The Logistics of Good Living

by Karmic Acumen

If it's true that every lucid dream is actually long-range astral projection or parallel incarnation, he had no qualms about treating this world as real. Of course, he could also be wrong. Wouldn't that be something? If nothing else, though, his new family wouldn't take quite the same amount of work to salvage as his previous one. [Brandon Stark SI]

28. Intermission - A Short Hand (Jon)

A/N; This ballooned massively, but I'm determined to keep some manner of symmetry for the intermission (seven POVs, one special in the middle).

---

JON

"-. 274 AC .-"

He was glad to be leaving the Bolton lands, even if he didn't get to see the Dreadfort demolished and burnt down like it deserved. He wasn't so glad about them not going round to bash in the heads of all the cunts getting ready to make trouble, now that the flayers weren't there to stare them down with their sharp knives. But Lord Stark said he'd much rather wait and see who was too dumb for their breeches. Planned to use them in 'war games' come spring, whatever that meant. As if he needed to explain anything. Jon thought Lord Stark should've just done the lordly thing and told them to shut their bitch arse mouths and follow his travel plan, seeing as it was so fancy and urgent-like. But far be it from him to lecture his elders about how to rule the North. Last time he did that, the Old Cunt punched him in the head and bemoaned the gods for cursing him with two lackwits instead of just the one.

Aye, the cheek on Jon Umber to want his Pa brought on the trip with them. Never mind that Uncle Mors barely pulled his head out of his arse enough to mind him most days. Never mind that it was the man's own girl that Pa was trying to get back when he got his head bashed in so hard he was left simple. Jon didn't care how many 'reassuring' smacks he got from either old arsehole, nothing was gonna convince him that keeping Pa out of sight was for the best. Pa was still a man, wasn't he? He could still swing an axe, couldn't he? He still had strength enough to bend old Hoarfrost into a knot, didn't he?

Nothing was gonna convince Jon that Old Crowfood wasn't bitter over his Pa either, being a 'mere' castellan and all. He never missed the looks on Uncle Mors' one-eyed mug whenever they got Uncle Hother's books and letters. Pa was always so happy, just like a young boy excited at mail from an adventuring older brother… but then his face would fall when he was reminded that he couldn't read no more. Or even remember anything for any span worth a damn. And those moments when Ben Umber had a flash of his old wits, when he realised what he lost and broke down weeping, those were the worst.

Maybe it's for the best Pa didn't come, Jon thought glumly. What kind of son was grateful to see his father so done in? But those were the only times when he was left to hold his Pa instead of being slapped over the head and sent off to do shit duties for 'coddling' him.

The one time the Old Cunt tried to pull Jon away was the only time Jon recalled that his Pa went mad mad. Almost killed old Lord Hoarfrost. His own father. One-handed. Then Pa broke down and wept in his arms and-

"Are you deaf, boy?" Hoarfrost Umber slapped the back of his head. Jon felt it even though his layers of fur and helmet. Fuck. "I said go and watch them snow huts being made. Or would you rather help Muff build ours?"

"Piss off, old man, I already know how." But he went and obeyed anyway because it let him throw his sticks and skis right in the Old Cunt's face as he left.

Also because Big Muff made his butt clench. Jon still didn't understand why the Old Cunt had taken him on, instead of letting him rot with the rest of the Dreadfort lowlives. Jon damn near took him for kin early on, that's how big and broad he was, but then the lump turned around and he didn't have no hair on him, not even on his eyebrows. Freak slathered himself in pig grease and shaved himself baby-smooth every damned week, and not just above the neck either. And then there was the really nutty stuff Jon wished he didn't have to stumble on.

Never trust no man that pisses like a woman, that's all he had to say.

The days that followed, they picked up the pace. Lord Stark seemed to have decided they could be trusted not to break their fool necks so he drove them as fast as they could manage on those skis of his. Well, theirs. Making and learning their use for themselves had been the first thing Lord Rickard ordered when he came up from the west. Jon came around to them right proper. Them boards let you travel right quick in winter time, as fast as riding a palfrey in summer. At least. And that was just the basics.

Which was good because they weren't going straight home. And they wouldn't be staying home neither. Lord Stark's travel plan really was all fancy and urgent-like.

They made good time to Karhold, where Rickard Karstark welcomed them on behalf of his father, who was out checking on some problem or other with the ice harvesters on the coast along the Grey Cliffs. Probably more dumb cunts that couldn't tell blue ice from the salt. They had their own share of them in the Bay of Seals. Lord Stark taught the Karhold men how to make and travel on skis while they waited for the man, including the bunch of craftsmen and apprentices and letter-knowing boys he'd sent raven ahead to order ready for travel. Well, more like he had his learned man – a Maester Mullin and his adorable little helper – do the teaching while he was holed up in the Godswood with orders that no one come near the place. He'd done the same at the Dreadfort too, and would be doing the same at every other stop thereafter. Jon didn't know Starks to be so pious, but then if his family lackwit miraculously recovered, he'd turn pious too. He'd turn pious right quick and then some.

When Lord Willam Karstark finally got back, Lord Stark lingered only so long as it took to make sure he hadn't missed anyone before having the Old Cunt lead them off to Last Hearth. Lord Karstark didn't even have time to try holding a straight line on them boards, and he didn't enjoy being lumped on the sleighs with the baggage neither. He learned right quick once they made their first stop though, so Jon figured he wasn't as big a cunt as he could've been. Mercifully, their stops otherwise passed with just a pittance of grumbling at most, and that was just the few whiners who were still worried their cocks will fall off because of the new cold training Lord Stark commanded of them. As if anyone would notice the difference! Wasn't it bad enough they were already being shown up by a Maester? A Maester! And his girly boy apprentice too! It was insulting!

They made it to Last Hearth with just one of the Karhold men dying, a farmer who done misjudged a slope and broke his neck. They made a cairn for him before moving on.

During their short stay at home, Jon stole as much time with his old man as he could. It meant they couldn't keep him quite as out of sight as the Old Cunt wanted, but fuck his shame with a gnarled dogberry. Jon even told him so to his face. Fucker should maybe think about what it means that he had to glare up at his own grandson. Then maybe Jon wouldn't have so many chances to think about how he was stronger than the Old Cunt too.

"I almost wish Lord Stark had asked the Karstarks to secure the Dreadfort instead," Jon complained to the Heart Tree that afternoon. "That way I wouldn't have had to leave Pa with just Old Crowfood."

The Heart Tree was white and ancient and had nothing to say back, as usual. Looked a lot better without the bloody tears though. And the red that used to trail down its open maw, like blood from a fresh kill. A lot less crazy. If Jon knew what difference it made to spend a few hours scrubbing off all that petrified sap, he'd've done a cleaning a long time ago.

Jon did worry he might've made a mistake though, the second time in the same hour that his father went and introduced himself to Lord Stark and started asking childish questions about the shorter man and his family as if it were the first time they met. Never mind how long they'd known each other before Pa was made a lackwit. But Lord Stark answered him seriously and patiently and gifted him one of the silver rings in his beard when Pa looked longingly at it a tad too long. The Lord smoothed out Pa's beard and put the clasp in himself too, all solemn-like.

"This way, mayhap you won't forget about me."

"Never!"

Jon was glad he was a man. Otherwise he might've cried that night when Pa Ben showed off his new favorite thing and chided him for thinking he wouldn't know who slipped it on him. "I know I'm a lackwit, but not that much of one!" Ben Umber laughed boisterously. "Who else could've done it without me noticing? The Old Man forgets I exist and One-Eye's too busy navel-gazing! 'Course it were you, my boy! Who else?"

Jon couldn't leave home fast enough.

They left westward towards the mountains, where the Wull himself met them at the pass, with his son Theo and a small group on bear paws. He took them to his longhouse and feasted their small party, accepting their gifts of flour, wine and smoked meat and gifting them in turn with wolf furs, bear furs, shadowcat hides, and the most delicious ground pork greaves that Jon had ever tasted. Lord Stark lingered for a couple of days while the Wulls learned how to make and use the skis and sticks and the new snow shoes the rest of them were using. Then they were off with the Wull and his party in tow, to met and greet and feast and exchange gifts and collect the rest of the Heads of the Clans in the Mountains. Knot, Liddle, Burley, Harclay, Norrey, they all joined up with their best fighters and craftsmen and learned men and wise women.

"Umber!" blustered Brandon Son of Brandon upon settling them in the hall of his father. "When I heard you were still a maid, I was shocked! I was sure you'd be on your third wife by now!"

"Norrey!" Jon bellowed, hauling arse to clasp arms and headbutt the smaller man because he was no maid, thank you very much! Tough skull on him, though, not gonna lie. "When I heard you still hadn't started mining all that gold, I was shocked! Was sure you'd have your own Casterly Rock by now!"

It was an open secret that Umbers weren't the first choice for betrothals because their seed made for big sprogs that often killed the women coming out. Not so open was the secret that Umber men often partook of the right of first night around the same time their women's moonblood stopped, so they could pass their bastards as trueborn children. The only reason Jon's siblings weren't around was because the difference in mother was too obvious. Pa Ben had them shipped off to find their fortunes in Essos, back before he got the blow to the head.

Also an open secret was that clan Norrey styled their banner as six poisoned thistles on gold because they had the dubious honor of being the only people in the North to have discovered gold. Dubious because the miners didn't work themselves into an early grave by age forty. Instead, they died within a year, usually after gut pains, weakness, fits of madness, and falling into a sleep they never woke up from again. The few goblets and coins cast from the gold killed people the same way too, including the Norrey himself at the time. That had been during the first century of Stark rule.

Fortunately, no one got poisoned at the feast or after.

Or cursed.

That they could tell.

… They'd see in a month or five.

Their much increased party came out the other side of the mountains to be received by the First Flints. The Flint turned out to be just twenty-three, barely older than Jon's own eighteen. Torghen Flint, a stout man with red-knuckled hands as big as hams. Quite respectable by Jon's standards. The Old Flint had died not long before on a 'hunt.' They'd found him gutted near a bear with its neck snapped – old madman had actually been the one walking away from that fight! Flint went and actually feasted them on some of the meat saved from that very beast before they finally moved on and left the Mountains altogether.

Jon was glad, even if he wouldn't admit it. It was fucking cold up there! How Lord Stark and his 'Maester' endured it in barely any layers, Jon hadn't the foggiest. Even with all the training they were all still going through. And did he mention that 'Maester' Mullin spent his mornings spanking their arses one after another? Three out of three? At their own weapons? 'Maester' Mullin, what a croc of shit!

The look on the Old Cunt's face, though, when the good 'Maester' made him kiss in his own arse print? Delicious.

They didn't enter the Wolfswood, instead taking the coastal path so they could still ski on and not lose their progress. They made it to Deepwood Motte without incident, save Norrey spraining his ankle and having to be lugged around on one of the dog sleighs. The look on his face wasn't bad either.

Lord Jeor Mormont and his group from Bear Island were waiting with the Glovers in Deepwood Motte when they arrived. After the usual two day stay, they went on. Again they took the long way around, circling the Wolfswood along the foot of Sea Dragon's Point, then going round the edge all the way to Torrhen's Square, the home of House Tallhart where the Ryswells of the Rills, Dustins of Barrowton, Reeds of Greywater Watch, and the Flints of Flint's Finger were already gathered. And that was the last stop before they all set off for Winterfell, where the Manderlys, Hornwoods and Flints of Widow's Watch were already waiting for them.

Once past Castle Cerwyn, they came upon the most peculiar baggage train just a day out of Winterfell, driven on some of the strangest wheelbarrows he'd ever seen, with one big wheel in the middle. He dismissed them at first, seeing as one was broke and got whoever was in charge to call the whole thing to a halt. He ate his own thoughts later though, when he saw it catching up to them barely hours after they caught sight of Winterfell themselves, despite cutting across the hills on skis. Come to think of it, those wheelbarrows were carrying much more baggage than any one man should be able to push or pull alone. How much faster could armies move with those things? How fast coud they resupply?

