𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙍𝙄𝙊𝙍𝙎 (Game of Thrones)

𝙭𝙞𝙞.

They packed their things the next morning. Vickon ignored Jon the best he could as they loaded the sledges. The night's argument wasn't forgotten. Vickon wouldn't have been surprised if Jon never spoke to him again. He wouldn't like it, but it wouldn't surprise him. The bastard had a way of holding grudges.

They made for the Fist of the First Men. It was long riding and harsh conditions, but a part of Vickon was enjoying himself. He hadn't been on a ranging like this in quite some time, and the feel of the wind on his face was oddly comforting. Winter was coming, the Starks always said, and they were always right.

"He's not here yet," Mormont was saying, talking about Qhorin Halfhand, who they were to meet at the Fist. "He'd have seen us, blown the horn."

"When will he come?" Jon asked.

"The Halfhand does things in his own time," Mormont replied.

"My uncle told me stories about him."

"Most of them are true."

Jon nodded. "I heard the Halfhand spent half of last winter beyond the Wall."

"The whole winter," Mormont corrected. "He was north of the Skirling pass when the snows came. Had to wait for the thaw."

"So it is possible for someone to survive out here on their own."

"Well, possible for the Halfhand."

Behind Vickon, Sam called out to his fellow stewards, "Beautiful, isn't it? Gilly would love it here."

Vickon rolled his eyes. Sam had become quite fond of one of Craster's daughters, and he hadn't stopped speaking of her since they'd left the keep. "There's nothing more sickening than a man in love," Edd said to Grenn.

Vickon snorted his agreement, though no one heard him. He glanced back at Sam. "Will you be quiet about the girl, Tarly? You're bound to never even see her again," he said.

But Sam was smiling still. "We'll stop at Craster's on our way back. I'll see her then."

"And you'll lose a hand if you do anything."

To that, Sam had no reply.

It was a cruel statement, Vickon knew, but he couldn't help himself. He had been in a dour mood since the night they'd left Craster's. He hadn't wanted to fight with Jon, truly. But the bastard had needed it. Vickon stared ahead at him, hoping, praying, that Jon would fall back and strike up a conversation. That they could return to normal, go back to before the fight at Craster's Keep. 

But Jon was bound to never forgive him, and Vickon just had to accept that.

They settled at the Fist, getting to work digging latrine pits. The ice was hard to get through but they managed, hacking away with picks and tools of the sort. 

"The Fist of the First Men," Sam said, looking around the snowy landscape. "Think of how old this place is- -" he tromped through the snow toward Vickon and Edd, who carried along sacks of food, "before the Targaryens defeated the Andals, before the Andals took Westeros from the First Men."

"Before I die, please, stop talking," Edd said, earning a chuckle from Vickon.

But Sam just continued. "Thousands and thousands of years ago, the First Men stood here where we're standing all through the Long Night." He looked back at Edd and Vickon, who had been joined by Grenn. "What do you think they were like, the First Men?"

"Stupid," replied Edd. "Smart people don't find themselves in places like this."

"I think they were afraid," Jon said. Vickon stopped what he was doing, listening to his words. "I think they came here to get away from something. and I don't think it worked."

A horn sounded in the distance. The men stopped, listening closely for any more blasts. "Wildlings?" asked Grenn, hand moving toward the sword at his hip.

"One blast is for rangers returning," Jon said. "Wildlings is two blasts."

"So you got to stand there waiting, wondering," Edd said. "One blast for friends, two for foes."

"And three for White Walkers," Sam joined.

Vickon raised an eyebrow. All of them looked at Sam, confused. He shrugged. "It's been a thousand years, but that's the only time they blow the horn three times," he said.

"But if it's been a thousand years, how do you know?" Grenn asked.

"Well..." Sam began.

"I read it in a book," they all concluded at once.

Edd and Grenn began to turn away, but Jon's voice stopped them. "Look," he stated, pointing out into the distance. Vickon looked to see a party riding toward them.

He nodded, clasping Jon's shoulder. "There's the Halfhand," he said.

"Aye, we'll live another day," Edd said. "Hurrah."

Jon pulled his arm free from Vickon's grip. "Don't touch me, Vickon," he stated.

"I'm sorry, you know," Vickon said. "About what I said."

"No, you're not," Jon said. "You meant it."

"I'm sorry that I said it, then. What do I have to say to get you to speak to me?"

"Leave me alone."

He reached for Jon's arm. "Jon, please- -"

"Don't touch me!" Jon caught his wrist, squeezing hard. "The next time you try that, I'll break your hand. I mean it."

"I know you do," Vickon replied. Jon hadn't let go of him, and he wasn't going to be the one to point it out. "You have to forgive me at some point, Jon."

"No, I don't," Jon answered, shaking his head. "I don't owe you anything."

Vickon nodded stiffly. "Fine, then. But I can make your life a living hell. You think Ser Alliser is bad? I can be worse, Snow. I promise you that."

He freed his wrist and left without anything more.