enough to wake the dead. "Arrax," he said, voice rough, like it'd been dragged through thorns, "why'd you kill 'em? Do you know no… mercy?"

Arrax didn't even glance up—just kept chewing, eyes glinting, dark as peat water. "Jon," he rumbled, low and heavy, like boulders shifting in a cave, "you forgot, I didn't start all this…." He ripped another bite, the meat snapping with a wet, dull crack.

Jon's hands balled into fists, nails biting into his palms, fresh blood stinging the cuts. "even though…with such power….why….why do you lack kindness," he shot back, words tumbling out hot and jagged, like coals spitting from the fire. "You think splatterin' a man's guts across the snow proves somethin'? That's your strength?"

Arrax stopped chewing, just for a beat, then let out a laugh—a deep, rolling growl that hit Jon like a fist to the ribs. Ryk cackled too, a sharp, wheezing bark, slapping his knee like Jon was the punchline to a tavern tale. Heat flooded Jon's face, anger flaring bright, but underneath it, something squirmed—shame, small and sour, twisting in his gut. A boy is still a boy.

Arrax sighed, a slow scrape of sound, like wind over frozen rock, and flicked his finger at Jon—quick, lazy, like brushing off a gnat. Jon staggered, boots skidding on ice, and hit the ground hard, snow exploding around him, clinging wet and cold to his cloak. "Jon," Arrax said, voice dropping into something quieter, heavier, "you're raised well, I see it—your noble honor, your gracious kindness, all that shiny shit. But the world don't swallow your words, don't fill its gut with 'please' and 'sorry.' Most men ain't fed like you were, Snow. They're starvin'—hungry for a kill, hungry for betrayal, hungry to scratch their name in blood. You need to understand men Jon, what men really hunger for."

He leaned in, eyes locking on Jon's—black, bottomless, like pits that had seen too many bodies piled high. "You think kindness stops a blade? You think honor keeps your throat unslit?" His voice sharpened, slicing through the chill. "Men don't trail banners 'cause they're pretty. They follow the one who feeds 'em—or the one who makes 'em piss themselves."

Jon shoved himself up, snow sloughing off his hands, his knees, the cold sinking deeper, a thief in his bones. He glared back, breath puffing white, chest heaving like he'd run a mile. "So that's all there is?" he rasped, voice splintering, raw as a fresh wound. "Fear and hunger?"

Arrax rose, slow as a storm brewing, his bulk blotting out the firelight, a shadow with weight. "It's what moves 'em, Jon. You wanna lead? Keep your kin breathing? You gotta know what they're clawin' for." He stepped closer, boots sinking deep, and pushed Jon again—not mean, just firm, sending him sprawling back into the snow, a wet crunch under his weight. "You're young, Snow. Still got time to learn."

Jon stayed down a heartbeat, breath clouding fast, the cold seeping through his cloak, into his skin, like it wanted to claim him. He stared up at the sky—gray, heavy, spitting flakes that drifted lazy and careless. A boy is still a boy. The words stung, sharp as a slap, but beneath them, something cracked—a thin fracture in the wall he'd built of oaths and ideals. Arrax loomed there, a hulk carved from hard years, a man who'd stared into the world's maw and spat back. And Jon? He was just tasting the blood.

He hauled himself up, slow, snow crumbling under his palms, and watched Arrax turn back to the fire, lesson done, words hanging heavy as smoke. Ryk sniggered again, a wet little snort, but Jon didn't bite—just stared at the ground, at the melt pooling under his hands, and felt the weight settle. What men really hunger for. He didn't get it, not fully, not yet—but one thing hit clear: the world didn't bend for kindness, and maybe he couldn't either.

After a while, Jon still sat there, again, Arrax's voice rumbled in his skull, low and sure. Jon's throat tightened, a knot of rage tangled with something smaller—doubt, sharp as a splinter.

Beside him, Ryk tore into a strip of dried meat, teeth ripping loud, grinning through a split lip, blood crusted black in the corners. He chewed messy, like he was savoring a secret, eyes glinting with a joke Jon didn't want to hear. The fire snapped again, spitting a spark that landed on Jon's boot, dying quick. He didn't move—just stared, letting the heat fade to nothing.

"Oi, Snow," Ryk said, voice thick around a mouthful, "you wanna know somethin' 'bout Arrax?" He leaned in, elbow nudging Jon's arm, grin stretching wide, a kid with a dirty story he couldn't wait to spill.

Jon kept his eyes on the fire. "Not really," he muttered, voice rough as the bark under his fingers, flat as the dirt under his boots. But Ryk didn't care—kept chewing, louder now, like he was daring Jon to bite.

"I'll tell ya one thing," Ryk said, swallowing hard, wiping his mouth with a bloody sleeve. "That giant can fly." He paused, letting it hang there, then leaned closer, voice dropping low. "Not like some sparrow, neither—fast, like a dragon from the stories, swoopin' down, claws out." His hands swooped, a clumsy arc, and he chuckled—wet, wheezing, like he'd choked on the punchline.

Jon's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Fly?" He spat it out, sharp and bitter, like a bad swallow of ale. "You're full of shit, Ryk." But his voice hitched—just a thread—and Ryk caught it, grin splitting wider, showing teeth stained pink.

"Swear it," Ryk said, tossing a bone into the fire. It hissed, popping loud. "Seen it myself. Launched off the Wall like a damn bird, only bigger, faster. Like he was born to it." His eyes danced, reflecting the flames, and Jon's gut twisted—cold, uneasy, a churn like spoiled milk.

"Bullshit," Jon rasped, but it didn't land right—wobbled, thin. His mind reeled—Arrax's speed, slicing through crows like they were nothing; that weapon, blasting a man to pulp; the whispers from back then, His power akin to Gods. If he could fly, too—like a dragon, swooping from the sky—then maybe his mates were right. Maybe Arrax was a god, flesh and steel and wrath, walking among them.

