2. Honor on the Moon, Chapter 1


That night, Jon heard a rustle in the shadows. He reached for the scabbard lying at his side, eyes roaming about. The sound wasn't uncommon in the forest, and Jon had already heard many like it during his watch, but it never hurt to be careful.

The fire still lit their camp, though it burned low. Jon thought about feeding it some more from the bundle of twigs they'd plundered before dusk, but figured it was close enough to morning by now to let it burn out. His watch was the last of the night anyway, and the sun should peek over the treeline in naught but another hour.

The others slept nearby, Tyrion in his bedroll, Jyck and Morrec lying in their own beside him. They didn't so much as shift in their sleep, and Morrec even snored, though the sound was thankfully soft enough to get drowned out by the drone of wilderness. Yoren slept further from the fire, his back on cold, hard dirt. Luckily for the black brother, they'd managed to escape much of the snow further north. Had they not, Jon suspected Yoren would've still slept without so much as a coat of fur. The years of wondering up and down the kingdoms must've acclimated him to do with less than most.

Even the horses made less sound than he, tied to a tree nearby, their hooves planted firmly on the ground. Though Jon had seen it before, he still couldn't quite understand how it was possible for them to sleep upright. In this regard, as in many others, he supposed horses were far more fit to the road than the very men who built it.

Another rustle. Jon gripped his sword, making to get up, but by then it was too late. He felt a knife's edge on his throat and a hand arching over his shoulder and against his chest. It pressed on his wound, eliciting a gasp of pain.

Someone shushed behind him, too close to his ear. "Ah, ah," it said in the deep, gravely voice of a man. "Let's not wake 'em. Wouldn't want people losing out on sleep, would we?"

The knife slipped harder against his throat, and Jon felt some blood drip down it in a warm trail. Before he could say anything, a group of furred and cloaked figures slithered out of the forest, coming into view and lit in harsh shadows against the dim firelight. They all had some weapon out, two with steel blades, one with a wooden club, and the last with a roughshod spear, it's tip cut from what looked like stone.

The sound of their entrance—heavy footfalls, the brushing of twigs—woke the horses, and the following neighing and stamping woke everyone else. By the it did, they all found their intruders looming over them, arms raised in waiting threat.

Jyck nearly shot up from his bedroll, reaching for the sword at his side, but the spear at his chest kept him against the ground.

"Fuck's sake, woman," he said, "point that elsewhere!"

"And what's to force me, kneeler?" the spearwoman said, grinning down at him with a pale face framed in frazzled hair. Her accent, like that of Jon's own assailant, sounded far more stilted and sharp than any he'd ever heard.

"Wildlings," Yoren said. Propped up on his shoulders, the black brother hardly seemed awake and didn't bother to so much as glance at his own sword. He turned his head and spit on the dirt, fixing the bandits with a sneer. "And accompanied by some deserters as well, are yeh? How grand. What do you all want, before the law runs you all down?"

"What else's to want?" one of the deserters said, and now Jon could see that both men holding swords to their necks wore the Night's Watch furs, black leather seeping into the night. Standing over Yoren, the man smirked down at his old compatriot, bald head gleaming orange from the fire. "Ridin' with a Lannister, you're bound to be heavy on gold. Isn't that right, dwarf lord?"

Tyrion, who's eyes had followed the conversation in a sort of strained calm, coughed and spoke with a tilt of humor. "Of course, I've plenty to share. If you'll allow me, I'd be more than happy to hand it over and have us all part ways as friends."

The deserters both laughed, and hearing it, their wildling companions joined in.

The man with a sword to Tyrion's throat raised the blade, heaving it up on his shoulder. "I'll let you search through those saddlebags of yours," he said, "but don't think to play us for fools. Should we let you all go now, a Stark host is sure to comb this forest in search of us, or am I wrong?"

Hesitantly, Tyrion stood, though his eyes stayed on the deserter's blade. "I'm admittedly no Stark, and can therefore make no promises."

"We'll kill them all, then," one of the wildlings said, standing over Morrec. When the Lannister man made to roll upright, his club came down, smashing against the guard's back. Morrec groaned, clawing at the ground. "Bury the bodies, cover our tracks. No southerner could follow after us then."

"A sound plan, in most circumstances," Tyrion said. "Unfortunately, we're expected at Winterfell, the Stark seat. They're sure to search us out should we not arrive."

