𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙊𝙍𝙎 (Game of Thrones)

𝙞𝙞𝙞.

Benjen Stark was leaving that morning. Going out beyond the Wall with a small party. He was to look for a party of wildlings. Vickon knew well what had happened to the last three men that had been sent in search of them. Two men, the Royce boy Waymar, and Gared had lost their lives. The third man, a boy called Will, had deserted, a death sentence in itself. Ned Stark had dealt with that. Will had been beheaded not two months prior, but not before giving his tale. His brothers had been killed by wights.

The thought chilled Vickon to the bone. He heard tale of the wights sometimes. Dead men with eyes as blue as ice and skin as cold as frost. Moving like living things with only one goal; murder. In his seventeen years as a man of the Watch, Vickon had never encountered one on his trips beyond the Wall. And that was a lucky thing. The men who went against wights seldom lived to tell the tale.

But the wights were just children's stories. They had to be. Nothing so wicked, so cruel and so dark could be real.

Besides perhaps Gregor Clegane, who had raped and murdered Elia Martell with her son's blood still on his hands all those years ago. 

Or Armory Lorch, who had murdered little Rhaenys and just kept stabbing. 

But those were living, breathing men. Not monsters out of children's books.

A strange part of Vickon told him that he was never going to see the Head Ranger again. In the nights before the ranging, he dreamed of a man with hands as black as night and cold as ice, a cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders.

Yoren was taking Lord Tyrion back to King's Landing. He hoped to plead a case for more men. Prisoners from the Black Cells would become eager new recruits. Little boys from Flea Bottom, no older than Vickon had been when he'd been shipped away to the Wall, would meet their ends in the barren, frozen land. Vickon wished he could join him. It had been seventeen years since the last time he'd seen King's Landing. Ventured the halls of the Red Keep. Walked the Street of Steel, listening to the sound of the metal ringing out as the hammer was brought down onto it.

But no matter how much he missed the capital, he could never return. That, he knew for certain.

The morning that Benjen was to leave, Vickon stood by the gate to the tunnel. He scanned the procession of men, some bound to die out in the wilderness, for it was seldom that all survived a ranging. Benjen glanced up from saddling his horse, gray eyes falling to Vickon. "If you have something to say, boy, say it," he said.

"I wish I could come with you," Vickon answered. "You need more men."

Benjen offered a smile, clasping Vickon's shoulder. "You know me, Waters," he said. "I've gone on so many rangings, I've lost count. I always come back. And besides, I'm old. My presence won't be missed. You, Vickon, are young. You're strong. You're bound to be First Ranger once I'm gone. But you can't tell Ser Alliser I said that."

"He'd have my head," Vickon said with a chuckle.

"And mine, too. He can't think I'm picking favorites. He already has enough suspicions now that Jon is here."

That made Vickon laugh. "Your nephew doesn't like me very much," he noted, and Benjen shook his head.

"I'd imagine he doesn't. But keep pushing. He'll learn to like you."

Vickon nodded. He held out a hand, and Benjen took tight hold, shaking once. "Be safe, brother," Vickon said. "Stay warm."

"I'll do my best," Benjen said, and that was the end of it.

Vickon liked to watch the recruits spar. Specifically, he liked to watch Jon Snow. The bastard moved with a certain deftness, faster than all of his opponents, who charged blindly without thinking of the repercussions. This morning it was Grenn who went first. The fights between Jon and Grenn had grown longer. Grenn was growing bulkier and more considerate of his movements. Though, Jon bested him all the same, his blunted blade coming mere inches away from Grenn's throat. Grenn, surprisingly, let out a laugh as he shoved away the blade. While Jon was beginning to befriend his fellow recruits, his cold demeanor toward Vickon had not changed.

"Don't stand so still," Jon said. "It's harder to hit a moving target." His eyes drifted toward Pyp, who watched on in silence. "Except for you," he stated. "You move too much. I could just hold my sword out and let you do the work for me."

Pyp nodded. Jon turned back to Grenn, and with a faint smile, they began again.

Lord Tyrion left the next morning. Not before having a visit with Vickon, however. The Little Lord had found him in a hallway and insisted on walking with him. Vickon grit his teeth as he walked, trying his best to tune out Lord Tyrion's pointless talk of the biting chill of the early morning. But it was impossible to ignore his question. "Did you know your parents, Waters?"

That made him stop in his tracks, taking a step back to better assess Lord Tyrion. To look for something in his face, a reason behind the question. But the Lannister lion was the picture of innocence as he looked up at Vickon. "I ask only out of curiosity," he continued with a hint of a smile. "I hope I haven't given you offense."

"No offense taken," Vickon answered, trying his best to keep his tone measured. "But I thought you'd have known. You've been asking Lord Commander Mormont about all of us."

"I know why you're here, but even Lord Jeor doesn't know much of your family's story. So, I'm curious."

Vickon hesitated. He balled his hands into fists as he considered the next words he wanted to say. "My mother died birthing me," he finally settled on. "My father married another. She raised me like I was her own. Loved me, cared for me. I was given the best that a poor family in Flea Bottom could afford. When I was eight years old, my father joined the Targaryen forces. He rode to the Ruby Ford and was killed during the Battle of the Trident. His wife as sick with grief. She threw herself in the Blackwater and I never saw her again. It was the Gold Cloaks who told me she was dead and I could no longer stay in my home. I could find an apprenticeship, or come here. I chose the Wall."

Lord Tyrion gave a small nod. He scanned Vickon from head to toe. "So you knew your father well?"

"Yes, my lord," Vickon said. "Quite well."

"Really?" he replied. "Well, I only wanted to know because I've seen few men that look like you."

Vickon managed a laugh that sounded hollow. He swallowed back his anxiety and replied with a weak smile, "I'm an albino, my lord. Nothing more."

"Of course," Lord Tyrion said, and he began walking once again. He didn't look back at Vickon as he called, "Though, a man from Flea Bottom would say 'm'lord.'"