Jon shook his head, hard, like he could rattle the thought loose. "No," he muttered, half to himself. "He said it himself—he's got his own faith, some God-Emperor. Gods don't worship Gods." His voice steadied, grasping at that one clear thing, a lifeline in the dark. "He's a man, Ryk. A bloody one, but a man."

Ryk shrugged, ripping another bite, chewing slow. "Maybe," he said, voice muffled, "but I seen what I seen." He spat a gristle bit into the fire, watched it sizzle. "You ever think, Snow, maybe your gods ain't the only ones out there? Maybe his God-Emperor's real, too. Maybe Arrax is… somethin' else."

Jon's jaw clenched, molars grinding loud in his ears. He didn't want to think it—couldn't let himself. The world was already too big, too cruel, without gods striding through it, blasting men to bits for sport. But the doubt stuck, a burr under his skin, itching fierce. He stood, sudden, boots scuffing the dirt, and paced a tight circle, breath puffing white in the crisp night air. The fire crackled on, indifferent, casting shadows that twisted and danced, mocking him.

 What if he's more? His stomach hollowed out, a cold ache. He thought of Winterfell—Robb's laugh, Arya's wild grin, Sansa's quiet hum—and pictured Arrax there, a shadow over the hearth, steel and blood and that crooked grin

Ryk's voice cut through, lazy as a shrug. "You worry too much, Snow. He's on our side, ain't he?" He chuckled again, low and knowing, and Jon's glare snapped back, hot and sharp.

"For now," Jon said, voice low, rough as gravel. But the words felt flimsy, a lie he couldn't sell himself. He turned away, staring into the fire, letting the heat sting his eyes, the smoke curl into his lungs. The flames flickered, sputtering low, and for a heartbeat, they dimmed, leaving him in the dark, cold and alone.

.

.

.

Dawn crept in, sly and stingy. The campfire was a ghost now, ash and a few stubborn embers, hissing faint against the frost. Jon stood rigid, apart, his shadow stretching long and lean toward the pines. His eyes now straight. No longer lost.

Arrax hunched by the fire's bones, a slab of a man, still as stone, his back to Jon like he didn't feel the weight of eyes. Ryk lounged beside him, tearing at a rabbit leg, grease shining on his grin—too wide, too sharp, like he'd bet on a fool and won. Sam—sweet, lumbering Sam—sat close, fat fingers twisting his cloak into knots, glancing from Jon to Arrax like he'd bolt if the wind turned sour.

Jon sucked a breath, cold slicing his lungs, and stepped forward, boots snapping the silence. "Arrax," he barked, voice rough, scraping like flint, "duel me." The words dropped heavy, brittle as ice, trembling in the chill.

Ryk's laugh exploded—a choke, a snort, meat spilling from his mouth. "You've lost it, Snow!" he crowed, slapping his knee, voice pitching high. "He'll grind you to paste!" Sam lurched up, hands flapping, "Jon, no, he's—he's too—" but the words drowned in a whimper, his bulk swaying like a spooked mare. Jon didn't flinch, didn't blink—just stared at Arrax, chest tight, waiting.

Arrax didn't move—just sat, a mountain unbothered by a breeze. Then, slow, he stood, rising like smoke off a pyre, his shadow swallowing Jon whole. He turned, eyes dark, glinting sharp, and said nothing—just nodded once, a dip of the chin, acceptance carved in silence.

Jon's pulse hammered, a frantic thud-thud against his ribs. "Bare hands," he snapped, voice cracking just a sliver. "You said my sword's useless on you. Prove it." His hand flexed on Longclaw, trembling, pride a tea kettle screaming too long on the fire.

Arrax's lip twitched—half a smirk, half a sigh. "Bare hands it is," he rumbled, low and steady, a riverbed grinding stones. He stepped forward, shedding his cloak like a skin, arms loose, scarred, thick as oak roots.

Ryk gaped, "He's bloody serious?" but Jon was already moving—lunging, Longclaw arcing fast, a silver slash through the gray. It was nothing. Arrax slid left, smooth as a shadow, and the blade whistled past, biting air. Jon pivoted, but Arrax was there—too close—his hand snapping out, iron on Jon's wrist, twisting sharp. Pain flared, a white-hot spike, and Longclaw flew, clattering on the frost. Jon's legs tangled, breath punched out, and he hit the snow hard—sprawling, gasping, flakes stinging his eyes.

He blinked up, chest heaving, and there was Arrax's boot—an inch from his nose, steady, hovering like it could pulp him without a sweat. "Yield?" Arrax asked, voice flat, calm as a gravedigger's hum, his shadow a shroud over Jon's face.

Jon's body shook—fear, cold, the nearness of it—death a breath away, his pride a snapped twig underfoot. He scrabbled, palms slipping in the snow, trying to rise, but his arms quaked, weak as wet rope. Sam stumbled over, "Jon, stop, please," hands fluttering, hauling at his arm, but Jon shoved him off, staggering to his knees, breath clouding fast. Arrax loomed, boot scraping back, watching.

"Why?" Jon rasped, voice a splintered thing, raw and ragged. "Why don't I get it?" His hands balled, nails biting palms, the question a wound he couldn't staunch.

Arrax's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—pity, maybe, or patience worn thin. "You think it's steel and spine, Snow," he said, voice dropping heavy, a hammer on anvil. "It ain't. It's what's in men's heads—Why don't you still UNDERSTAND!???"

Jon swayed, snow soaking his knees, the words sinking deep, cold as the melt trickling down his neck. "Help me," he choked, voice breaking, a plea torn loose. "Help me understand, Arrax. I wanna be like you. Take me—squire me, like you did Ryk."