It was a lie, Jon knew. Tyrion hadn't sent any missive to Winterfell, under the assumption that whatever Jon might've wanted to tell his brothers he could say in person. The very message he'd meant to send before his decision to leave the Wall was rolled snuggly within his pocket, now with Benjen's signature.

But the deserter standing over Tyrion didn't know that. Even had he suspected it was a lie, the possibility of such a search was enough to stay his hand. He frowned down at Tyrion, uncertain.

"I suppose we could just take you prisoner…"

The bald deserter cursed at that, nearly turning completely away from Yoren. "Wallen, you shit, what'll we do with a bloody dwarf?"

"They'll give us plenty for his life."

"And cut off our heads right after!"

The wildling holding Jon growled under his breath. "Alright, both you damn crows better shut up!" he said. "We'll kill 'em! Those southrons won't follow us forever!"

It was in that moment that Jon realized how incredibly stupid these people all were, robbing travelers without a plan and already at each other's throats. It didn't sound like they'd known each other for long. Though the knife still cut into his neck, Jon felt, perhaps without good reason, little danger from it. Instead, he felt himself doused with a cold indifference bordering on exasperation. Something tugged at his mind.

"You make this all sound as if killing us will be easy," Jon said.

Everyone, even those form his own party, looked at him with some semblance of befuddlement. Wallen huffed out a chuckle, as amused as he was disbelieving.

"Have you any eyes, boy?" he said, hand gesturing to the others. "We have you matched in numbers and caught you entirely unarmed."

"You're wrong." Jon looked at his companions, meeting their eyes one by one, trying to express his intentions. They didn't seem to understand, save for Jyck, who tensed his shoulders in preparation. "Numbers and arms. We've still some left."

Wallen made to argue, but then a white blur leaped from the shadows behind him. Sharp teeth dug into his shoulder, and the man screamed, tumbling forward to the ground. Ghost, growling in wild rage, bit out the chunk of flesh and muscle, tearing it away with rabid strength before looking around at the others. Wallen screamed again, his shrill voice shattering the nighttime quiet.

In the same instant, Jon pushed on his captor's arm, holding it away, and elbowed the man's stomach. The wildling grunted, the grip on his knife tightening, but Jon ducked under it before he could think to do much else. By the time the man regained some awareness, Ghost was already pouncing on him, tackling him down, mouth wrapped around his throat.

Jon reached down for his sword, the ranger's sword Benjen had gifted him, and pulled it from its sheathe. Meanwhile, Jyck had kicked the wildling woman's feet from under her, distracted as she was by the pained wails of her fellows. She fell onto her side, and Jyck rolled up to his feet, hand finding his sword and swiftly pointing it at her chest.

The man watching Yoren raised his sword, meaning to bring it down upon the wandering crow, but he saw that Jon was nearly upon him. He chose to defend himself, blocking the boy's rushing strike, forced away from a Yoren who was himself too astonished by the sudden turn of events to do much of anything. Jon and the deserter were soon caught in a series of exchanges, steel ringing above the still night and the low crackle of fire.

As for Morrec, he'd hardly moved either, trapped like Yoren by his own shock. The wildling over him took advantage, laying on him with another blow from the club, this time striking him on the head with a sharp thwack.

Seeing this, Jyck cursed. "Morrec, you damn fool!" His eyes met those of the wildling woman, saw her growing fear. Cursing again, he brought his sword down on her spear, cutting the pole, and the impact even rattled the spear tip, undoing the bindings which kept it attached. Without another word, he ran to Morrec, who had by now raised his arms in defense against the club raining blows upon him.

The wildling saw him coming, club drawing back. But Morrec, head spinning, was conscious enough now to at least determine that this man was an enemy. The battered guard threw himself forward, holding the wildling's feet in place.

The wildling tried twisting out of the way, but Morrec's hold was too tight, fingers gripped roughly around his ankles. "You little leech!" he said, club coming down.

It never hit anything. Jyck reached him as the club swept low, and his sword found the wildling's gut, stabbing through with force enough to bend the man over his shoulder. He pulled it back just as roughly, then pushed the bleeding body away, so that the wildling landed on his back, hole gouged out from his stomach.

"Up!" Jyck said, hand held out to Morrec, who took it after a short moment. "Your sword, you idiot! Get your sword!"

Morrec blinked down, eyes searching, and bent down to grasp his sword with fumbling hands. His head felt too light, and he only then noticed the warm blood which ran down his temple. Jyck saw it too, but in lieu of commenting on it, turned instead to Tyrion, his duty now asserting itself with stoic priority.