Jon spent the final stretch in something of a tired haze. Then an altogether different daze from how much his head kept turning. Lord Stark hadn't shared why he'd come out collecting his principal bannermen on such short notice. The Old Cunt thought it was probably to dismantle the Bolton lands into smaller chunks between them. Either that or because of the whole Citadel cock-up – the Old Cunt was right pissed that Uncle Hother hadn't come home to take over for old Danner, even though the Maester hadn't been no traitor far as any of them could tell. Seeing how much was happening at Winterfell, though, and Cerwyn before that…

Unfortunately, Jon couldn't even think about it proper because of all the venerable greybeards around him. Jon really wanted the trip to be over so he could go on a bender and pass out for a while. He liked himself some good company, but these wiser-than-thou old men, Gods! The Mountain men were fine, but the others were damn too curious and envious of House Umber's great 'honor' in being the ones entrusted with the stewardship of the old Red Kings' castle.

He'd like to see them spend just a handspan's worth of time down in that secret dungeon, with its darkness, its stench, its walls lined pink with human skin, the framed cunts, the pickled cocks, the stuffed skins and carcasses of people who were splitting images of almost every one of them jealous high lords. Karstark, Hornwood, Glover, Dustin, Tallhart, Ryswell, even the Old Cunt himself, they all had doubles in that oh so rosy gallery. Fuck, Jon couldn't be sure there weren't any stuffed men in there that weren't just doubles, considering the many Bolton wives in there, not to mention how far back the gallery went once you got past the newest collection. Every High Lord of the North Jon could think of was in there, save Lord Stark himself.

"He was building up and waiting for the right specimen to immortalise," Lord Rickard had said, not even a crick in his jaw as Jon was struggling to keep his guts from spilling out through his nose. "Living vicariously comes with rather exacting standards, I've found."

Fucking Starks and their fucking ice for blood.

Then again, Jon spoke too soon. Thought, anyway. He hadn't met the little Stark yet. Then he did and there was nobody in the whole world that could stop him from having his bender after that.

Jon Umber woke up under the unfamiliar ceiling of the unfamiliar bedroom in some unfamiliar townhouse of some unfamiliar townsman whose son was not entirely unfamiliar after all the meet and greet of the previous day and night. Which he still remembered. Vaguely. Part way.

"Lord Jon." Maester Luwin looked even younger up close as he briskly took a seat at his bedside. "Any pain? Breathing problems? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"… My jaw hurts and my head's pounding, I've got the mother of all hangovers, the air smells like arse and I need to piss like a horse, how's that?"

"Drink this water, the bad air is from the pig sty you inhabited after the last drunken brawl – your fourth, I believe – and the outhouse is at the back if you're good enough to walk."

Jon groaned sitting up and drank the water and – wait, a pig sty? This late in winter? They had enough of them in use that he could just stumble into one? Wait a second. "… What about my jaw?"

"That would be my father, on whose behalf I already asked and received clemency so you may not seek retribution." Luwin prodded Jon's jawbone through his beard. Jon winced. "Nothing broken. You've strong bones, my lord."

"Damn' right."

"Drink."

He drank the second mug of fresh snowmelt, then a third before he felt like his bladder was about to burst. He hurried downstairs as fast as his pounding skull let him, was in the outhouse long enough that the pounding faded completely, then staggered back inside in search of warmth and his boots. He found the former but not the latter, and the Maester wasn't anywhere either. Looking around, he got as far as wondering if it was really a smallfolk that owned a trunk so fancy before it finally occurred to him to wonder how he'd even gotten there. He'd gone on a bender, that was right enough, but he didn't actually remember any of it. Or what all happened leading up to it. Which meant it worked right good, but fuck if the Old Cunt wasn't gonna tan his hide like he was ten years younger.

Following the noise, he found a second exit. This one didn't lead to the road either, instead opening into a large yard shared with the house next door, with a smithy smack in the middle. A large, open smithy that was also half a workshop for… pretty much everything he'd seen worked on at home and then some. The Maester's pa was one of them jumped up blacksmiths, it looked like. Wait, didn't them grey rats swear off all family ties?

Grudgingly glad for Lord Stark's training that let him ignore the cold nipping at him, Jon breathed deep and long like he was taught, just ten times to get the tingling started, then went out and approached the two, no, three people working there. He'd've thought it was some apprentice or partner in trade before he saw the getup. The smith in his leather apron and headscarf looked same-ish in the face as the Maester, so he could see the family connection. Jon's jaw trobbed at the sight of the man's arms. And fists. Damn, very respectable by his standards.

The third man was right weird though. Short, squat, extremely respectable fists and arms, and and a face that looked about to bite your head off. The stranger had the same robe as Luwin, which belatedly made Jon take it in properly. It wasn't so much a robe as a coat, made of thick grey wool and long enough to reach the ankles, slit at the back for riding and open at the front, tied with black cotton lace above the waist. The Maester's upper sleeve was lined in metal links of chain set in the fabric, each half-way on top of the next like many-colored scales.

If Luwin had scales on one arm, though, the other Maester was wearing a whole mail. His grey coat shimmered even in the shade of the winter dawn, glinting in many colors from wrist to shoulder and from waist to neck every time the smith stepped on his bellows, causing the forge to spew flame and sparks into the air.

Jon came to a stop just as the shorter man finished working a link of grey steel into Luwin's sleeve. It had special pleats sewn in, Jon realised.

"There you go," the short one grunted with satisfaction and maybe a smidgen of pride. "May it be the first of many."

"I'll drink to that!" the smith called from his workbench as Luwin murmured his thanks.

"And who do we have here?" The short man turned to behold Jon. "Well now, you're a big one. Actually, that's right auspicious! I'm Marwyn, Seneschal of the Crown of Winter Institute of Learning up in yonder keep. How's your arm? Any strength worth a damn?"

"I can show you if you like," Jon growled, offended. "Where do you want the punch?"

"Well, if you'd caught me yesterday I'd have said the underside of my right cheekbone, but you missed your chance." Eh? "As is, I'm not so much interested in how deep you can stick it as I am in how smoothly you can pull out."

Fuck japes. Base ones too. Maybe he should give the man pointers.

That's how Jon wound up sitting on the shortest stump he'd ever sat in, poking around the squat man's mouth with something straight out of a Bolton's randy fancies and now he couldn't even handle holding a measly pair of tongs because of those dead fucks, fuck the Boltons.

Framed cunts and pickled cocks flashed through his mind.

Actually no, that's wrong. No one fuck the Boltons. Ever. Let'em die.

The thought stirred something at the back of his head, but not remembering whatever memory he'd bendered his way out of remembering was the whole point of going on a bender. He focused on Marwyn's instructions and set about yanking stuff out of the madman's mouth with these new 'forceps' things.

And so Jon Umber yanked. And tugged. And jerked. And wrenched as hard as he could, and then again. And again and again and again and – "Alright, really?" Jon gasped the twentieth time he yanked on the baddest tooth buried in the ugliest swelling he'd ever seen without loosening it even a bit. "Are your gums made of rock or something? What the bloody fuck is your jaw made of?"

"Better stuff than yours, clearly," Marwyn grumbled after taking the forceps away and looking at them. "Well, at least they're not bent this time."

"Or broken," Luwin sighed. "Any pain, Master?"

Master? Not maester? What's this?

"Plenty, but I've had worse. Ever told you of my time as a shadowbinder's thrall? The fucking was so-so, but having your blood sucked out through your pores, now that's pain."

What had he just heard?

But Marwyn wasn't even looking at him, instead digging through some pouch at his belt for something which he broke a piece of and held out. "Here. Eat this. Maybe then you can put your back into it."

"I ain't having no funny mushrooms."

Marwyn tsked. "Right where the Maester of Winterfell can bear witness. You should replace the giant on your banner with a chicken."

"Fuck you, Maester."

"Come come, Umber. I do get off on power, but you barely rate higher than your uncle."

Jon gaped. What!? That fucker! He didn't dare! Uncle Hother was no pillow biter! Any rumors about that whore he gutted were terrible, vicious lies!

Somehow, though, he got talked around to eating whatever it was. And because food didn't digest all that quick, he got roped into hauling charcoal and coal as well. Oh, if only the Old Cunt could see him now, playing the lowborn apprentice. Hoarfrost Umber would not be happy, if just because he wasn't the one who ordered it. The Others take all three of these cunts, Jon wasn't happy, but what was he supposed to do? He wasn't gonna be made out to be a coward in front of Lord Stark's eyes and ears. He wasn't no moron, nobody that young snagged a post like that without being the most devious fucker this side of the Neck.

Then Jon was back on his little stump clamping the forceps on that there wisdom tooth and he pulled. He tugged. He jerked. He yanked. He wrenched. He saw red, hauling arse out of his seat, pushing the squashed cunt's head back, gripping the tongs in his other hand so hard the tooth creaked and then he wrenched it right- "Get the fuck OUTTA THAT BOIL YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

The big, square tooth burst out of gum and mouth with a spray of rank pus.

He did it! HE DID IT! HE TORE THAT CUNT TOOTH OUT OF THAT BITCH ARSE MOUTH LIKE THE BITCH IT WAS! WHO'S NEXT!? YOU? YOU! YOU FUCKING CUNT YOU'RE THE ONE WHO PUNCHED ME IN THE JAW COME GET SOME!

"-. 274 AC .-"

"I'll pay you back."

"Yes you will. For my torn robe. And the half my links that I lost. And all the soft foods I'll have to eat until my guts stop trying to dribble out my nose."

"I'll pay your pa back too."

"Yes you will. For his black eye. And broken jaw. And dislocated arm. And my medicine. And the time lost on work and business while he recovers. And the soft foods he'll have to eat until he doesn't see stars every time he tries to chew something. And the fence. And the wall. And the outer wall. And the fire. And mother's glory box that you threw at him and is now kindling for the smelter along with every last of her special sheets and pillows and the wedding dress I'd only just finished de-mothing. And my mother's spinning wheel, which was our final proof of concept and therefore a priceless heirloom before you ruined it. And everything else on the exhaustive list I'll provide this very evening, while witnessed by as many maesters and lords as I can find besides himself Lord Stark."

Jon Umber wilted.

"Now that's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Marwyn said brightly, sounding far too cheerful for someone who'd had his nose broken. Again. The Archmaester hadn't stopped gleefully fondling his shit tooth, nor did it seem like he would any time soon despite having to spit out gobs of the foulest pus imaginable every other turn in the road. "It were me that fed him that mushroom. Poor lad had no idea! He's just a victim of an evil, devious old man that done preyed on the poor little boy!" Excuse him!? "I'll send the first payment tomorrow. That's the honourable thing, yes? You northmen are big on that up here."

"I'm not talking to you," Luwin groused.

"Oh woe is me! To be cursed with such a cruel apprenti-is that the Young Lord?"

Eh?

Brandon Stark was rappelling down Winterfell's wall.

Jon Umber stopped, mouth agape.

He blinked, astounded. Reality, being the utter cunt she so loved to be, didn't stop being reality just because it didn't make no godsdamned sense.

Was there no one watching that child? Wait, no, there was. And they were helping him! The biggest lunk Jon had ever seen outside his own blood was the one giving him the rope to burn his arse on! And there was a right fancy guardsman right next to him, just holding his face in his hands and not doing anything! What the fuck?

Jon didn't notice all the other people that went and stopped to gawk around them until Luwin nudged him in the side. He hurried along before the crowd squashed them. They were all cheering, the dumb fucks. Didn't they realise their child lord could fall and break his fool neck?

He did fall. Leapt off the wall right onto the naked back of a black stallion that came out of nowhere and swept him forth to cut the path of a second, far less impressive horse, sending its rider nearly falling out of his saddle with a yelp as the animal reared to a stop in the middle of the market.

Luwin facepalmed.

"Well!" Marwyn said blithely as they resumed their walk nearer to the side of the road. "That'll solve the muttering about the Young Lord's bravery or I'm the God-King of Ib." What's this now? "You missed old Hus so you wouldn't have heard. Turns out there are some people – quite a few actually – that're right worried over the Young Lord not beheading anybody yet. They're glad he ain't no lackwit, sure enough, but a craven isn't all that better, looks like."

"You don't say."

"There was a rape while Lord Stark was off south," Luwin explained. "The Young Lord tried him, heard the case against him, even offered to hear any case for him – which the raper's mother went and provided with much passion, if not all that much sense – then instead of sentencing him he tossed him in the dungeon. Some people think he didn't technically pronounce a sentence so he needn't swing the sword so young. On the other hand, everyone knows that's why he didn't pass the sentence, so is he craven? That's what some are asking. Including my father's business partner, who never lets me hear the end of it when our visits happen to overlap."

