Jon had done it. He had taken the black, spoke his vows, and joined the brotherhood. His life and honor was bound to the Night's Watch until his very last breath.

It had been a few moons since Jon had arrived at the Wall, and a lingering presence hung over his shoulder, watching with sharp, observant eyes, but never approaching. The Wordless, Pyp had said everyone called you. You had been part of the Night's Watch for longer than he, experienced in the harsh way of living. You never spoke, not once, and your true name remained a mystery.

Gods know the Watch had no shortage of criminals, and it did cause Jon's imagination to wander when he was left with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Perhaps you had committed some heinous crime, and your tongue had been taken as punishment. Maybe you simply chose not to, or never learned how. Something about your silence, whatever caused it, drew him to you. He watched from afar, and you watched back, like a hawk with eyes locked onto a mouse. You were a bit unsettling at times, he had to admit. You were not insipid nor doltish, unlike the rumors that were spread from brother to brother. In fact, in his own opinion, you were probably more capable than the majority of people at Castle Black. You got things done with a quiet efficiency.

Damn him. It seemed as though Jon had a knack for befriending the outcasts, but even Samwell had been more popular than you.

Damn Ser Alliser, too, the senex that he was. He had noticed the way Jon's eyes had practically been glued to your form as you trained with the recruits in the courtyard, your grace belying the stiff and uncertain movements of your opponents. Eye-banging the wordless, Alliser had said. Which was untrue, though now Jon had landed you as his new watch partner. He had always enjoyed tormenting Jon, getting off on the power that he held over him, but now you were suffering the consequences, too. Forced to take a night shift when you were entirely unprepared for a sleepless night in the unrelenting cold. At least Sam got a break.

The biting chill of the Wall was no longer foreign to Jon as he leaned against it, arms crossed beneath his thick cloak. It was almost comforting, in the way that he had grown familiar with it. The view of the drop, however, was still a bit daunting — and it would likely always be. The fire danced on the wood within the brazier mounted not too far from him, the ember flames licking at the surrounding ice and casting shadows upon the wooden structure above. Dark eyes focused on the near-endless plummet that was the edge of the wall, as though he could not bring himself to look at you, despite being unable to tear his eyes away mere hours earlier.

You were on the same page, keeping your distance from Jon. He could hear your stuttering breaths even with the distance, the cold no doubt getting to you. The torches closest to you were simply for light, offering only a small semblance of warmth. Though the air was charged with tension — and mostly awkwardness, as he had no idea how to talk to a mute — he wouldn't let you freeze to death. Jon cleared his throat, finally lifting his gaze to meet your own.

“Come here,” Jon beckoned with a nod to the brazier, “you'll catch your death over there.”