The dwarf stood some feet away, back straight as steel, in the careful grasp of the wildling woman, who kept her stone spear tip pointed down at his neck. Holding it by the edge, blood dripped from between the woman's fingers. She looked between Jyck and Morrec, pupils shrunk, licking her drying lips.

"Don't come no closer," she said. The spear tip shook in her grip, and she bent awkwardly to hold Tyrion's shoulder. "Aye, that's far enough. No closer."

Tyrion, for his part, looked far less anxious, though the bobbing of his throat spoke to a near break of control. "Yes, that'll be close enough, you two," he said. "Let's all try to keep me alive."

Wallen's screams had by now fallen into a low groaning, one matched by the wildling Jyck had stabbed. Both lay nearby, hands closing around their wounds in a dazed desperation, skin nearly transparent.

The wildling woman looked down at them both, then up and over Jyck's shoulder. Jyck kept his own eyes on her, but Morrec followed her line of sight and saw Jon joined them. Yoren walked behind with the bald deserter before him, holding his sword to the man's neck.

"You fucking crows can't be counted on for nothing!" the wildling said, voice shrill. Her spear tip inched closer to Tyrion, who could only lean his head back in response.

The bald deserter only glared back at her. "This shit weren't my idea to begin with," he said. Then, spitting over at the wildling bleeding out on the ground, "But it looks like your friend there already paid for it!"

"Shut your mouth!"

"That's enough from you both!" Jyck said, stepping forward. The wildling woman tensed at that, but Jyck held up a hand to calm her, his sword pointed down. "Look around you. Whatever you meant to do failed. Let the lord go. Killing him now would only seal your own fate."

The woman heard a low growl from behind her. She turned her head to see Ghost, fangs bared, prowling toward her in slow steps.

"Get that beast away!" she said.

"Ghost!" Jon said. "Stay! Stay!"

The direwolf stopped, though his red eyes stayed beaded onto her, head low.

Jyck took another step, back bent, torso turned, as if approaching a wild animal. "Let him go," he said. "If you do, we'll not kill you, understand? Think it through. Let him go."

He was close enough now to reach out and cut her with his sword if he so wished. But Jyck merely held his hand out, head bowed, eyes steady. The wildling woman looked at him, at his hand, at the others. With a shaky breath, she slowly lifted her spear tip form Tyrion's neck, placing it gingerly on Jyck's open hand.

The guard immediately dropped the sharp stone and pushed her away, arm coming between her and Tyrion, who looked as if the invisible strings holding him up had finally been cut down.

"Morrec," Jyck said, and at his word said man came to grab at Tyrion's shoulders, pulling the dwarf away with gentle hands.

Left entirely defenseless, the wildling woman let some tears slip from her eyes. She looked down at Jyck's sword, her knees beginning to buckle. In a flurry, she dropped down to them, forehead nearly touching the ground.

"Give me my life, m'lord!" she said. "Give me my life and I am yours!"

Jyck looked down at her. After a moment, he sheathed his sword, strapping the weapon to his hip. "Lord Tyrion Lannister is the only lord here," he said. Turning to the dwarf, he arched a brow. "What say you, my lord?"

Tyrion had by now regained all the confidence with which he usually carried himself. Leaving Morrec's side, he waved a hand at the scene before him, walking over to his bedroll. "It's not me to whom she made her plea. I've no need for a wildling, but perhaps you might find something to do with her yourself, Jyck."

"And the man?"

At this, Jon looked at Yoren, who merely shrugged in response. "We'll take him to Winterfell with us," he said. "It's the duty of Lord Stark to pass judgement on oathbreakers."

Tyrion barked a laugh. "Lord Stark is far south by now, Jon."

"My brother Robb works in our father's stead," Jon said. Looking down, he frowned, as if tasting something rotten. "He should… He should be the one to deal with such matters."

"Truly? You seemed more than willing to perform those duties yourself at the Wall." Jon scowled at that, but before he could respond, Tyrion held a hand out in peace. "My apologies… It's not my habit to wake with a sword at my neck."

At that, Jon let himself deflate. He wondered if Tyrion had ever dealt with such serious danger before, then recalled that he himself never had until a mere few days before. Shaking his head, Jon looked at Yoren.

"Have you shackles," he said, "or should I grab a bit of rope?"