"Doesn't help he hadn't been to no executions before either." Marwyn gargled and swished mouthfuls from his wineskin. When he spat out, it looked like the splatter of rotted whale blood. "Already eleven years and not one rolling head to his name. Young Lord went and watched the man get shortened when his father came back, right enough, but boys start a lot younger 'round these parts, or so I've heard."

Jon had seen his first execution when he was seven. Jon also recalled something about a Stark that became Lord Commander of the Night's Watch at age ten.

"Right," Jon cast about for a change in topic. "This whole jumping off walls business-"

"Oh don't get me started," groaned Winterfell's Maester, briefly cradling his forehead before the bumping commoners cured him of it right and proper. "Did you know Winterfell is a maze? Because it is. It's a grey stone labyrinth of walls and towers and courtyards and tunnels spreading out in all directions. In the older parts of the castle, the halls slant up and down so that you can't even be sure what floor you're on. The place has grown over the centuries like some monstrous stone tree, one whose branches are gnarled and thick and twisted, its roots sunk deep into the earth. You'd think that would get a boy excited about skittering through tunnels in the deep to dig for treasure, but no. Brandon Stark, as always, has a better idea than everyone else in the world, that being to get out from under it all and scramble up near the sky. Says he likes the way it looks, spread out beneath him, only birds wheeling over his head while all the life of the castle goes on below. When he fancies to write or draw something, he perches for hours among the shapeless, rain-worn gargoyles that brood over the First Keep. Our First Keep, where we're supposed to set up our new Citadel. Have you ever woken up to the sight of a stripling climbing over your window? I don't recommend it. I swear he does it on purpose. Windowsills are one thing, but the best handholds aren't anywhere near there otherwise!"

Jon carefully didn't say anything as Maester Luwin went and got more than started. Instead, he tried to imagine it. And when he realized he hadn't seen enough of Winterfell for it, he instead imagined himself standing on top of the highest tower at Last Hearth watching it all: the men drilling with wood and steel in the yard, the cooks tending their cauldrons and the gardens, restless dogs running back and forth in the kennels, the silence of the godswood, the girls gossiping beside the washing well. Just the picture of it made him feel like the lord of the castle, in a way he doubted even the Old Cunt would ever know.

"It wouldn't be such a task to keep my poor heart from giving out before its time if not for all the secrets it teaches him. None of the builders up to the Builder himself ever leveled the earth – there are hills and valleys behind the walls of Winterfell, you must have seen it. But it's not enough that he knows that, no, whatever he's learned of the keep is beyond anything I've been able to puzzle together. Possibly beyond anything I'll ever piece together, knowing my luck. Since we arrived and helped him finish his last pressing business, he's taken to popping out from literally everywhere. I don't even want to know how he gets on top of the Broken Tower."

"There's two ways, so far," Brandon Stark said as they finally reached him.

How had he even heard them? Jon could barely hear him.

"You can climb straight up the side of the tower itself." Brandon Stark spoke with the air of someone indulging in some secret jape. "The stones are loose, though, and the mortar that held them together has long gone to ash. They don't take my full weight well anymore."

"They shouldn't have to take your weight at all!" Luwin said in exasperation. "Has my predecessor soured you so totally, My Lord? Does my peace of mind mean so little to you?"

"An excellent if transparent emotional argument," Brandon Stark replied as his garishly dressed kinsman disappeared back through the gates, corralled back into Winterfell by another kinsman much older than all of them. Dark hair, long face, respectable height if you didn't have giant blood, how many Starks actually were there? "The one where you offered to make a pottery version of me to throw off the tower was better."

"And useless," Luwin groaned.

"Only because I saw it coming," Lord Brandon 'reassured' him. "If the narrative convention hadn't materialised, I might not have followed through on my off-handed 'let's see if I can climb as well as my namsake' plan."

"Oh, you are not blaming this on me!" The Maester told his lord with shocking rudeness. "You've no namesake as mad as all that in all of House Stark's history, and the world is no song or story! Has your Lord Father still not impressed that enough?"

"Ah, but testing how much life wants to be like certain songs and stories is the whole point."

Jon looked over at the half-ruined monstrosity that was tall enough to somehow be seen over the wall from even that close.

"The best way is to start from the godswood," Brandon Stark continued as if there had been no break in the topic at all. "You shinny up the tall sentinel tree there, cross over the armory and the guards' hall, and leap roof to roof – barefoot so the guards don't hear you overhead. That brings you up to the blind side of the First Keep. The renovations haven't even started proper, it's still just rats and spiders living there, and the old stones still make for good climbing. You can go straight up to where the gargoyles lean out blindly over empty space, and swing from gargoyle to gargoyle, hand over hand, around to the north side. From there, if you really stretch, you can reach out and pull yourself over to the broken tower where it leans close. The last part is the scramble up the blackened stones to the eyrie, but that's really just a measly ten feet. Hardly a problem. Especially now that there's no crows left to come and mob you to see if you've brought any corn. Or at least that's what they want you to think."

As he beheld the young boy ahorse next to him, Jon Umber was struck by his shameless manner almost as much as he was by his appearance. Not so much his looks – Starks all looked the same when you got down to it – but his clothing. It was nothing like he'd ever seen. The boy wore a black vest of some new cut, all black but with golden lace decorating the front top to bottom with braided cord trim in gold, with silver buttons and bright white at the cuffs and the upright band collar. His hands were covered in black moleskin gloves, and his legs in long black trousers and shined leather boots, also black. Over it all, he bore a coat vaguely like the one the Maesters had, but made of fine suede that flapped in the winter breeze. It was also black, save for the direworlf stitched on the back in silver thread, the golden fringed straps on the shoulders, and the buttons – silver again, cast with direwolf heads, undone to the last as if the cold didn't bother him none. And there were small folds on his right shoulder where a number of chain links like those of the Maesters sat, neatly stacked like scales of black, grey, gold, brass-green, copper-red and silver.

"Don't you all expect me to start throwing coins!" Brandon Stark suddenly told the commoners who'd gathered in a right thicket around them.

Jon eyed the smallfolk cautiously. He only had a knife on him but his fists should still do fine.

"Please let us pass, unless there's anyone here with a positively unhealthy obsession with having more booze every day than the last? You, the man with the raised hand. You should talk to friends and family about that, wanting booze more than water is a sickness of the mind you know! In the mean time, though, the Archmaester here will be needing a taster for his stills, do you have a job? What about trouble, are you a trouble maker? Angry drunk? Of course you'll answer no. Anyone can vouch for you? Well now, those are quite a few hands, you must be a killer at parties, you a bard or a fool? Never mind, here." The boy took a notebook out of some pocket or other, wrote down something with a fancy pen, ripped out the page and passed it to the suddenly awkward-looking man. "Take this to the jobs overseer, directions are on the note – can you read? No. Alright, is there anyone here who knows the place? Right, take him there and get him started on that, you're a kind woman you are, here's a moon for your trouble. That will be all, thank you everyone!"

The people got out of their way with heartfelt well wishes and many backslaps to the lucky man who was either hungover or still drunk from last night, now that Jon had the chance to look at him.

"Jon Umber."

"Berk, Berk, Berk!" Jon flinched and glared at the cackling raven as it flew off the roof nearby. Dumb bird, that was not how you pronounced his name!

"From the look on your face, I'm assuming you don't remember our meeting yesterday, and likely nothing after that either." Brandon Stark pat his horse. The stallion obediently set off at a slow amble, no spurs, no saddle, no reins, no nothing.

"… Aye."

"Well, nothing to it then. You'll find out at the funeral."

Funeral? There was going to be a funeral?

"By the way, this is Ser Neigh."

"What?" Jon felt staggered by yet another shift in topic. "Ser What?"

"Nay."

"Ser Nay?"

"Not Nay. Neigh. You behold Himself, His Chtonic Magnificence, the Grim Darkness, the Shadow Never Once Cast by Sun and Stars, Lord of the Empty Night, Ser Neighs-A-Lot."

Oh, just take his head off now and be done with it.

"He says hello."

"… Hello."

The horse snuffled him.

Right.

The Others take all of today.

Jon Umber submitted to the cruel hand of fate and wound up attending a funeral. A solemn funeral. A funeral attended by everyone who was anyone in Winterfell. Which seemed to be a lot more people than he expected, but then again there was a lot more of everything than he expected. The number of armed men about the place was some eight times bigger than what he thought was the number of Winterfell guards in peacetime. Some looked patchy though, in both get and appearance. Garish even. So did the representatives from the other noble houses, great and small, of which there were far more than had come with their group. More than he knew existed. There was a fairly big crowd indeed gathered for the funeral. A funeral in the Winterfell lichyard.

A funeral for Big Muff.

"What the fuck?" Jon muttered as he entered on the heels of his small future liege lord. "No really, what the fuck?"

"By your leave, My Lord, we'll go take our places."

"You have it, Archmaester. Luwin, you'll stand with the household."

"Understood."

The maesters went ahead of them while Jon was still reeling from what he was seeing.

Everyone was there. Bunch of Winterfell menials. Them High Lords that Lord Stark came and collected, all of them on one side of the freshly dug grave, wearing their best getup. Even Lady Lyarra was there on a palanquin, flanked on either side by her youngest son and daughter. Across from them were the maesters of the new Citadel, all of them wearing those same woolen coats with metal chain links set into their sleeves. All of them including his uncle Hother, whose flinty eyes lingered on him briefly but otherwise stood like a tall sentry with his long dark beard and face as hard as winter frost. All of them to a man lined up on the other side of the pit and the open coffin above it. All save one.

The last was hanging back near the entrance that Jon had just been led through, looking just about ready to fall to pieces while Lord Stark loomed over him, dressed like a forbidding god in attire similar to his son's, except twice as fancy and with the coat changed for a large black cloak lined with fur as white as snow. Only that wasn't what he was doing, was it? Looming. Not like that.

"Are you sure you don't want to speak any words?"

"I can't, Lord Stark, I can't. I just can't." Tybald Snow looked like he was half a step away from crying himself to death. "I can't-just looking at him is-he just smiled when he saw me and then he-he-he looked happy, how can anyone-I know why but-I can't be anywhere near him, I just can't!"

"Hush now, shh, you don't need to do anything." The Lord Stark went and pulled the young man into a hug, his cloak almost completely hiding him from sight like a direwolf of silver and gold stars imposed on the night sky. "Can you stand here, then? With me?"

"I'll try," the young lad gasped thickly. "I'll try."

Jon Umber watched as Tybald Snow fell to a thousand pieces, unable to look away. Slivers of memory pricked at the insides of his skull, skewering his brain every time they bumped against his thoughts like washed up flotsam in the Bay of Seals.

"The late Lord Bolton, it turns out, had a type," Brandon Stark said as Hoarfrost Umber stepped forward to give the most awkward, bewildered eulogy Jon had ever heard in his entire life. "The type that makes it hard for the third leg to get up without taking certain liberties, let's say. Taking them away, I mean. From other people. Very specific people of very specific bodily attributes. A hunt here. A rape there. A spot of torture for flavor. All three of them back to back for the entirety of so and so's wedding night. Sometimes he even remembered the supposed point of availing himself of new couples, instead of losing himself in planning how to debase and stuff the remains of the people he thought were his rightful subjects. Occasionally, he even overcame his resentment over having to settle for body doubles enough to stick it in the bride before he went all soft. Skip nine months and change and, well, here we are."

"Muff was the father," Jon breathed. "The stepfather." But that didn't feel right-

"Oh no, the groom killed himself the day after. Didn't cope well with being raped, you see, never mind everything else. As I said, Lord Bolton had a type." The eleven year-old boy didn't seem to care that the biggest, strongest man in the North was staring down at him in jaw-dropping horror. "He did manage to switch from groom to bride at least once though, thus…" The boy gestured briefly where his father was holding and consoling the poor bastard. "The mother didn't last long herself, but she did power through until her son's weaning before she threw herself into the Weeping Water during the springmelt. The man over there was her father. The kind, self-assured grandfather that took in her girl's boy and raised him as his own with all the love and care and firm guidance that neither of his parents would have had it in them to show even if they had lived."

Jon was starting to remember, now. What happened the prior day. The long and merry meet and greet with ten times as many people as he'd expected, including his own half-brothers from Essos, before it all came to a crashing halt when some lad came screaming bloody murder about House Umber's newest dogsbody. There was shock, yelling, stomping half-way across the keep, more yelling. And then there was a wretchedly clear image shoving its way into the spot behind Jon's eyes. Big Muff laid out on the ground, smile on his bald head while the frenzied half-maester was wrist-deep in the blood pooling from the knife stabbed in Muff's heart.

