Wind-driven snow lashed his face like countless tiny blades.
Jon Snow trudged through ankle-deep snow, his steps sinking unevenly as he pressed forward.
A battered column followed behind him. Brothers of the Night's Watch supported one another; some leaned on crudely whittled crutches, some had arms slung over other men's shoulders, and others lay on stretchers, carried along.
The wounded men's groans and labored breathing drifted intermittently through the wind and snow.
He swung his sword to cut away a dead branch blocking his path, his gaze probing ahead.
Once they made it through the Haunted Forest, they would be able to see the Wall.
They would be safe there.
Beside him, a Wildling woman wrapped in animal skins glanced at the wounded men with blood seeping through their bandages. Her tone held the indifference of someone accustomed to life and death Beyond the Wall:
"In our tribe, if someone's hurt that badly, we give him a quick death. The wounded don't suffer, and the living aren't burdened."
Jon turned to glance at her. Ygritte, the red-haired Wildling woman... he did not know how to define their relationship.
But he said nothing. He turned his gaze forward and tightened his grip on his sword.
It was Valyrian steel, its blade patterned with dark ripples that gleamed coldly beneath the dim daylight.
Longclaw, the sword of House Mormont.
The Old Bear had placed it in his hands before dying in battle.
He tightened his grip on the hilt and cut through another dead branch in his way.
"I won't leave anyone behind." His voice was quiet but steady.
"You southerners are too softhearted." Ygritte walked beside him, her voice carrying the Wildlings' customary contempt. "Softhearted people don't live long Beyond the Wall."
Jon did not look back or slow his steps.