"I've a shackle or two, aye," Yoren said. He stepped away, sword sipping back into his sheathe. "I suppose I'll get some for the wildling too," he grumbled, walking toward his horse, hand pulling at his beard. "By the gods, I told the Lord Commander I'd need the prisoner cart…"

The bald deserter peered down at Jon, hands now free and rubbing at his wrists. "And you'll be the one to watch me meanwhile?"

Jon snorted, turning his back on the man. "No, he'll be in charge of that."

The deserter turned at the sound of a growl, startled by the white direwolf who had so silently neared.

The sun had come up sometime during the battle, casting them in a faint grey light. Morrec went around packing, rolling their bedrolls up, quenching the last bit of fire. Yoren rummaged through his saddlebags. The wildling woman sat sullenly on the ground, near the nervous deserter and in the attentive watch of Ghost.

Jon, Tyrion and Jyck, on the other hand, appraised the bodies splayed around their campsite. Two were cold and lifeless, Wallen the deserter having already bled out, but the wildling with a sword wound in his gut struggled for breath still.

The three looked down at him, or at least Jon and Jyck did. Tyrion, for his part, had caught enough of a glimpse and had now turned his head away. "I suppose we might as well give him mercy," he said

Jon made to speak, but Jyck stepped forward before he could say anything, sword raised.

"I'll finish it," the man said.

To his shame, Jon felt some relief at that. He nodded, but unlike Tyrion he did not turn away when Jyck's sword came down in a spray of blood. These deaths, too, he kept close in memory.


Winterfell's walls were a welcome sight that late afternoon. They rose in hazy shapes out from the thin winter smoke that billowed up from Winter Town.

Having been gone for only two weeks, he'd thought along the way back that his return would feel no more monumental than it had after the hunts and trips he'd been on over the years. Once, he'd even been allowed to join Robb and his father on a journey to Deepwood Motte on Stark business. Lady Stark hadn't been particularly happy with the idea—Robb's presence was meant as a way to endear him to House Glover's own child heir, and so Jon's inclusion surely felt to her as another example of him undermining the authority of his trueborn siblings. But Eddard had insisted, and Jon had therefore gotten to know some of the wider world, if still within the North's borders.

Returning then, Jon had felt unsettled by the sudden return of normalcy. It had been a month-long trip, and in that time Jon had settled into the routine of no routine, waking for breakfast at a stranger's hall and lying to sleep on a stranger's bed. Coming back to Winterfell had been like living out a story about himself, knowing all the right motions yet performing them as a mummer would, conscious of some distance created within himself. This distance had closed with time, though it did so with a sense that something in his nature had changed. Jon had taken more to riding after that, having gotten used to days on the road, and though this newfound habit was small and made little difference to his life in the northern capital, he'd not ever considered doing it before.

Now, returning after a mere two weeks at the Wall, Jon knew immediately that this return would not result in the same inconsequential shift. One reason was that he'd not return for long—a day or two at most, as Tyrion had need to return south and Jon meant to join the Lannister's party—but a bigger reason was that Jon felt altogether changed. He knew it as soon as he saw the Stark banners waving distantly upon the ramparts, felt it as he and the rest trotted through the burgeoning afternoon market outside Winterfell's gates.

A lack of warmth. Not just thanks to the coming winter, which had already brought some smallfolk from the countryside to fill up the otherwise empty houses of Winter Town. Jon had expected some sort of familiar rush. But there were only stone walls and dirt paths and patrolling guardsmen, and to Jon these seemed mundane, not any more special than Castle Black save for its size and teeming society.

Though, maybe it had to do with his new company. The wildling woman, Osha was her name, walked behind them with hands bound and nary a complaint. The deserter, Stiv, had more than made up for the mundanity of the road, at times muttering under his breath, at others whispering plans of escape to a listless Osha, and in some instances merely screaming his many offenses. But now, with the walls and his coming sentence in sight, he settled into wary silence.

"Nervous to return home?" Tyrion asked, riding beside him. "Or will you find some way to sour even that for yourself?"

Jon met the jest with a roll of the eyes. "Are you ever nervous when you return to Casterly Rock after an extended absence?"

"No, I suppose not," Tyrion said. "But I've long ago abandoned all attempts at communal decency. Not to mention my extended absences are known by all to be temporary. You, on the other hand, have plenty of chums whom you've to justify your sudden change of heart. Any idea what you'll say?"