"His name was Andric, did you know? A farmer, sometimes lumberjack, sometimes fisherman, and veteran of the Ninepenny war. Big man. Had some Umber blood from one of your forebears that went and knocked up some lass during a name day feast or whatnot. A good, stout, fierce man and loving father. Up until the Lord Bolton made his second visit. The late Lord took exception to the example the man was setting for his bastard son, or so it's figured. Might be he just hit all the right spots. Either way, turns out flaying a man's cock off one strip of flesh at a time can break even the biggest, strongest, fiercest man until you can remake him into whatever you want. And making an eight-year-old boy watch, watch some more, and then participate, will let you make him into whatever you want too."

And then Bolton died out of nowhere, the boy got brought back North by what might not have been coincidence, Jon's grandfather decided to take the man in out of pity – or more, Jon thought as he recalled what he first thought on sight of the man – only for the two to end up laying eyes on each other in Winterfell.

At which point the old man killed himself right in front of his boy.

But Jon hadn't seen it that way. He'd assumed the worst and pulled his sword on the lad. Which, as he belatedly recalled, was why he didn't have it during his drinking binge. Or now.

He remembered something else too, now. Brandon Stark on the roof of the firewood shed. Glaring quellingly down at him while stroking the feathers of some raven or other that had gone and pecked at Jon's face just as he was about to-

"Lord Bolton was fair scholar of language too, but I think I'll let you find out for yourself why he got fixated on the man's name. It's quite enlightening." Brandon Stark looked at him. His grey eyes seemed made of quicksilver that burned like cold stars as they reflected the snowglare like it didn't bother him at all. "You didn't really think I'd let it go with you absconding into the sweet embrace of forgetfulness, did you? You pulled a sword yesterday, no by your leave, no nothing. Terrible idea up here in Winterfell where my father is king, I can attest personally. Have you found the right words for that now, my lord? Or will you be missing the meeting of the Lords as well?"

Jon Umber almost couldn't hold the gaze of his future liege lord who looked back as if it wasn't fucking terrifying what all kinds of horror had come spewing out of the mouth of a boy of barely eleven years. "…I may have made a mistake."

"Quite." Brandon Stark smiled mildly. And commanded. "Don't break guest right. Ever."

Jon Umber stared after the eleven year-old boy as he strode forward to stand next to his siblings.

Fucking Starks and their fucking ice for blood!

But then, that's why they paid homage unto them, didn't they? They were their icy gods that took the winter for their own so that the rest of them could make some life in the other three seasons, wasn't that what Pa said? Bard's truth was still truth, wasn't it? Some shape of it.

When Jon's grandfather was finished, Lord Stark carefully led Tybald Snow to the front and kept him under his protection as the boy stooped to grab and throw the first handful of dirt into the grave, sobbing fat, ugly tears all the while.

"I'm proud of you, lad."

Tybald Snow just made a wretched noise, clung to the man under his cloak and refused to come out.

Jon's chest grew tight. Lord Stark was a good man.

He quietly went to stand next to the Old Cunt-

Muff didn't just mean bungle, Jon realized suddenly. Muff also meant cunt.

Bolton had flayed a man's cock off until he turned lamebrained, remade him into the closest thing to a woman anyone could be without a cunt, took him as his personal dogsbody, and named him Big Cunt.

He almost didn't manage to swallow back the vomit before it spewed out all over the Lady Stark and the little ones.

"-. 274 AC .-"

The meeting of the high men and learned men that followed the unexpected funeral, and which everyone jumped to have as soon as possible if only to distract themselves from the sick fuckery they'd just seen buried, wasn't a meeting about the Bolton lands. That was already decided without them. All they had to do was stand there and nod and say aye in all the right places as Lord Stark went and attainted House Bolton right there over the fresh grave, its best possible claimant clinging to him and tearfully disavowing his blood all the while.

They stood and witnessed and said aye in all the right places and otherwise shut their bitch arse mouths.

The lands would be broken apart in many smaller domains, some of which would go to branch houses founded by the ones returning from Essos. They would even get to replace what troublemakers got culled during the spring war games, which would be more thoroughly planned in the coming days (and might become a regular thing?). Whether or not a new overlord would be assigned again at some point, the Lord Stark said neither aye nor nay to. Jon would've thought Lord Stark was holding the place for when Tybald was ready, but seemed not. His granduncle then? Or his cousin Osrick that was at least able enough to attend the meet? Not that other lad that went and made a fool of himself in the market earlier, surely?

Maybe little Ned? That's what Jon would've thought in a sane world.

But then, in a sane world, the meeting of the high men and learned men that followed the unexpected funeral would've been the turning point in Jon Umber's life. Especially since it had proof and witnesses and vouchsafers in the shape of that new Master of Silverpine Tower. Not to mention the Cerwyns and some three thousand northmen returned from Essos. And everything happening outside the walls of Winterfell, that too. Hells, just one of them Winterfell Wonders should've been the turning point in his life, and the life of the whole North for that matter. Jon didn't need to have seen the faces of everyone half an hour into it, to know they all had the same thoughts as him.

Winterstone, summerstone, paper, glass (better than the Myrish!), postholers, drills, screws, hard hats, running water, wheel saws, band saws, chain saws, mechanical looms, spinning wheels, spinning jennies, spinning frame and flying shuttle for thread mills, wheel-powered everything, blast furnaces that could make iron by the cartload and the start of an idea to make something like it for steel. Two or three of them could have changed their way of life. Hells, the trip hammer upended blacksmithing all by itself. All of them together? They'd needed a whole new word for it. And they got it. Industry. Industry that was all just materials and tools for the real stuff.

Ice fishing that didn't kill you overnight, maple sugar, beet sugar, soybeans, stone harvesters and buriers that could turn poor land into farmland, the latter doubled as a harvester for one of the two new crops that could each make the North self-sufficient all on their own again, new farming techniques and tools that could improve existing crop yields tenfold (tenfold!). Hedge plows, planters, crop lifters, threshers, seed drills, and Gods knew what else would come out of the woodwork in the future (tenfold! At least!). And did he mention that the fucking crannogmen were probably going to feed the whole North by themselves by this time next summer? Rice! Where the fuck had that crop been all this time? What dog shit! Also, fuck the Reach! And fuck the Riverlands too!

Cast iron stoves, portable camp stoves made of steel sheets that weighed practically nothing (not plates, sheets), a portable melting foundry (Squatmaester Nutter had made it up so he could work on them dentistry horrors on the go), handle-turned choppers, mashers and grinders, canning that outlasted potting six times over (at least!). Them tin cans sealed with cork and wax weren't heavy as sin either, they didn't shatter like wine bottles, they could stack into crates, they didn't shit or need to eat like goats or chickens, they didn't slow down an army on the march, they'll let ships stay on patrol for months without resupply, and nobody would die of the runs. One be ever so sorry, Maester Danner, but all them logistics you taught just turned to shit! And if they have to import cork by the shipload from the Reach? Fuck the Reach anyway! They had screw-on lids now!

Piped water, piped waterin your kitchen, piped water in your privy, new soaps, soap for your mouth, brushes for teeth, cleanliness rules explained clear enough to make some fucking sense, public baths, public steam baths, in-house privies that didn't smell somehow, birthing forceps, cure for the fucking plague, Jon couldn't even fathom how many people weren't gonna die when these things started spreading. Sprogs. Sprogs everywhere! They wouldn't die and they wouldn't have to worry about starving! Didn't look like any of those extra hands would be idle either. Haha!

The new foods weren't as many, but they were tasty as a hug from your sane and sound Pa after a winter of jerky, cheese and porridge. Wedge pies, brans (Jon bravely didn't check them for barbs), fruit candied in maple syrup, boiled rice, fried rice, boiled earth apples, soup of earth apples, baked earth apples, salted fried earth apples seasoned in rosemary and everything else under the sun (delicious!). Then Lord Stark blandly informed them that's all they were getting because they were saving the rest for planting. Oh, and they weren't going to trade them out either so they'd just have to grow their own when seeds and sprouts became available, unless they were willing to invest in so and so enterprise? It lit a fire in their bellies and then some, sure enough, because there was playing dirty and then there was House Stark.

How the fuck were they supposed to handle all this? Where had it all come from? Because most of it wasn't the half-maesters they stole, they all said so! It weren't all the Braavosi either. It was madness!

When Squatmaester Nutter mentioned he had plans for some two dozen new kinds of booze, Jon latched onto the news like one would drown their sorrows, and he wasn't the only one. Maple mead, three kinds of berry wine, just as many strongwines, the same for firewine, fire ale, ten different kinds of firewater (one for every fruit!). They called horseshit of course – even a handful was too good to be true! – but the lunatic shrugged. Said that while he didn'texpect all of them to become available immediately – they needed fermenting for months, years even, it was horrible! – earth apples were the only thing he hadn't developed a method for yet because he's a master alchemist, don't you know. As if they'd just believe him without proof! But then he had the gall to say it'd all be shit anyway because none of them could make real firewater worth the name without him having to distill it for days. He'd tried, don't you know, and they could have these little 'tumblers' and taste for themselves what even his 'best efforts' amounted to. They sneered and tasted for themselves right good and the rat bastard! Who did he think he was, insulting the Gods' own drink like that!?

They might have gotten a little worked up there.

When the war stuff came, the lords looked ready to just bend over backwards and pull their knees behind their ears so Lord Stark could have his wicked way with them and begin the next stage of their lives. Though that might just be the drink making him remember things weird-like. Unlike before, though, there were as many nutty ideas as there were good. The trebuchet would mess up forts right proper and there were ideas for an arrow 'multi-loader' that could make bowmen right terrifying (just what the legs of lasses had to do with archery, Jon hadn't the foggiest). But unless Lord Stark was keeping anything else to his chest until the 'war games,' that was it. And maybe the signalling towers. Other than the canning and everything else that would splash over of course. Those YiTish wheelbarrows would solve a lot of their travel problems too, outside snow days. Jon supposed it made sense to see the Essosi sellswords in action before they decided anything else, but he didn't see things changing much. Pike, crossbow and shovel, that's all he had to say. Well, maybe one of them 'entrenchment tools' instead, specially if they really had to dig their latrines away from camp from now on.

Maybe there was something to be said about wooden armor, least if it was made of ironwood, but linen armor just sounded insane. Though maybe it was only meant for ski scouts in winter? Lamellar was a better idea in Jon's opinion, didn't them Wolf Pack fellows use it? Them that Osrick Stark done and mentioned that one time? There might even have been something about flying fires in there somewhere, but the drink haze had been at its worst around that point. Gods, that firewater packed a punch. Or was it firewine? Fireale? Fuck, who even knew, maybe it was all three banded together to dance a jig inside his skull just for kicks. Maybe he shouldn't have drunk so much? No, that was just silly, he'd barely chugged enough for eight people!

When sailing finally got its turn at the end, the only surprise was Lord Stark's command that most of the new ideas not be implemented yet. Or, at least, implemented but not deployed. Outside the North anyhow. He wanted them to be all strategic-like.

"We haven't had much trouble in terms of southron spies, but that will change, and the seas are a different beast. I've commissioned the Maesters to perform a full assessment of the factions likely to involve themselves in the North's business," Lord Stark gestured at the maesters and acolytes seated across from them that had taken turns presenting the miracles on the mounds of paper before them. As if he even needed to justify himself. "Call it a teething job. Out of everything, the naval advancements may become our greatest tactical and strategic asset, provided we maintain the element of surprise. Since all the new goods and products will need trading, I want to get together over the coming days to discuss internal logistics instead. Chiefly, developing our rivers. Roads also, and there have been certain ideas involving rails that might mesh as well. Some focus on charting and map making would not go amiss either."

Their new fleet (and hadn't that been a surprise) and everyone on it had been snuck into the North via Widow's Watch and Ramsgate. Ser Wyman Manderly had gone and made it happen, using planning, knowledge of the routes, and some new contraption called a compass that looked like magic when he showed it off. Far as anyone knew, the thirty-one ships that left Braavos had been swallowed up by a freak winter storm on the way to White Harbor. The ships with new figureheads and paint on their sails would 'discreetly' rejoin the sea trade one at a time over the next couple of years.

"Hopefully that will be enough 'low cunning' for the southrons and Essosi not to expect many other surprises," were Lord Stark's words.

