Chapter 14

Arrax stands there, a hulking shadow in battered armor, his face carved from stone and war. Jon's words hit him sideways—"a squire?"—and for a heartbeat, he's caught, eyebrow twitching like a crack in a dam. He's heard men beg before, sobbing for their lives, but this? This is Jon swallowing his pride whole, choking it down raw, asking to be forged by a stranger's hands. It's not fear driving him—it's hunger, a need to claw something real out of this frozen hell. Arrax lets out a slow breath, fog curling like a dragon's sigh, and there's a flicker in his eyes, a grudging spark of 'damn, kid, you've got guts.'

But he doesn't trust it. Not fully. Jon's got oaths tying him to the Wall, a destiny Arrax can't see the end of, and he's not about to yank the story off its rails. He shifts, snow crunching under his boots, and his voice comes out blunt, a hammer striking steel. "You swore an oath, Snow. Same as your brothers. You don't break that for a whim." It's a mirror held up—Jon made the crows remember their vows last night, and now Arrax throws it back, cold and unyielding.

Jon's gut sinks, a stone dropping into deep water. His hand tightens on Longclaw's hilt, knuckles whitening—a reflex, a flare of frustration he can't voice. He nods, slow, heavy, like his head's too full to lift. The denial stings, sharp as the wind cutting through his cloak, but he gets it. The oath's a chain, and he's still bound.

Arrax watches him, that flicker of respect deepening, and he softens—just a hair, just enough to feel human under all that Space Marine steel. "I won't take you as a squire," he says, quieter now, "but I'll train you. Till Winterfell. Not the old swordplay from your books—parade-ground nonsense." He pauses, eyes distant, like he's seeing something beyond the trees, beyond this world. "I'll teach you what I learned in the devilish war, when I was still flesh, not this." He thumps a fist against his chest, the sound dull and final. "Men are hungry, Snow. Desperate. Fear drives 'em, need breaks 'em. You'll learn to see it—read the battlefield of their souls."

Jon blinks, the weight of it settling in his bones. It's not what he asked for, not the full shape of it, but it's something—a crack in the wall, a chance to grow. "Thank you," he mutters, voice gruff, almost lost in his throat. It's a small thing, that gratitude, but it costs him, pride scraping raw as he says it.

Arrax snorts, a rough bark of a laugh. "Don't thank me yet. It won't be easy." He turns, his shadow stretching long and dark across the snow, and there's a promise in it—pain, breaking, rebuilding. Like smelting ore, he thinks but doesn't say, burning off the soft parts to find what's hard underneath. Jon stares at his back, feels the cold bite deeper, and something ignites in him—a fire, small but stubborn, a need to prove he can take it.

The days didn't march—they stumbled, tripped over each other, a drunkard's stagger through snow and grit. Mornings cracked open with Arrax's voice, sharp as a blade against stone, barking orders before the sun bothered to show its face. "Breathe," he'd say, pacing, his boots crunching the frost like it owed him something. "In through the nose, out slow. Like the God-Emperor taught. Faith's the spine of it—every grunt, every swing." Jon stood there, chest heaving, trying to match the rhythm, air slicing his lungs cold and clean. Ryk just wheezed beside him, bent double, muttering, "This is bloody madness," through chattering teeth.

The exercises came next, brutal little dances of muscle and will. Arrax called them advanced, but to Jon they felt ancient, like rituals carved from a world that didn't care for weakness. Swing a blade 'til your arms shook, then swing it again. Run through snow that clawed at your shins, breath puffing out like dragon smoke. "Faith," Arrax would growl, rubbing that scar on his neck when he thought no one saw, "it's what keeps you standing when your legs quit." Jon believed him, or wanted to. Ryk rolled his eyes but kept going, smoothing his cloak flat every time he fell, like order could save him from the ache.

Nights were a thief, stealing heat and hope in equal measure. They'd hunch around a fire too small to fight the dark, flames spitting like they were mad at the wood. Ryk cried sometimes, soft and ragged, face buried in his knees. "I can't do this," he'd sob, voice cracking like ice underfoot. "I'm done." Arrax wouldn't yell—just loomed there, a shadow with eyes, staring 'til the tears dried up. "You're still here," he'd say, flat as a hammer strike, and Ryk would sniff, wipe his nose, and shut up. Jon didn't cry. He couldn't. He'd collapse into his bedroll, legs twitching, dreams a mess of steel and snow, and wake up tasting blood where he'd bitten his lip raw.

But he kept going. Had to. Arrax didn't let them quit—didn't let him quit—and Jon didn't want to be soft meat, some limp thing left to rot in the cold. He wanted to be steel, sharp and sure, something his family could lean on when the wolves came howling. Ryk whined, but he stayed too, tethered by exhaustion and Arrax's quiet, unyielding will. They were a trio now, forged in the grind, not friends exactly—more like blades hammered on the same anvil.

The North didn't give a damn about their struggle. It just sprawled there, endless, white and gray and cruel, wind cutting through their cloaks like a knife through butter. Snow dragged at their boots, heavy as regret, and the cold sank into their bones 'til it felt like home. Jon caught himself muttering Arrax's mantras under his breath—"Strength through faith, faith through strength"—and it steadied him, a heartbeat against the chaos. Ryk grumbled about blisters, about the weight of his pack, but once, after a fall, Jon hauled him up, and Ryk muttered a grudging, "Thanks," that hung in the air like steam from a soup cup.

Time blurred, a river under ice, days and nights bleeding together 'til they didn't know how long they'd been walking, fighting, breathing. The crunch of snow, the hiss of breath, the distant howl of wolves—they wove through every moment, stitching the hours tight. Then, one morning, the horizon cracked open, and there it was: Winterfell. Towers jagged against the sky, walls solid as a promise, the kind of gray that hurts after too much white. Jon stopped dead, heart slamming against his ribs. "I missed this place," he said, voice thick, cracking like he'd just confessed a sin over a midnight table.

Ryk squinted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Looks like a bloody tomb," he said, but there was a grin tugging at his mouth, relief sneaking through the whine. Arrax just stood there, silent, his gaze drifting somewhere else—some other castle, some other war. "Home's a blade," he muttered, cryptic and low, "cuts both ways." Jon didn't ask. He just stared at Winterfell, letting it fill him up, a ache and a balm all at once. They'd made it, but it wasn't over. The castle loomed, a shadow of what was and what'd come, and Jon felt the weight of it settle in his chest, heavy as the snow they'd fought through.

They'd laugh about it later, maybe—Ryk's whining, Jon's grim little jabs about frostbite, Arrax's deadpan "Quit, and I'll bury you myself." But for now, they walked, three souls battered and bound, toward a home that wasn't quite home anymore. Winterfell watched them come, silent, and Jon wondered if it'd recognize the steel he'd become—or if it'd cut him all the same.