"I'll say the truth," Jon said, sighing. "And then I'll say a proper farewell. What more can I do?"

They reached the gates. Two guards stood stoically along each side while another looked down at them from the ramparts above, a bow surely in hand if not already drawn. As they neared, the guards brought their halberds up, crossing them before the gates and over the road.

"State your purpose, traveler," one said, looking pointedly up at Jon, who'd ridden ahead of the others.

Jyck's hand went to his sword, while Morrec and Yoren behind him seemed more put off by the man's tone than anything.

Tyrion's voice dipped low. "Well, you can start by endearing us to your countrymen."

Even as serious as Jon knew the Winterfell guards took their duty, he'd not expected such a terse welcome. Though, looking at the rest of the party, he supposed it made sense. Jyck and Morrec wore Lannister colors, and though he recognized one of the men preventing their advance, he supposed his own garb kept the guard from doing the same.

Luckily, Jon had no need to say anything as Ghost revealed himself to the others. Like his namesake, the direwolf came out as if from nowhere, padding before them all in silent steps. His red eyes searched them all, eventually settling on the men before him, as if just then noting their raised weapons.

The guards looked down at Ghost one of them backing away, the other approaching with a hesitant step.

"Hold on…" he said. His eyes went to Jon, then back to Ghost, then back to Jon again, gleaming in a new light. "That's… Jon Snow, is that you, boy?"

"Greetings, Quent," Jon said, smiling softly. "You've grown your beard thicker."

"For the snows, aye." The guard, Quent, looked over the rest of the party before returning his gaze to Jon, brow furrowed. "You've grown your wolf. Big enough when you left, but…"

Jon's own gaze went down to Ghost, and he himself noted how big the direwolf had gotten over the last two weeks. It wasn't much bigger, not truly, but Ghost was now clearly the size of any normal wolf, certainly on the bigger end. He'd once been the runt of the litter, a pup small enough for Jon to hold in a single hand. Looking at him now, Jon considered for the first time that the wolf would get large enough that riding him wouldn't be too far-fetched.

"I've come back, at least for a bit," Jon said. He thumbed at Tyrion and the others. "In the company of Lord Tyrion Lannister and his guard on their way south, as well as a brother of the Night's Watch. And there's an oathbreaker as well… Would you mind letting my brother know?"

Quent and the other guard looked at each other, some silent message passing between them. Jon and Tyrion did the same, though their own message only expressed confusion. Jyck looked bored, while Morrec and Yoren yawned and chatted away. Osha and Stiv lingered silently, and Ghost stared over them all.

"Is there something wrong?" Jon said, leaning forward. "Has something happened to Robb? To Bran? Rickon? Anyone?"

"In a matter of speaking…" The other guard shrugged at Quent, and the latter could only shake his head. He sighed, bringing a hand up to allay Jon's rattling nerves. "Nothing serious. I suppose you'd best speak to Lord Robb about it, however…"

He shouted at another guard, one further in. With a gesture of his hand, Quent sent the man off to the keep, likely to prepare those inside for visitors. Both guards then stepped back, their halberds rising with them and opening the way through. As Jon and the rest trotted forward, Quent inclined his head, eyes boring into Jon's with a strange weight. "Good to see you again, Jon… Lord Lannister…"

They rode into the yard, Osha and Stiv speeding their pace, and Jon could suddenly hear all the familiar sounds. The pounding of steel echoing from Mikken's forge. The barking of hounds, likely in the middle of their lunch, piling around and tearing into juicy cuts of meat. He saw too the servants gossip as they carried a dead elk into the kitchens, its legs tied and antlers cut out, likely stashed elsewhere.

The more Jon tried to immerse himself in these sounds, the more he noticed with suspicion the few details which only served to water the budding anxiety in his chest. The guards, both those at the walls and those closer on the yard, seemed to stare at his back the closer he came to the stables. He waved at those he recognized, and though they waved back, some shocked and others merely bemused by his presence, he always noted their lingering gaze out the corners of his eyes. And it wasn't only them; the more Jon recognized this attention, the more he saw it in the others. The gossiping servants would spot him, then those behind him, and begin whispering among themselves, voices lowered. When he passed by the forge, Mikken shouted a greeting, but Jon heard no following clink of hammer on iron when his horse carried on.

Most telling, Jon noticed that the Library Tower seemed burnt and in pieces, though it remained standing for the most part. Had there been some fire?