Other surprises like new shipyards. And new ships. And construction yards in the many cave river mouths dotting the coasts. Insofar as they made coin enough for it from everything else anyhow. And sheathing ships in copper, which would definitely be held back until the next war that nobody wanted to guess about because they didn't want to ruin the good mood none.

In the meanwhile, the maesters would be trying to develop a way to get location and distance based on numbers and the stars. Somehow. Sounded mad to Jon, and even the single half-maester with any knowledge of watercraft admitted they barely knew where to start there, which Lord Weyrman Manderly wryly commiserated on. But a lot of the rest had sounded mad too. There were mutterings about ways to sail against the wind, but nobody had figured out if those were actually good either. Or even possible. The only sure thing besides the compass and copper sheathing was that stacked planks bound in iron rings could be used to build masts, but that was it. Seemed that all that time in Braavos didn't gain the Rose all that much knowledge about seamanship at all, compared to everything else. Just hazy ideas with no starting point. How strange.

The reason Jon recalled that bit so vividly despite the drink haze wasn't because of what it meant but what happened right after. Namely, Squatmaester Nutter and uncle Hother hauling and dumping on the table the biggest, heaviest, most skull-cracking book Jon had ever seen, except the pages weren't bound. Instead, they were held together by brass bolts through some mighty big holes in the side. They looked made to add new pages easily. He didn't need to squint to read the words on the leather-bound whalebone cover.

The Inventory – Volume I.

"This," said Osrick Stark on behalf of himself and his unavailable uncle, sounding positively vicious. "Is going to be our ultimate defense against every last guild and their dastardly anti-competitive practices."

It was a record of everything they'd talked about, as well as a boatload of other little bits and bobs that people had come up with. The Marwyn 'bent flow' and 'septic tank,' the Luwys & Hus 'ablution array,' the Qyburn 'antiplague,' the Brandon Stark 'duck tape' (were Starks flaying things too now? Say it ain't so!). All of it was written in impossibly orderly script and drawn up in right arse-whipping detail. It turned out that someone or other had invented something called a printing press – also outlined in the Inventory somewhere – that could make books as fast as the blast furnace made iron. They were just waiting on a good enough ink, which the maesters were well on the way to perfecting out of hemp oil, of all things, or linseed oil if that didn't work. Every last one of them lords of the Great Houses would be taking copies of The Inventory with them when they left. And would be expected to coordinate with everyone else whenever someone in their land came up with something new that was good enough to put in. It would preserve and spread knowledge well into the future and then some.

And all of it would be freely accessible to every northerner who wanted to do any sort of business. Apparently, plan was that whoever got something recorded in that book was entitled to a share of the profits from whatever job or product used the same invention. Well, for the first four to ten years, and not if the other man came up with it on his own without ever consulting the Inventory to begin with. You could use the stuff in there to make whatever you wanted for yourself, but if you made it for a business or to trade, it was like as if the original creator invested into your business. You could negotiate your own deal if you got a hold of the original inventor, but it needed to be put down in writing three times, with a copy submitted to the nearest official archive.

"Plan is to restrict it to family lines that have lived in the North for at least three generations, and for access to the book to be logged by name and date," Osrick Stark continued. "So we'll know when some enterprising person owes anyone else for any sudden, lucrative ideas. Hopefully we'll have something more comprehensive in place by the time foreigners start snooping, or people start sending their friends and paid nobodies in their stead in an attempt to cheat the system. We may eventually need to provide official supervision to negotiations, but it should be some time before people start strong-arming. That said, we might want to keep some of the big strategic assets out of public knowledge for now, like the blast furnace and naval advancements, especially the compass. Maybe the antiplague as well, considering how badly a wrong cure can go. We'll need to talk it out further over the coming days to figure out exactly what can be risked and how. Finally, we're still unsure about the time until the ownership of the idea ought to expire. We're only trying to give clever folk time to make something from their ideas, not stifle everyone else who could make us money. 'One generation' seemed vague and excessive, and 'one seasonal cycle' was too inconsistent."

Jon didn't know enough to say one way or another if this was better than courting the trade guilds. They didn't seem to have harmed White Harbor none, and he thought House Stark was completely nutters for actually wanting them to compete against each other. And everyone else. And their grandmother. He'd have split everything between them if it were him, so that everyone had something to work on that nobody else did. That way it was all neat and tidy and nobody had to scramble to constantly change what they were doing and how they were doing it. Wasn't up to him though, so he didn't say anything.

Plenty others did though, and it even seemed like the high lords of a mind with Jon might carry the day. But Lord Stark put his foot down and told them flat out that everyone was getting all or nothing. If they persisted, he'd put them up to explain why so and so House was less deserving of such and such compared to them. They could talk among themselves to coordinate if they wanted, but woe betide them if he finds out about any price-fixing done at everyone else's expense.

"Or do you expect House Stark to force terms and shoulder all the resentment thereof?"

Jon seriously wondered why Lord Stark didn't just say that from the start. It made a lot more sense than the whole 'competition is good for the creation of wealth' nonsense. Honestly, 'plague killed my coin counters so I became a coin counter' was only going to carry him so far. Jon still didn't say anything though.

Nobody else did either, because it was around that point that people put their heads together going through The Inventory and started to realise just how many of them entries belonged or half-belonged to Brandon Stark.

And not the one from Essos neither.

Slowly, the eyes of all the High Men of the North turned to behold the child that had been sleeping in the chair at his father's side since damn well near the start of that get-together.

Rickard Stark laid his hand on the boy's head and gently nudged him. "Son? Take a break. There are some people here who want to talk to you."

Brandon Stark stirred, opened his eyes-

Jon Umber sat straight suddenly, blinking rapidly to- but all the booze haze in the world didn't change that those eyes glowed like snow as if they weren't no eyes at all. All around him, Jon's grandfather and all them other high men stiffened and brought their hands on the table with curses of surprise.

Or fright.

"… What-" "Fucking hells-" "Wargs, I knew it-" "Is that- "My Lord-"

Brandon Stark raised a hand.

The High Lords all shut up.

And it wasn't even to shut them up none. The boy instead reached hazily for the far window. A white raven that had also been napping all that time flew down from the rafters, unlatched the bolt and flew back to leave room for the window to open and let a pair of them black ravens in. They fluttered over to land on the lad's arm, rolled notes held in their beaks and claws.

"Four snoopers so far. Martyn's getting the last one in lockup now." The white fog cleared from Brandon Stark's eyes as he passed the first note on to his father. "Don't look like they know each other, and Cousin Rodrik vaguely recognised three of them. Probably just regular Essosi plants that got swept up in things, though we'll need to confirm with the others in the Rose. The fourth might be from the South somewhere, likely by way of White Harbor. No offense intended, Lord Weyrman."

"… None taken, My Lord."

Lord Brandon passed his father the second note. "There's one bard in the Smoking Log that doesn't know the new songs that Benjen's been stealing from under me. But he's pretty openly enthusiastic about the sheet music ours are showing him, so he's probably genuine. Which doesn't exclude him being a spy, so I'll need to look into his dreams tonight to confirm."

"I hope you'll wait for supervision this time?" Marwyn harrumphed from two seats over next to Luwin. "Please don't make me beg. I get a tad enthusiastic, or so I'm told. Honestly, they'll let just anyone dreamwalk these days."

"Your dreams terrify me more than any others I've seen in his world, Archmaester."

"Only because you don't remember them. You're lucky I'm here. Letting that sort of entrenched preoccupation fester would be trouble down the line, mark my words. Never mind everything else you've been doing before your first shorthairs. You don't want to grow up a deviant, do you My Lord? What am I saying, that's already set in steel!"

Brandon Stark ignored him. "Mother would like to know if she should have dinner brought up or if we're still leaving that for after."

Lord Stark pinched his nose. "Maester Luwin. Please articulate my opinion on this."

"Tell Lady Lyarra to get back to not doing anything strenuous. Tell her that Lord Stark's standing orders are sufficiently comprehensive to handle that particular matter, and every other she might, entirely mistakenly, assume would not survive without her input. And tell her that our supply of pickled horseradish remains superabundant."

"So. Later then." Brandon Stark jotted a quick note, gave it to one of the ravens and his eyes flared white again. Both ravens flew back out the window. "I'm shaking my head no right now and… there we go, message received. She's annoyed but doing as you said. I'm leading Benjen to her too, and Walder to fetch my guitar. Ben's already better at it than I am so he'll keep her entertained until we go attend grandnuncle – and there's Lyanna too. Oh well, Mother can have her."

… What the everloving flying axeshaft up the Night's King's blue pucker was even happening anymore!?

Was it the drink? It was the drink wasn't it? He'd chugged it on top of quite a bit of ale and strongwine too. Aye, that made sense.

"Not strictly relevant, Luwys and Hus were designing a glass lamp for my nameday before the whole drama this morning. It's going to have a curved mirror to focus all the light into something strong enough to read by. They've been talking to the blowers to mold the glass sides all fancy. Maybe pair it with glass baubles shaped like a mother direwolf with a full litter. With your permission, I'd have Vayon or one of Annard's men happen onto their plans and grease the wheels. Maybe make sure nobody robs them now that their walls are damaged, or take advantage of Luwys' lowered wits from the painkillers."

… No.

Jon Umber paled.

He was dead. He was right fucking dead.

Brandon Stark shook his head, clearing the fog from his eyes again. "Right. That's about all of it. What was the matter?"

Rickard Stark stroked his son's head fondly before withdrawing. "These men have questions for you."

"Oh! Alright then, I'm here for you now, my Lords. Sorry for being out of it, it's not easy being in two places at once, and I seem to be going a lot more places than that lately. We've not fully integrated our Essosi cousins' intelligence apparatus yet so there's a lot of slack to pick up. Whoever said spycraft was easy was full of shit, and if any of you lot happen to suffer from the same delusion, then you'd better have a cypher or two and a new language to sell me. Now what was the question?"

You could hear a pin drop but Jon didn't care because he was right fucking dead.

"… It was pretty rude, wasn't it? I can teach others how to be in two places at once. As penance!"

Jon was right fucking dead, Lord Brandon was gonna impale him on his own axe shaft, split him in half on his own sword and spread him over his floor to use as a rug in place of his right fucking fucked name day presents.

He'd fucked with his Liege Lord's name day presents!

"Ah," Brandon Stark said on laying eyes on The Inventory, voice thick with distaste. "That thing. Go on, everyone. Go ahead and convey your misconclusions so I can dispel them."

"You're Bran the Builder."

"Nope."

For a moment, Jon almost thought he'd spoken himself, but then he realised the words had come from his grandfather.

"No." Flatly repeated Lord Hoarfrost Umber. Because no one else seemed to have anything to say. "Just no. Just like that."

"Yes."

Grandfather looked between the Inventory and Lord Brandon in disbelief. "… What do you call this then?"

"The grandest collection of stolen ideas that has ever existed because I'm a no good, filthy thief."

Lord Rickard facepalmed.

Grandfather stared between father and son for long seconds, then looked at every other high lord and their get. When they looked just as stunned as he was, the man turned to the only people who seemed more exasperated than dumbfounded. "How full of shit is he?"

"Completely," said Robard Cerwyn, resting his chin in his hand. "And then some."

"You lying liars!"

"He was all offended on my behalf for not being given my proper due by my sweetheart," Medger said blithely as if their Liege Lord hadn't even spoken just now. "So he made metal sing and wrote a new language. For music. In one night."

"Which I also stole from men long dead that were ten times my better because I'm a no good, filthy thief!"

"For which we're all very grateful, my lord," Medger replied fondly. "Now if you went and gave me and my Lady a few dreams together, then I'd really be ready to name my children after you."

SLAM!

Jon jumped as his Grandfather slammed a fist on the table. The ironwood dented.

"Do not. Make light of this."

The closed meeting room in Winterfell's Great Keep became absolutely chatter-free.

"Do you. Do any of you. Not realise. How much we are being asked to take on faith?" Jon didn't remember his grandfather ever sounding so livid. "Should I just have faith that all of… of this somehow eluded us until now? Am I to think all of our forebears, my forebears, for the past 8,000 years, were lackwits that couldn't come up with any of this? Am I to believe the same of yours? Will you believe the same of yours? Am I expected to just have faith that this isn't all tall tales?" Grandfather looked up and glared at Brandon Stark and Jon was right, he looked livid. And crazed. "Do you expect me to just believe this, boy!?"

