ASOIAF : Creed

The smell was the first thing to cut through the shock. A foul, cloying stench of burnt meat and scorched oil that clung to the back of the throat. Jeor Mormont stood in his nightshirt, the cold of the stone floor seeping into his bare feet, and stared at the smoldering pile of ash that had, moments before, been a man. His raven, a feathered ball of black, was still muttering "Burn, burn, burn," from its perch on his shoulder, a grim echo of the chaos.

Seven men dead. His own tower guard, his neck broken like a twig. The guard at the foot of the stairs. And five more in the barracks, cut down by the other... thing. Seven good men of the Night's Watch, dead. For what? Two corpses. The math of it was infuriating, a strategic loss he could not afford.

He barked orders, his voice a low, commanding growl that cut through the lingering panic of his men. "Get the dead to the ice cells! All of them! And I want a double watch on that door. Nothing goes in or out without my express command." He looked at the terrified, witless faces of the men who had survived the barracks attack. Fear was a sickness, and it would spread if he didn't cauterize the wound now. "The rest of you, back to your duties. The sun will be up soon. The Wall does not care if you slept."

He returned to his solar, the stench of the corpse's pyre still thick in the air. Benjen Stark and Maester Aemon were waiting for him, their faces grim in the flickering lamplight. Ser Alliser Thorne and Bowen Marsh, the First Steward, arrived moments later.

"A trick," Thorne spat before Mormont could even speak, his face a mask of contempt. "Wildling blood magic. They send us two corpses that move on their own to spread fear."

"I saw it with my own eyes, Ser Alliser," Mormont growled, his patience already worn thin. "It was no trick. It tried to kill me."

"And the boy was conveniently there to save you," Thorne sneered. "How fortunate."

"The boy saved your Lord Commander's life," Benjen said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Show some respect."

"Enough," Mormont commanded, silencing them both. He turned to the one man in the room whose wisdom spanned a century. "Maester? The old tales... the legends of the Long Night. Are they true?"

Maester Aemon, who had been sitting in silence, his blind eyes fixed on the fire, nodded slowly. "The books are full of whispers, Lord Commander," he said, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "Of the Others, and the army of the dead they command. We of the Citadel have long dismissed them as children's stories. I fear... I fear we have been fools."

"So we face an enemy that does not die," Mormont said, the words tasting like iron. It was a commander's nightmare. How do you fight an army that can replenish its ranks from your own dead? "And how do we convince the lords in the south of this? I send a raven to King's Landing telling them the dead walk, and they will think the cold has frozen my wits."

"The Wall barely feeds the mouths we have. If the dead are rising… we cannot stand alone. Proof." Bowen Marsh said, his voice practical. "We need proof."

"The hand," Thorne said. "The one our men cut off. It was crawling on its own before the fire took the rest of the creature."

"And what do I send them? A twitching hand?" Mormont scoffed. "They will call it sorcery and burn it."

His mind raced, turning over the tactical realities of their new, impossible war. They needed more men. They needed better weapons. And they needed leaders, men who would not break when faced with the unnatural. His thoughts, inevitably, turned to the boy. Jon Snow.

Tonight, faced with a horror that had sent seasoned men screaming, the boy had been the one to act. He had moved with a speed and certainty that was unnatural, severing the creature's arm, and most importantly, he had been the one to find its weakness. While others had frozen, he had thought, he had acted, he had used fire. He was a useful man to have on the wall. 

"The boy is a danger," Thorne said, as if reading his thoughts. "He is an unknown. He does not belong here."

"On that," Mormont said, his eyes locking with Thorne's, "we may agree. Such skill does not belong idle."

He made his decision.

He dismissed them, the council over. He sat alone in his solar for a long time, the silence broken only by the raven occasionally muttering "Corn." He thought of his own son, Jorah, a man who had brought shame to their house, a man who had not been worthy of the sword that now lay in a chest in the corner of this very room. Longclaw. The Valyrian steel blade of House Mormont, a priceless treasure, a bitter memory. He had put it away years ago, the sight of it a constant reminder of his own failure as a father.

But the Watch was his family now. And a father provides for his sons.

He sent a steward to summon Jon. The boy arrived minutes later, his face pale but his eyes calm, betraying none of the horror of the night's events.

"You saved my life tonight, boy," Mormont said, his voice a low grumble. "The Night's Watch is in your debt."

"I did what anyone would have done," Jon replied, his voice quiet.

"No," Mormont corrected him. "Anyone else would have died." He walked to the old ironwood chest and lifted the lid. He pulled out the longsword, its dark, rippled steel seeming to drink the lamplight. The pommel was a bear's head, its silver worn smooth with age. "This is Longclaw. It was my father's sword, and his father's before him. It was meant for my son, but he forfeited his right to it when he brought dishonor to our name."

He laid the magnificent blade on the desk between them. "The Night's Watch is dying, Jon Snow. We are a handful of old men and green boys, standing against a gathering storm. We need leaders. We need warriors. We need men like you."

He looked Jon in the eye, his gaze as hard and unyielding as the Wall itself. "I will not ask you to swear your vows tonight. But I am asking you to stay. To find your place here. To become a brother of the Night's Watch."

He pushed the sword forward, its ancient steel a bridge between them. "This is a lord's sword. It belongs in the hand of a man who will lead. It belongs to you... if you will take it. And the vows that come with it."

Jeor expected the boy to be awed, perhaps even grateful. A Valyrian steel sword was a king's ransom, a priceless treasure. But Jon Snow did not even look at the blade. His violet eyes remained fixed on Mormont's own, and they held not a boy's gratitude, but a man's resolve.

"I am honored by your offer, Lord Commander," Jon said, his voice respectful but firm. "More than you know. But I cannot accept."

The refusal was so quiet, so absolute, it took Jeor by surprise. "You would refuse Longclaw? You would refuse a place of honor among us, after what you saw tonight?"

"It is because of what I saw tonight that I must refuse," Jon said, and the cold, hard logic in his voice was that of a commander, not a recruit. "My sword cut that thing, Lord Commander, but it did not stop it. It felt no pain. We are an army of men with steel swords trying to fight a foe that cannot be killed by steel. It is a losing strategy. We need different weapons. We need knowledge that has been lost."

Jeor stared at the boy, taken aback. He was right. It was a truth so simple and so terrible that no one else in the room had dared to speak it aloud.

"My place is not here," Jon continued, his voice softening slightly, but losing none of its iron resolve. "I must make my own path. I swear to you, on the honor of my house, that I will not forget what I have seen here. The real war is in the North, and I will be ready for it when it comes. But I must be ready on my own terms."

Jeor Mormont looked the young man before him. He saw a will that would not be bent. He saw a leader. And he knew, with certainty, that you could not cage a wolf like this. To try would be to break it. He was losing the single greatest asset the Watch had seen in quite a while, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He slowly reached out and pulled Longclaw back, the beautiful, useless sword. "A man who walks his own path must have his own blade," he grunted, a note of grudging respect in his voice. He placed the sword back in its chest and closed the lid with a heavy, final thud. "Go, then. But know this, Jon Snow. The offer of a place here will always stand. The Watch will have need of you before the end."