When they did reach the stables, Joseth blinked at the sight of them, as if to dispel a mirage. The new master of horse—as Hullen had ridden down with Lord Stark and the king—strode over toward them, hand reaching for Jon's reins.

"Jon? I thought I'd never see you again."

"You're not alone in that," Jon said, unmounting. He allowed the thin man to lead Steelfoot into the stable, and with a look to the others, raised a hand to cup his mouth. "Oh, and Joseth! Could you watch these others as well?"

The man paused, turning with a twitch of the head. "Ah… Of course. Just leave them there, I'll get right to it…"

Jon and Tyrion shared another look, before Jyck and Morrec and Yoren all dismounted. Morrec went to help Tyrion down, the dwarf unstrapping himself from his special saddle. Soon enough, they all stood rather awkwardly by their horses, waiting on the master of horse to return. When he did, he looked them all over once more, then reached for the reins of Tyrion's mare.

"It's nice to see you again, whatever the case," Joseth said, voice stilted. "You'd best go see Lord Robb, then. I'm sure he has… much to share with you."

"Aye," Jon said, head tilting. He looked at the others, shoulders shrugging. "Well… Come, I suppose I'll lead you all there."

They began walking, and by this point Jon saw that Jyck, Yoren, and even Morrec had sensed something peculiar in the air. Their eyes surveyed the yard and all those on it, all their hands drifting closer to the swords at their hips, Jyck going so far as to lay his on the pommel. Ghost, silent as ever, followed. Their boots crunched against the thin layer of snow underneath.

Tyrion waddled close, and without turning to look up at him, spoke in a voice barely audible. "Not the friendliest reception," he said, hands clasped behind his back.

"What's wrong, little dwarf?" Stiv said, smiling for the first time since his hands were bound. "Used to everyone suckling at your teat?"

Tyrion ignored him, as did everyone else, even as the man laughed harshly at his own joke. Jon just shook his head. "Something must've happened," he said. "Something public. That, or the rumor mill found new material."

"They'd best be this wary of all outsiders," Jyck said, gruff voice slipping from behind them. "Elsewise I'd feel insulted."

Jon had no response, and so merely stayed silent, leading the party toward the great hall. Once they reached the doors, another pair of guards met them, standing at either side, though thankfully they didn't move to block the way. Instead, both inclined their heads.

"Lord Lannister," one said, "Lord Robb awaits inside."

"So soon?" Jon asked.

One of the guards looked at him, face dour. "He's just got done receiving the smallfolk," he said. Without another word, they went to push the doors open.

Inside, the hall was vaguely lit by the darkening light of the day oozing through the windows, and Jon could see Robb's shape sitting on the high chair down the middle.

Jon looked down at Tyrion, stepping out of the way, and the dwarf smirked before taking the lead. The rest followed after him, entering the hall in rows of two; Tyrion at the front, Jyck and Morrec at either side of him, Yoren and Jon behind them, then their captives, and Ghost striding in at the rear.

Without his meaning to, Jon felt his nerves spark at the way rows of guards flanked them at either side of the hall. He'd seen it before, of course, as Eddard had always kept some around even while hearing plaints from the township. But it had never been quite so many, a dozen in all. In an insane moment of instinct, his own hand reached up to his hip, grabbing at air—he'd left both swords clasped to his saddle with Steelfoot. He nearly cursed himself for it, before feeling foolish for the urge to do so. What reason could he have for needing a blade within the walls of Winterfell?

As they neared, Jon saw Theon Greyjoy standing proudly at Robb's right. Hallis Mollen, once merely another guardsman, stood left of the high seat of the Starks. The seat was cold stone, polished smooth, the carved heads of direwolves snarling on the ends of its massive arms.

As for Robb himself, the Stark heir sat on the same chair their father so often sat, a smaller, wooden thing, decorated humbly with the Stark insignia at its back, like a shadow to its greater and more imposing brother. The heir glanced briefly at Jon, his eyes soon narrowing on Tyrion even as the dwarf and the rest bowed their heads.

Jon, of course, made sure to do the same. As he did, he noted the sword drawn across Robb's lap, the steel bare. He noted also the ringmail his brother wore, draped over boiled leather, as if ready to march off to battle. It was then that Jon understood that the stilted atmosphere they'd all felt was one of enmity.

"Tyrion Lannister," Robb said, voice dry, "I suppose you've had a good go of it here in the North?"