Brandon Stark met Hoarfrost Umber's crazed eyes with his grey ones.

There was a frenzied pounding in Jon's ears.

"Father," said Brandon Stark. "May I borrow your sword?"

"… Granted."

Brandon Stark stood on his chair, took Ice, hopped on the table, walked over to the pot of what had once been earth apple soup, took out the huge cast-iron ladle, dropped it on the table, pulled Ice out of its sheath, which took a while, then he – SHING – cut off the ladle's handle. Re-sheathing the massive sword that was almost twice his length – which took another fair while – the boy set it down on the tabletop, pulled his small notebook from a pocket in his vest, ripped out a small square from a page and set it next to the blade. Then he put it back, stood and walked further down to where Lord Halys Hornwood was seated, except he didn't stop in front of him but his wife. "Lady Donella." The boy took a knee before the woman and smiled pleasantly. "May I borrow one of your hair pins? I assure you, I'll be most careful not to disturb the whole, though I dare say letting your hair down would leave you just as beautiful."

The poor woman didn't seem to know if she should be flattered or aghast, but she nodded when her husband numbly took her hand. Really, what else was she to do?

Lord Brandon reached out past her ear, took one of the hairpins – one of them small ones – then he turned and walked back over to Grandfather and him, rubbing the pin with his silk handkerchief all the while. Then he took Grandfather's mead mug, upended it all in his used soup bowl, dropped the torn paper on top, and then dropped the pin flat on top of that.

Right under their very eyes, Lady Donella's hairpin slowly turned under its own power until it pointed north.

CLANG

Jon jumped. And this time, his Grandfather wasn't much better.

CLANG went the pommel of Ice against the ladle handle.

CLANG

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG -

A nearby spoon suddenly slid over the table and latched onto the iron handle like glue.

Brandon Stark puffed from the effort he'd just undergone, slowly pulled Ice again, lowered the blade on top of the handle's end and - SHING – sliced a sliver right off.

It shot away from the rest as if blown by storm winds and fell off the table right in Grandfather's lap.

Brandon Stark re-sheathed his father's sword, walked forward and crouched before the Lord of Last Hearth. "Lord Umber." The Young Lord gently picked up the lady's pin. "Pick that up and drop it here like I showed you."

Jon's breath came in short bursts as he licked his lips nervously. He knew a command when he heard one. Would his Grandfather-?

Hoarfrost Umber stared Brandon Stark in the eyes, blinking slowly and breathing even more slowly, as if he were faced with the harshest cold in his life and was trying to calm himself down and show it how it could piss off like Lord Stark had taught them. Then, Grandfather slowly, slowly, picked up the sliver of iron, lifted it above the table, brought it above the paper floating in his bowl of mead, and dropped it.

The sliver of iron from a ladle's handle slowly turned under its own power until it pointed north.

Jon stared. Hoarfrost Umber stared. Everyone stared between the Young Lord Stark and… the compass?

Brandon Stark stood, went to Lady Donella again, put the hairpin right back where it was – the woman blushing all the while, did her man not do his duty enough for her to act like an old maid? – and came back to them.

Then the Young Lord picked up the lodestone he'd just made, gently took his father's hovering hand, turned it flat-side up, dropped the sliver in his palm and pushed his fist closed. "To answer your question, Lord Umber, I don't care." Brandon Stark waited for his Grandfather to lift his eyes from the wonder in front of him, then he smirked at him. "And by the time I've made you filthy, stinking rich, you won't care either."

The quiet that followed… Jon didn't even know.

Hoarfrost Umber pulled back and then pushed up and away from the table so hard that his chair fell on its back with a crash.

What?

"Get up, Jon."

Wha-?

"I said get your arse up, boy!"

Jon yelped as his Grandfather yanked his chair away from the table and hauled him out of his seat. What-were they leaving? But-

Hoarfrost Umber hauled Jon Umber away from the judging eyes of Lord Brandon, dragged him to the head of the table, pushed him to his knees in front of Lord Stark and then knelt next to him right after, bowing his head and raising his folded hands in entreaty.

… Oh. Oh.

Jon bowed and folded his hands and offered them to their lord ruler, just like his Grandpa. He'd always known the day would come when he'd have to do this. To say he'd looked forward to it would be a lie. Somehow, though, as Lord Rickard rose from his chair to stand over them, and as Lord Brandon walked over to stand over them on the table next to the man, it didn't make him feel less of a man.

Then his grandfather spoke, and Jon suddenly had something new to wonder at when his mind stumbled over his Grandpa's words half a breath in.

The oath was not what he'd been taught.

"To the House Stark of Winterfell we pledge the faith of Last Hearth, the faith of House Umber, the faith of all its sons and daughters, all its children true. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. Call on us at need and we shall heed. In war. In peace. In life. In death. To the House Stark of Winterfell we pledge our faith, now and always. Above all else in this world. Above all others." When Lord Hoarforst Umber lifted his eyes, tears were streaming out. "I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron.

"We swear it by ice and fire."

Jon's breath caught. The last words didn't come just from his grandpa at him. They came from everyone. Looking around, it was to see Lord Rickard Stark and his Son as the only men in that room not on their knees.

Lord Stark smiled. It was the slightest thing, barely there. But it seemed to transform his whole face. He took Grandfather's hands in his. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. This is the oath of myself, Lord Rickard of House Stark, Lord of the North, King of Winter, Lord of the First Men and Green Men and the Children true, Steward of Vows New and Ancient. Now stand, my lords, stand tall and proud as all Men of the North should, and let us make our future."

The Lords of the North each knelt and pledged and stood again, tall and proud, ready to make their future.

"-. 274 AC .-"

That evening, as the Lords and Ladies and Heirs of the North went and attended what did turn out to be the turning point in his life, Jon Umber thought about how you could fit all the music in the world within the space of a day and get tired of all the songs in a few months. At most. If you were half-deaf. And didn't remember stark shit between a day and the next.

The night you return, we're having a feast

The songs he knew were lays and ballads. Stories put to rhyme. Those that weren't plainsongs spawned by them septons and choir boys down south anyway. They got their fair share of southron bards every once in a while that somehow thought they'd get coin for them. Not all them learned to keep their worship lays to themselves either.

The candles will burn, you've conquered the East

He wouldn't be surprised if them septons paid them to peddle their chants up North where they weren't wanted.

So get home safe, as you can't be replaced,

Other than that? Love songs, some mockrhymes about the southrons (most of them shit at not coming across as the fakery they were), some mockrhymes about the North when them bards were drunk enough to go honest (those made for great bar brawls), and big history matters put to verse (dull as dishwater).

The honors you've earned, you fought like a beast,

That left just the big ones that you heard everywhere. The Bear and the Maiden Fair in every alehouse. Brave Danny Flint around every fire. My Lady Wife at every wedding. The Rat Cook, The Dornishman's Wife, On a Misty Morn. He'd even heard the Rains of Castamere a few times. It was shit.

So let's toast in your name, raise your glass to the moon,

Touting your own horn like that was like a king saying "I am the King." If people need reminding you're the king, you're a shit king. Or a shit butcher as happens.

Shall we dine with the gods, here's a toast, here's a toast to you!

What kind of nutter expects praise for slaughtering the broody hen and her chicks along with the cock? That's just wasteful! You'd never see a Stark do something like that!

Painting the map with the blood on your hand,

This song was like nothing he'd ever heard though. It wasn't some lay or story, it was… the singer talking to her man? Except not really because the man was dead so she was actually talking to his memory?

Expanding the realm, and winning new lands,

It repeated a bunch, but it was short and simple to sing along with and made you picture what's happening instead of having to think about it. Would be a killer at repasts, especially late at night with people deep in their cups and all sad-like.

Get home safe, cause you can't be replaced,

Sing one of these, get the buggers all sobbing their lungs out their nose, then everyone can go and be all merry-like again once they got it all out.

The night you return, we're having a feast.

Still too dainty for his taste, but that might just be the singer. Not that he'd ever impugn Lady Lyarra's singing voice – he'd never impugn anything of Lady Stark's! – but he was more of a low and rumbling kind of man. Maybe he should give it a try later?

The night you return, we're having a feast

The candles will burn the night you return

"Another thing of the Young Lord's?" Jon asked Maester Luwin as the song ended. "He makes new songs too?"

"Not quite," Luwin answered as he led his grandfather and him through the Godswood. "The only one I know him to have put to rhyme is 'Winterfell Fair.' I've no doubt he dreams of many others like he does so much else, but he hasn't put any to verse, as I understand it. Not beyond what few hymns he sang his siblings when they were small."

But they're not small now? "He sings hymns to sprogs? What hymns are those?"

"He calls them stoneballads, at least according to Lady Lyanna. He doesn't sing them except in private with his siblings. Not even the Lord and Lady have heard them."

"Oh." Something Skagosi? Them island wildlings called themselves the Stoneborn, didn't they?

"They're quite the source of drama, it turns out. Did you know the Young Lord took to sequestering himself with young Ned in this very godswood the evenings in the week before Ned was sent to foster? All to teach him a stoneballad all his own, as I understand it. Lady Lyanna still hasn't forgiven him for it."

So the littlest Starks went from worry to jealousy in as much time as it took a proper lad to run away from the sight of the Maester carrying books. Not that Jon had experience in things like that or anything.

"So unless he has those written down somewhere, he's not put down anything to rhyme. I've lost count of the many tunes he hums when the mood strikes him, but words are rare and unintelligible. He says they're all in languages we've never heard of and he hasn't the time to translate them. He did work with some of the carvers to create the guitar – the only instrument he's ever handled in his visions, whatever that means – but he's shown no remarkable talent for it, despite his perfect pitch. No, if you hear a tune that sounds like nothing you've ever encountered, especially on an instrument, it's most likely the work of Little Benjen."

Wait, really? So it wasn't just…

They heard footsteps from behind and turned to see that fancy guard of Lord Brandon's – Martyn – and his big squire – Walder? – who'd stayed behind to close the gates. Seemed they were the last ones in. Jon wished they'd caught up earlier. He'd not realised quite what it meant that the forest inside Winterfell spanned three whole acres. He'd thought they were lost at a couple of points before the music reached them – even Maester Luwin had seemed a tad nervous. They could have used the two to lead the way.

Now, there was something else on his mind. "… The other Starks are magic too?' Jon asked in a hushed voice when his Grandfather didn't react to his glances. Lord Hoarfrost Umber hadn't said a word since the pledge.

"That remains unclear. Archmaester Marwyn thinks Little Benjen might be tapping into whatever Lord Brandon taps through him, and the Young Lord agrees. Uses him like a muse, he calls it, whatever muse means."

Jon tried not to show his discomfort. This wasn't the south where albinos and people who could talk with animals were smothered in the cradle, but this talk of magic still disturbed him. What did Luwin even mean? Did little Benjen get into Lord Brandon's head somehow? Did the Young Lord go into his? Wasn't getting into the minds of other men the reason for all them skinchanger wars where the Starks gone and killed King Warg of Sea Dragon Point? And all his greenseers and Children of the Forest? What about King Marsh? Jon didn't know anything specific about that part, but there had to be some reason why the crannogmen bore Stark rule so easily. Was it safe for such a small boy to trawl through whatever Lord Brandon saw that had him lacking wits for years? Did the lad even mean it? Did Lord Brandon even mean it? Or was he just pressing on their heads just by being there? Was Jon being enchanted right now?

He asked Luwin all that just to see if he could.

He could.

The relief was like a spray of snow on his back. Thank Gods that was out of the way!

"You've stumbled onto our biggest conundrum thus far." Luwin was thankfully oblivious to Jon's inner thoughts. "Untangling this mystery is the main reason Archmaester Marwyn came north with the rest of us."

Well, good to know the Starks already had the experts looking into it. He never should've doubted them!

The darkness of the forest started lifting. Jon assumed they were close to their destination. The Winterfell godswood was proving to have a very dense canopy. He counted ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, ironwood, oak, sentinel, and soldier pine as they pressed on. Their thickly tangled crowns were made even thicker by the blanket of snow that had piled on top. It blocked the light almost entirely, unlike the forest floor where Jon still spotted patches of old, packed earth and humus and moss.

