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Benjen turned and left.
His boots struck the stone floor in a steady rhythm, growing fainter and fainter, until they vanished around the bend of the corridor.
Jon watched the empty corridor.
Didn’t move.
Aven walked up beside him, and didn’t move either.
The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the dark stretch of passageway, silent for a moment.
Then Jon turned his head and looked at Aven.
His eyes were complicated, gratitude, embarrassment, the contradiction of wanting to hide after being seen through and not wanting to hide at the same time.
Aven met his gaze.
The helpless look returned to his face.
Then, like a conjurer, he produced two flasks from beneath his cloak.
They were small, just the right size to tuck into the hidden inside pockets.
A fine layer of condensation beaded on their surfaces, the corridor was much colder than the great hall, and the flasks, fresh from the warmth of the feast, had misted over the moment they hit the cold air.
Aven held them up in front of Jon like a man displaying two trophies.
“Look at these, punching bag.
This is the vintage Winterfell only breaks out once a year.
I grabbed two at once — do you understand what two means?”
Jon looked at the flasks, then at the I-just-pulled-off-something-enormous expression on Aven’s face.
His eyes reddened slightly.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his throat felt blocked.
“Aven, you…”
He didn’t finish.
He turned away, his back to Aven.
Two breaths.
About two breaths.
His shoulders rose and fell once, then he turned back.
The glassy sheen in his eyes had receded, and his expression had settled back into its usual shape, the Jon Snow who kept everything locked down tight.
“Then you’re definitely getting scolded,” he said.
His voice came out slightly hoarse, but his tone was steady.
Aven shrugged and held one flask out.
“I’ll say Theon did it.”
Jon took the flask, and the corner of his mouth finally lifted.
“Theon’s willing to take the blame?”
“Of course he is.
Lady Catelyn never scolds him anyway.” Aven pulled the stopper from his own flask and took a long pull.
“And he owes me.
Last time he snuck out of the castle to go play, I was the one who covered for him with Lady Catelyn.”
Jon pulled his stopper and drank.
The liquor hit his throat and he frowned, too strong, burning all the way down from his throat to his stomach, like swallowing a rod of heated iron.
But the frown loosened quickly.
Because after the burn passed, a warmth rose from his stomach, spreading slowly into his limbs, pushing the corridor’s chill back.
He leaned against the stone wall and looked down at the flask in his hand.
“Just now, talking with Uncle Benjen,” he said, his voice dropping, “I told him I wanted to join the Night’s Watch.
Every generation, a Stark goes to the Wall — it’s always been that way.
But he told me to think it over carefully.”
Aven said nothing.
Outside, wind and snow battered the glass with a fine, dry sound, like sand scattering across stone.
He took another pull.
The familiar burn slid from his throat down to his stomach, then detonated, sending a wave of heat rising from his belly up into his head.
His whole body settled warm.
Good wine.
“Jon,” he said.
“Those vows of the Night’s Watch…”
Jon came over and sat beside him.
Their shoulders were a fist’s width apart.
Flasks on their knees.
The wind outside and the distant murmur of the feast hall bled together into a low, formless sound, like waves far off.
“I know, Aven.” Jon’s voice was calm, the calm of someone reciting something memorized so long ago it had become instinct.
“I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
I shall live and die at my post.”
He recited it without pause, without hesitation.
Every word in its place.
These lines had lived inside him so long he could close his eyes and see them carved into stone.
Aven listened.
Then was quiet for a moment.
“Since you know all of that,” he said, turning to look at Jon, “what happens to Robb, me, and Theon after you go to the Wall?”
Jon went still.
“If war comes to the North one day,” Aven said, his voice level, each word placed with care, “will you keep those vows of yours, or will you fight beside us?”
Jon opened his mouth.
“I…”
Aven didn’t wait.
“What you’re planning is escape.” Not a rebuke, the certainty of someone setting the truth down in front of you and leaving you to sit with it.
“You think Winterfell is too painful.
Lady Catelyn’s coldness, her disregard, it makes you feel like there’s no place for you here.”
Jon’s fingers tightened around the flask.
“But what’s the difference between you and that deserter Father executed?” Aven said.
“He fled his vows.
You’re fleeing your home.
He ran south.
You want to run north.
The directions are different.
The running is the same.”
He paused, set the flask on his knees, and cupped it with both hands.
“Lady Catelyn treats you poorly.
But what about Robb?
What about Theon?
What about me?”
He looked at Jon.
“We’re brothers, aren’t we?”
Jon didn’t answer.
He looked down at the flask on his knees, at his own fingers wrapped around it, knuckles white, joints sharp, like a man clutching a rope he knows is about to snap.
Things churned in his mind.
Whenever Catelyn called him “Snow” in public, Robb would walk over, throw an arm around his shoulder, and say “Come on, spar with me”, loud enough for the whole corridor to hear.
Theon.
Theon with his sharp mouth and his bastard jokes, who one night on the battlements got blind drunk, clapped Jon on the shoulder, and said “You’re a hundred times better than any of those with proper names”, then leaned over and was sick on the ground.
Aven.
Who, right now, had slipped away from the feast alone, brought two stolen flasks of wine, sat down beside him, and said: we’re brothers.
His eyes started to burn again.
This time he didn’t turn away.
Didn’t lower his head.
He just sat there and let the heat rise, and let it recede on its own.
Aven was right.
He was running.
He had always known it, he just had never heard anyone say it that plainly.
No one had ever put it to him like that.
What are you running from?
If you go, what happens to the ones you leave behind?
He drew a slow breath.
The corridor air was cold, carrying stone and rust into his lungs, but far cleaner than the wine-and-grease fog of the feast hall.
He raised his head and looked at Aven.
The struggle in his face had settled.
He looked calm.
Aven looked back at him and knew the words had landed.
At least tonight, the pull toward the Night’s Watch would be quieter.
As for later, later was later.
He picked up his flask, ready to say something more.
Then a voice came from behind them.
“Winterfell’s castle is like a rat’s warren.
Twists and turns everywhere.”
The voice carried a carefully maintained drawl, each syllable bitten off clean, like lines rehearsed until they felt natural.
Not loud.
In the quiet corridor it grated all the same.
“Well, well.
The two of them — stealing wine.”
Aven turned his head.
Joffrey Baratheon stood at the bend of the corridor, hands clasped behind his back.
His golden hair caught the torchlight and held it, warm as honey.
His lips were slightly curved, a faint smirk sitting at the corner of his mouth like it had always been there.
The corridor was very quiet.
Aven’s hand on the flask didn’t move.
He took one look at Joffrey, then pulled his gaze back and let it settle on Jon.
Jon’s expression had already shifted, the calm of a moment ago replaced by something instinctive and sharp, like a wolf that has just caught an unfamiliar scent, body going tight, ears up.
Aven didn’t stand.
He leaned back against the wall, took one more pull of wine, then tilted his head up and looked at the golden-haired prince standing at the bend of the corridor.
In a voice meant only for Jon, he said:
“Big trouble just walked in.
Watch how I handle this, and learn.”
➤ Next: A Spoiled Child
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