"So far, I have," Tyrion said. His voice was light, though Jon noticed the fidgeting of his fingers, grasping at air in gentle arcs. "I'll admit, however, that the thought of getting snowed in up here doesn't appeal to me, and I do miss the coast."

"And who is that? Jon Snow?" Theon leaned forward, eyes narrowed and lips curled in impish delight. "Don't tell me even the Wall couldn't stomach a bastard."

Jon had been expecting it, if not from anyone else then surely from Theon of all people, so he hardly blinked at the words. "They've plenty of those already," he said. "I figured one less wouldn't hurt them much."

"They cast you out for that tongue, more like."

Robb shot Theon a glare, or rather he merely took the glare already in place and pointed it sideways at the Ironborn ward. "And what of you all? What brings you to my seat?" he said, looking over Yoren and the two captives.

Yoren inclined his head once more, though the gesture looked more the result of a tired swoon than a sign of respect. Still, he managed to put a fist over his heart as was the custom. "My name's Yoren, m'lord. A brother of the Watch out to recruit along the roads, here at your hall in want of bread and salt for naught but a night. As for these two," he turned his head at Osha and Stiv, and both fidgeted at the attention of the whole hall. "A band o' brigands caught us unawares just this morn'. This is what's left of 'em. As you can see, an oathbreaker awaits your justice, and the other's a wildling, though I hardly know what you might do with her."

Robb hummed in the way Jon had seen their father do so often. "In that case, you might leave the deserter in the hands of my guardsmen. He'll await my sentence tomorrow in the comfort of a cell."

He flicked a finger, and at his command two of the guardsmen standing by the walls stepped forth. They walked to Stiv and took him from Yoren's grasp.

"As for the woman…" Robb rubbed his chin, and Jon noticed there the beginnings of a beard, growing in thin patches as it was. "Well, I've not had a wildling in my hall yet. Captain Hallis, what do you think?"

Jon raised a brow at the title, even more when the bearded man cleared his throat with some authority.

"I don't trust any wildling," Hallis said, his heavy voice carried by the echo of the hall. "And from the sound of it she's taken up the life of a road robber. I don't expect that she'll bend to northern ways"

Robb sighed. "Though she's an outlaw, I'd rather not have to kill a woman…"

"If I may, my lord…"

They all turned to Jyck, who's expression remained stony even under the gaze of Robb and all the Stark guardsmen.

"The woman would do well to work as a servant and learn these northern ways of yours," he said, and at his words Osha turned to him in a mixture of confusion and anger, though she didn't express it. "Should she not prove useful, you might then kill her and not have wasted what little worth she might've had."

"She's already begged for her life," Jon said, stepping in before Robb or Theon could grow angry at being advised by a Lannister servant. "Though she's chained now, she had plenty of opportunity to escape or take her revenge on our way here. I think it a good enough idea."

Robb looked at him, gaze heavy, then sighed again. "Very well, then. What say you, wildling? Will you kneel to me now, and live by our laws?"

Looking around her, Osha slowly knelt. "If it please you," she muttered sourly, head bowed. "… M'lord."

Jon felt his breath loosen as the woman stood at Robb's nod. To strengthen his relief, Tyrion spoke again, treating the matter as settled.

"You'd do well to question her on matters north of the Wall," the dwarf said. "I was meaning to inform you per Lord Commander Mormont's wishes, but I figure an eye witness would be best."

Robb nodded stifly, then looked at Yoren, who stood through these talks in some impatience. "As for you, Yoren, worry not," he said. "I'll set a room aside for your convenience, and you may eat at our table tonight. Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome here at Winterfell for as long as he wishes to stay."

"Any man of the Night's Watch," Tyrion repeated, "but not me, do I take your meaning, boy?"

Robb's scowl returned as he stood and pointed at the little man with his sword, and at this Jon bristled in shock. "I am the lord here while my mother and father are away, Lannister. I am not your boy."

"If you are a lord, you might learn a lord's courtesy," the dwarf said, ignoring the sword point in his face. "Your bastard brother has all your father's graces, it would seem."

Jyck and Morrec didn't seem quite as cavalier about the blatant threat, however, and the former nearly pulled his sword out then and there. The only thing that stopped him was a gesture from Tyrion, barely a twitch of his finger.

Just then, the sound of heavy footsteps thudded from the stairs by the corner of the room. In came Maester Luwin, and behind him the massive frame of Hodor, who cradled a bundle of limbs against his chest. With a start, Jon recognized this bundle as Bran, his little brother wrapped up like a baby in his furs.