Finally, they emerged into the center of the grove. An ancient weirwood stood there, with smooth bark as white as bone, and five-pointed leaves that looked like bloody hands grasping at them through the snow weighing down the boughs. The face carved into the heart tree was old and peaceful and so clean of red sap or blemish of any other kind that Jon couldn't make out where the bark ended and the frost began. It made the cluster of people at its base stand out almost as strikingly as the pool of black water.

Them other worthies from the meeting were lined up on the outer side of the pool. Jon led his eerily silent grandfather to stand at the end of the line furthest in and frowned at the water. It wasn't frozen but it wasn't steaming either. Crouching, he stuck his fingers into it. It was ice cold. Wasn't Winterfell supposed to be built on a hot spring? This was so cold Jon wondered why it hadn't turned to ice like every other pool and pond he'd seen on their journey.

Inevitably, though, Jon's attention was pulled to the people across the water. Lady Lyarra was on the farthest side of the clearing, sat on her palanquin between two of the edge-most roots. Lyanna Stark was on one side of her, knitting blue roses into a crown. Benjen Stark was on the other, slowly plucking at the chords of that strange pear-shaped instrument. Across from the Lady and children, nearest to the rest of them, was Archmaester Marwyn and another, older maester kneeling around a bubbling pot of pewter – no, two of them. Jon almost missed the second one because it was small and didn't give off any smells or smoke. The big one – Marwyn's – had a long, serpentine lisle of smoky steam spiralling up and out in their direction.

Jon almost sneezed when it tickled his nostrils. It smelled strongly of earthy roots and spices and leaves and threatened to make his eyes water.

Even the whole magic brew didn't keep his attention for long though. That honor went to the men right under the Heart Tree's face. Osrick and Rodrick Stark on one side. Lords Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark on one other. And in the middle of it all, laid back on a bed of moss and branches, was Brandon the Elder, looking like a carved statue with frost grown from his brows and beard as he rested under a blanket of freshly fallen snow.

Jon thought he might be starting to understand why they'd been gathered here.

When Benjen Stark finally ceased plucking chords at a gesture from his father, Brandon the Elder stirred. Watching him move his head was like seeing an old tree try to uproot itself and shake off snow and age. When he spoke, even that sounded like the cracking of dry wood. "Is it time?"

Time for what?

"Just a bit more, granduncle," Lord Stark murmured, meeting the old man's grasping hand half-way. "We still need to get the witnesses ready. I hope that's alright?"

"Parade me as you wish." The oldest Stark crinkled his eyes. "My king."

"Only to honor you," Lord Rickard said, not denying the title. He then gestured to Brandon Stark who'd finally approached from where he'd been… writing something or other in the snow and earth all over the place.

Stark Elder turned his head to look at the boy. "Hello Brandon. I'm Brandon."

"So is half the North," the Young Lord said drily. "Hello grandnuncle."

"… I've been dreaming of you, great-grandnephew. Sometimes so vividly… Did we meet in truth before?"

"This is the fifth time."

"Ah… You still don't live up to the vision."

The banter continued but Jon couldn't keep up with it because that was when Marwyn and the other greycoat came and started handing them steaming mugs of that pungent whatever it was.

"What's this?" Jon asked when he was the first one served.

"If you refuse, you won't get an answer. If you accept, you won't need one. Lord Stark's orders."

"Is that so?" Jon glanced at Lord Stark, who actually met his gaze and that of the others expectantly.

Jon drank. Nobody else refused either.

It had a very strong flavour he'd never tasted and it made him lose track of whatever else the Starks talked about out few minutes in because he got too busy gagging and then puking his guts out. And that was his personal hell for the next half an hour. It was like the perfect set-up for one of them big poisoning cockups the Dornish fancied, except nobody stood to avenge it because everyone else was off spilling their guts too. Them two maesters had the gall to lug them around like dodderers all the while. Couldn't risk them retching in the pool, don't you know. Fucking cunts, he'd break them over his knee, he would! He would! As soon as… as soon as he could stand back up and… and figure out why he felt so good all of a sudden, wow.

"That would be you expelling the last of the impurities and negative energy. What can come out the top end at least," said the old maester he didn't know. Because Jon had apparently rambled that last bit aloud. "The brain is now releasing certain substances that cause pleasure. I am told it is normal after bowel cleansings such as this."

Jon groaned pitifully, swaying where he'd fallen on all fours. "That why we were told to piss and shit or we wouldn't be let in?"

"Quite."

"Great. Go away."

He went away.

Jon groaned and patted himself all over. Mercifully, he still had all his limbs and was still in his thickest garb, including that new kind of hat with ear flaps made of beaver pelt. He then looked around blearily, finding his grandfather and everyone else doing just as bad as he was. Wow, them mermen puked enough for ten people, didn't they? Jon climbed to his feet – which took a while – waited to see if he'd fall over – which took another while – then figured he wasn't drunk so he helped his grandpa up too. Was he always so light? Then they hung off each other on the way back to the pool's edge, where they thumped their arses down on the tallest, thickest root they could find and waited. Watched the Starks talk about… something or other. Essos, sounded like. How them Company of the Rose sellswords and who knew how many of everyone involved with them had to skedaddle because the whole place was full of cunts.

Also, because one or both of the two main cunts involved were probably Blackfyres. Maybe. Wait, what?

"Wait," Rodrik Stark squinted from where he knelt at the side of his grandfather. "The One and a Half Cunts are Blackfyres? But why didn't they help us then?"

Brandon the Elder closed his eyes as if in pain, then looked at Lord Rickard pitiably. "Please forgive my grandson. He's not a bad lad, he's just a moron."

"What!? Piss off, Pop, as if you even considered them!"

"He has a point," said Osrick Stark from where he stood over the both of them. "What would Blackfyres have to do with this? I thought it was some sort of alliance between the merchants of Pentos and Bravos to eliminate any merchants of northern origin. With the Iron Throne's decree not to tax northern trade with Essos, a new market has just opened where northmen living in Essos are the favorites. I thought the attack took place to eliminate the monopoly we would have on the new trade route that just opened. If Mopatis or Varys are Blackfyres, they gained nothing from destroying the Kingdom in Exile, even if they did know about us. It's certainly not their hands that our assets are being divvied up between. They'd have been better served helping us so they'd have the Company of the Rose as a ready army for further weakening the Targaryens."

"The coordination speaks of much longer-term planning," Lord Rickard explained. "Such a level of preparation couldn't have happened so quickly or spontaneously. If anything, it reads more like a hasty counter-plan set off by unexpected developments."

"Your trip South," Brandon the Elder said lowly from his bed of tree and snow. His air was that of one who'd long since reached this conclusion on his own.

"Some of the broader backing and cooperation required for this escalation would certainly have come from Aerys' boon to the North and White Harbor," allowed Lord Stark. "It certainly has the Essosi scrambling to take advantage as we speak. How they justified the hostile takeover probably varies as much as the people involved, though, and the coordination could not have been achieved spontaneously. Nor so quickly."

"Pentos wasn't gonna let the Braavosi have the prize all to themselves," Rodrik Stark muttered, stroking his grandfather's limp hand. "Braavosi trade houses ganged up to prevent the inevitable monopoly of Blue Petal Manor. All the other Free Cities would have gotten in on it just for the chaos."

"So, what?" Osrick asked skeptically. "Mopatis and Varys felt backed into a corner and just up and decided to throw the dice? I don't see it. This is already turning out to be as disruptive for Pentos as it is for Braavos and Essos as a whole. What grand plan could they have had that was worth this cockup? I can't see how this didn't turn into a ruinous loss for themselves with little to no chance to recoup whatever they invested. And it has to be a lot. Connections, blackmail, information, coin, whatever else. It makes no sense."

"Unless their grand plan was specifically designed to destroy the Kingdom in Exile," Rickard Stark said. "Assume you're a Blackfyre. Now picture yourself in their position: you are the rightful royal line of Westeros but have been spurned at one time or others by one or all of the Seven Kingdoms, save one. That one kingdom happens to be running an operation no different from what you've been driven to do across the sea. An operation that you probably know about since your predecessors uncovered it through whatever means in the past. This Kingdom has never participated in a Blackfyre rebellion. Even better, the southrons let their septons besmirch their good name while assuming they're perfectly happy with treatment under the Iron Throne. None of that is something easily swallowed by people who've been suffering the same as your dispossessed royal lineage. So what do you do?"

Osrick Stark frowned. "You… wait and see?"

"Notwithstanding the cutthroat mercantile infiltration and espionage methods used by rote," Rickard Stark nodded. "With every time the North refused to get involved in Targaryen kinstrife, the Blackfyres would have been more comfortable considering the Kingdom in Exile – and through it the North – a powerful potential asset."

"And then we fought in the Ninepenny War," said Brandon the younger.

Well, Jon thought. Shit.

"… Oh," Orsrik Stark scowled. "And we turned from potential asset to enemy asset in need of subsumation or dismantling."

Jon felt a chill go through him. If it really were Blackfyres and not just cunts coming together to do cuntish things… How long must the decapitation strike have been in the making? It would've worked too, if not for the grey rats doing their own cuntish things back home.

Brandon the Elder, it turned out, felt the same. "… All the rage I have ever felt has risen from my flesh like a steam of disbelief."

"It's all conjecture, admittedly," Lord Stark admitted ruefully. "But you did say they'd made it clear it was personal. Even though your interests had never clashed more than the norm. Nor had you even met."

"You know…" Jon had to strain to hear Lord Brandon, though thankfully everyone around him was doing their best to be quiet too. "I'm feeling more and more pleased with every passing moment that I live here in the North instead of these free cities."

"Free cities that are based on horrible chattel slavery and only have a cursory aquaintance with the concept of honor?" Osrick Stark asked dryly as Jon and everyone tried not to preen too obviously. It was their brain being all woozy, that's all it was. "Remember that any place that has to call itself 'free' more than once is not."

"Free Cities that can't even band together to cow the Dothraki and other problems to trade out of a fear of someone else possibly gaining a slight advantage?" Rodrik asked flatly, looking at his increasingly quiet grandfather worriedly. "Also, they want the instability in the near middle space to bring about more slaves being sold. Even though the disruption of civilization and depopulation of the interior is slowly but surely destroying Essos and will bring about an economic collapse the likes of which none of the Free Cities or Dothraki will survive."

Jon blinked slowly. He hadn't even thought that far. Maybe the peacock wasn't such a simpleton after all.

"Free Cities that would rather have pirates cripple large scale trade through the Broken Arm in fear of their rivals being able to set a tax?" Rickard Stark told his son. "Remind me to go over Daemon Targaryen's conquest of the Stepstones at some point."

"For all the good it did," muttered Brandon the Elder, words coming more slowly now. "Not that I'm one to talk."

"Don't be ridiculous, grandnuncle," scoffed the Young Lord. "What you brought us will change everything."

"Hah!" The bark of laughter seemed to drain the man. It took him a time to muster new words. "Tell me honestly boy – how many crops are actually any good."

"Four."

This was what real disbelief felt like, Jon thought on seeing the look on the old man.

"… That's three more than I hoped," the man whispered, though it carried all the same to Jon's ears, somehow. "Four more than I thought..."

"Most crops won't live outside our glass gardens," Lord Stark said gently. "And we already have those that will."

"The sugar beets, soybeans, potatoes and rice, though, they'll change everything," the Young Lord smiled triumphantly. "You are magnificent, grandnuncle. Thank you."

The elder Brandon watched his namesake in wonder and laughed softly, then settled on a tired smile. "You're such a nice boy. I only recognize three of those though."

The Young Lord frowned. "Right. Potatoes. I meant earth apples."

That didn't go down well with the old Prince at all. "…What." The old man blinked, affronted. "What. That swindler's nonsense wasn't just cheap swill?"

"… No?" The Young Lord tilted his head uncertainly. "It's the best crop in the world. I mean, rice is great and all, it keeps forever and we're lucky we have a bog the size of a country to grow it in. But potatoes still multiply at least fivefold at their worst and they can grow practically anywhere. Do you have the names of who got them? They might be worth a bonus. Best to cultivate such daring people."

The Elder Brandon looked like he wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

"It's alright, grandnuncle," the Young Lord said magnanimously, stroking the old man on the forehead. "Everyone makes mistakes. I forgive you."

The Godswood of Winterfell rang with tired, free laughter.

Jon watched and listened, feeling something close to awestruck as the Starks casually talked about completely changing their entire way of life as if their self-imposed duty of doing right by them didn't weigh on them none. As they stood there amidst red leaves and fallen snow that gleamed under the strewed rays of winter's evening, the men of House Stark looked like Kings of Winter holding court as if their rule had never broken, strong and firm and perfectly reflected in the pool of black water. The shadows of leaves played on the Lords Stark's faces. The Godswood shimmered languidly in the shade of the evening. And as a breeze wafted midst red leaves and white branches, the Gods of Earth, Stone and Tree seemed to hold their breath.

The fey mood seemed to reach them too, then. "It's time, isn't it?" the Elder murmured.

Lord Rickard took the hand that was already held by his son and looked in their direction. "Mage? Are they ready?"

"Aye, Lord," Marwyn was pouring wooden cups of some clear liquid. "By your leave?"

"Granduncle? Are you ready?"

"Just about…" The old man turned his head to Osrick Stark. "I love you, nephew. And I'm proud of you."

Osrick Stark looked stricken. "I love you too, uncle. I'm proud to be your blood."

The Elder turned to Rodrik Stark then, who looked fit to run away like he'd tried earlier that day. "I love you, grandson."

Rodrik Stark looked about to cry. "I… I love you too, grandfather-"

"But since I won't get to live long enough to be proud of you too, I'll have to settle for some last advice."

Any hint of tears vanished as the lad gaped, shocked. "Grandfather!"

"Now I know you can't control yourself, so I forgive you in advance for getting yourself disowned and thrown out on your arse."

"Pop, you complete-"

"Fortunately our King here is a fair and generous man and likely won't send you off empty-handed, so I still expect you to marry a good Lady. Better not be some whore though. I don't have a hope you'll steer clear of brothels, but at least buy and refurbish one to offer proper quality merchandise. Should give you a fair revenue stream if naught else. But if your wife isn't highborn, there'll be hell to pay. You should look for one from a noble but poor house. Offer a good bride price instead of taking a dowry. Buy land, use coin to incite smallfolk to move to your estates, have them clear marginal land, build villages and so on. Loan your liege lords money and ask for prestigious titles as a reward. Employ a mercenary captain as your master-at-arms and have him train a fine force beyond what the garrison and bannermen would provide. After a few generations, all the high-born will forget brothels and cheese-mongering were behind your family's military power, fine titles and honours and great wealth and will be eager to have their sons marry your dowry-laden daughters."

"Oh fuck you so much, Pop!"

"Alas, I've not a drop of Targaryen in me, so you'll have to live without."

"So very much."

Lord Rickard shook his head and looked down at his son. "Brandon?"

That halted the mummery quite soundly.

The young lord nodded, taking the hand of the old man in both of his. "I'm ready."

"WAIT FOR ME!"

Jon winced at the shrill scream. Looking aside, he watched Lady Lyanna hop down and run to the Elder Stark's resting place.

"A prince should have a crown you know! Even if he's old!" The Small Lady loftily tucked her crown of blue roses around the man's resting head. None too gently either. But since Jon could see bloody nicks on her fingers from all the way over there, he was going to forgive her. So long as she actually broke off all of them thorns.

By the bye, wasn't there any Stark that felt the cold?

Well, main liners at least. Osrick and Rodrik both wore scarves and gloves.

"Right then." Lord Stark waited for Lyanna to return to her place under his gimlet eye. Finally, he looked back at the rest of them. "Then if you are done, Mage?"

Marwyn nodded to the old maester to start handing out the mugs. Then he went to stand just behind the Young Lord.

Jon accepted the cup apprehensively. "… This won't make me puke again, will it?"

"No," the old maester assured him, smiling kindly. It made Jon's skin crawl. "This is to help you see."

"See what?"

"Magic!" called the Young Lord, making Jon flinch and then gape as the boy then produced the sodding Crown of Winter from a small box that had been buried in the snow all that time. "I could waste my time and effort to make pretty sparkles, but that would just be pandering to skeptics."

"You're inventing new words again, son." Lord Rickard was suspiciously straightfaced as he accepted the Crown, put it on his head, and then pulled a circlet from under his cloak to put on his son's head in turn. Something the Young Lord didn't seem to have expected, though that surprise didn't last long either in the face of his Lord Father's next words. "The only 'pander' that exists is the name for people who arrange sexual liaisons."

Jon gaped.

"What?" The Young Lord balked, aghast. "Well shit. Forget I said anything."

Gladly, Jon thought, appalled at the sheer nerve of treating their moment of fucking crowning so flippantly. He quickly gobbled up the brew just to make sure he didn't break out babbling.

It tasted like old boot.

Didn't set him off barfing again though, and none of them other worthies looked greener than usual either by the time the maester got around to them. He guessed that was something?

Now what was it that – oh, Benjen Stark was playing that odd lute again. Pretty nice tune too. Another new one. Bit slow and sad though. And where did the pipe sounds come from? And were those trumpets? But where the hells were the drums-

Looking ahead, Jon saw the Kings of Winter come again, save one. The Young Lord was gone. In his place was an unlined outline cut into the shape of a hooded cloak made of one and one thousand eyes of blue and white fire. Except not really because all Jon saw when his sight lingered was crows being burned inside out. It made him wonder if he could eat some of them crow souls too and grow some new eyes of his own. But then he just felt like a heel when he noticed them eyes were all droopy and sad-like.

The Elder. He barely had any light inside him at all. Everybody else had a whole bunch of them lights all over them from bum to head. Some were stuck really deep in too. But the old man barely had any. Even the blue roses around his head had more light than whatever used to be in him.

The Young Lord's garb weaved itself open and overlayed the old man, somehow. The two thought together then. For a lifetime between one moment and the next. Of sense and reason and knowledge dreamed into the world from beyond the stars and everything the man did throughout his life that meant something. It was enough to enlighten even the littles sprog with wide eyes full of wonder, but none of it found a point of purchase. The Elder Stark was an old and tired greybeard that just wanted to rest and didn't care how it would end.

It didn't sit well with their Starry Prince. At all.

Jon felt rooted under the sudden feeling of refusal as that outline of a hand rose. Feathers of light and darkness parted to expose a baldric made of shining orbs. Each their own light of worldliness. Each showed a lifetime at a glance. When that outline of a hand touched the orb that glowed brightest, Jon suddenly knew from experience how it felt to kill a bear with your bare hands with your guts spilling out. From somewhere near and behind, there was a gasp-

Then a large hand came down upon the first and stopped everything. Marwyn. Marwyn the Mage. He looked like a boar on two legs, armored in dark steel and a salt-speckled beard so long and red and bright it may well be on fire. He was behind the Young Lord now. His other hand slowly rose as well, pointing away. Pointing at the Heart Tree.

Jon looked at it. It was white as bone with leaves as dark as midnight that still had shadows, somehow. All black and white as if no color was allowed to touch it, even from all the bright lights of all shades and sizes that came out of everyone now. There was something gleaming in one of its eyes. Like a gemstone. Or a tear.

The drop fell into a funnel of feathers and eyes, rolling all the way across the clearing into Lord Brandon's hand.

Marwyn retreated.

"…Oh." The Elder stared at the light in the Younger's hand, awestruck. "…so this is what you meant…"

Brandon Stark dropped the light.

It sunk into the old man and bloomed into a flower, then a river web, then its own star field that filled him and lit up like dawn with a sigh of elation.

The Younger took the Elder's hand and unravelled around him. The great cloak of feathers unwove itself. The eyes unbraided from runes to flares and then floating fires scattering like stars at midnight. The black sky melted down through the mists above them, then lower until it seeped all the way through the branches. The speckled void overlayed the boughs. The eyes and stars interposed where the leaves once were. And as the night sky swallowed them all, the ground seemed to fall away and they passed up through the firmament on the wings of some grand, mighty music played by voices and instruments that were out of this world. The sky… The firmament was so far-flung. Full of so many things Jon had never cared to think about. No more than the Stark Elder had. He could see the man even now, drinking rapturously from whatever was that revelation, growing more than he was with each star that passed until he shed himself of himself entirely.

"… For this…" An old voice. But not tired. Not anymore. "I think… I might have the strength after all."

Jon watched, dumbstruck, as the Prince of Winter left his body behind. Shot upwards into some new life, past stars and moons and planets like a star unto himself. Suns adrift, suns made of tree fruit, yellow moons made of old cheese. And everywhere… worlds. Big and small, dead and living, with big men and bigger men and dumb men and dumber men and a young prince with golden hair that bestrode a world all his own while chopping and uprooting baobabs under guidance by a man taller than the world was wide. Grey-haired, long-bearded and jolly-eyed, the First Flint leaned on his axe and brightened when he saw them, pointing them out to the small child and waving happily at his son who stared dumbly at him from two steps behind where Jon watched everything, completely thunderstruck.

Jon's heart stalled. He heard the chords of peace. He heard the drums of war. He heard pipes and trumpets. The Godswood teetered suddenly as if weighed down by the weight of the world. The sun sunk behind the edge of the sky. Its scattered beams moved and winked out as shadows took their place the more each disappeared from amidst the branches. A distant roar sounded from the far east as if screamed by an angry dragon. The warning howl of a wolf rose to meet it from beyond the edge of the world in the far North. A one-eyed raven soared watchfully high above in the pool of black water. Then, suddenly, the calls of snow shrikes snapped Jon Umber out of his stupor to find that hours had passed and the moon was out in the night sky.

What… but… ugh… Forsooth…

What in yon fuck just happened?

"He didn't leave anything behind." Brandon Stark. Glum. Jon barely heard him despite being just a few feet away.

"He'd already given everything out." Marwyn the Mage. Thoughtful. Then blithe. "Chin up, Young Master. That just means he can't be reanimated!"

"Does it really?"

Later, when Jon was sitting down on some big root or other that didn't belong to the weirwood, grandfather came to him just as he was beginning to realise he should probably be worried about not remembering how he'd gotten there.

"I've been informed that we will no longer practice First Night."

"Right." Belatedly, Jon wondered about that raven back in Wintertown that called him a berk. "… We're… not all that small after all, are we?"

Grandfather didn't reply immediately.

Even his silence sounded old, Jon thought.

"… We are expected to come together again at some point in the next few years, to talk about further plans. We will bring our maesters so we might streamline the land claims, legal codes, and whatnot for efficient development. This should give us time to assess their loyalty in the meanwhile."

"Right." That was just good sense, Jon figured.

"… You will remain in Winterfell when I leave." Jon blinked, finally looking up at the old man. "You will serve the Lord Heir as his retainer. Attend to him as it pleases him. Learn anything he and the maesters deign to teach you."

"Oh…" Jon blinked several times, but he was fair sure he wasn't gonna know if he was alright with that or not until tomorrow.

"The other heirs are staying as well," said old Hoarfrost. He seemed… somehow smaller than he used to. "The Flint as well."

Jon looked back at Torghen and thought back to the sight of the dead Chieftain waving at him while smiling from ear to ear. "Right."

"... I've been instructed to send your father here as well."

Jon's neck almost cracked from how fast he snapped his head to look back at his grandfather.

Lord Hoarfrost Umber looked... Jon didn't even know what to call it. No words he could think of felt remotely right. His chest tightened at the sight.

"… I don't have it in me to hope, lad."

"Oh grandpa." Jon stood and embraced the old man.

His grandfather hugged him back, arms going almost painfully tight around his midriff as he sunk his face in his shoulder. It was the first time ever that the man let himself lean on someone else, let alone Jon himself. "You're a fine lad, Jon." His voice was tight too.

Jon huffed. "A fine lad that done and almost broke guest right,"

"And what do you think I was about to do?"

Jon hugged him tighter.

"You are a good man, grandson. I know I never say it, but you are."

"It's alright, grandpa. I have hope enough for both of us."

Jon pretended not to hear the sound that came from his grandfather at hearing him say that.

He looked around at the various people still scattered about. The Starks had retired. The Lady Lyarra and the two littlest Starks off to bed. The lords overseeing the entombment of the Elder's remains in the Crypts. Everyone else was still around though. They were all sitting or loitering in a general state of stunned bewilderment with the occasional haunted or teary eye. All save Thorgen Flint, who'd not moved from his spot. He stood as firm as a mountain, rooted in place still staring up through the branches as if he could will the winter gloom to part and lay bare once again the starry sky.

Jon looked up too. There was a white raven flying high above, eerily clear in the grey winter night. Then a second came up from the south and swept it in a mating dance, cheery as a bell.

Spring dawned upon the North to the merry sight of ravens white as snow courting in the sky above Winterfell.