"Jon," Bran gasped out from Hodor's arms.

The dwarf looked at Bran too, brow drawn up. "So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it." If it were possible, his voice took on a tone more sardonic. "You Starks are hard to kill."

"You Lannisters had best remember that," Robb said, lowering his sword. "Hodor, bring my brother here."

"Hodor," Hodor said, and he trotted forward smiling and set Bran in the stone seat alongside Robb's.

A mistake, in some sense. Even as children, Lord Stark had made it plain that none were to sit on it, though what punishment there came only took the form of stern words. The seat was where the Lords of Winterfell had sat since the days when they called themselves the Kings in the North. No Lord of Winterfell had sat it since Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon the Conqueror centuries before; to do so would be a matter of implicit treason towards the one true throne in the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet the ancient seat stood there still, carved out of the ground itself, a history which would never rot or rust. And Hodor must've merely thought it a convenient place to lay Bran's slack form. None commented on it, partially because the atmosphere was tense enough to begin with, but also because, as Jon sadly saw, Bran did not prompt much authority atop it.

Bran clasped the stone direwolf arms as he sat, his useless legs dangling like those of a puppet. Jon had to bury the hitch of his chest which burst forth at the sight of them. The two met eyes, and Jon tried his best to smile.

"Hello, little brother," he said. Then, looking sideways at Tyrion, he stepped forward. "Actually, my lord, you'll be pleased to know that Lord Tyrion has expressed some sympathy at Bran's current state. In fact, he's brought a gift."

At this, Robb's eyes narrowed further. "And what gift have you for my brother, Lannister?"

Tyrion scowled at Jon, who merely shrugged. H turned to Bran, face worn. "Do you like to ride, boy?"

Maester Luwin came forward. "My lord, the child has lost the use of his legs. He cannot sit a horse."

"Nonsense," Tyrion said. "With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can ride."

Bran shot forward at that, nearly falling from his seat. His voice came hoarsely. "I'm not a cripple!"

"Then I am not a dwarf," the dwarf said with a twist of his mouth. "My father will rejoice to hear it."

Theon laughed, as did Stiv behind them. Jon, for his part, fought the urge to kick the Lannister. He recognized the same wisdom which Tyrion had shared with him weeks before, but did not feel this to be the proper time, nor those the proper words, particularly as Robb's frown seemed to deepen with each syllable spoken by the dwarf.

Luckily, those same words seemed to pique Maester Luwin's interest. "What sort of horse and saddle are you suggesting?"

"A smart horse," Tyrion said. "The boy cannot use his legs to command the animal, so you must shape the horse to the rider, teach it to respond to the reins, to the voice. I would begin with an unbroken yearling, with no old training to be unlearned." He drew a rolled paper from his belt. "Give this to your saddler. He will provide the rest."

Maester Luwin neared and took the paper from the small hand. He unrolled it, studied it. "I see," he said, nose nearly touching the parchment. "You draw nicely, my lord. Yes, this ought to work. I should have thought of this myself."

"It came easier to me, Maester. It is not terribly unlike my own saddles."

"Will I truly be able to ride?" Bran asked. Looking at him now, Jon saw that the temper in him had changed, the furrow of his brow drawn up in fragile hope.

"You will," Tyrion said. "And I swear to you, boy, on horseback you will be as tall as any of them."

Jon smiled, and now it came easy. Hopeful, he looked over at Robb, whose own glare had disappeared as well, though it was replaced by puzzlement.

"Is this some trap, Lannister?" he asked. "What's Bran to you? Why should you want to help him?"

Tyrion placed a hand over his heart and grinned. "Jon asked it of me. And I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples and bastards and broken things."

Slowly, Robb seemed to deflate, as did Jyck and Morrec and even the guardsmen, all much to Jon's relief. Whatever the Stark household had been expecting, it seemed they hadn't quite gotten it. Once again, Jon felt as if he were missing some important detail, and although his absence had ensured this, he still couldn't help but feel, perhaps childishly, as if he'd been excluded from their counsel.

Then, the door to the yard flew open, and Rickon burst in, breathless, his small feet pattering against the stone. Behind him came the direwolves, Grey Wind and Sumer and Shaggydog, all of them grown from the pups they were before.

The boy stopped by the door, wide-eyed, but the wolves came in. Almost immediately upon seeing him, or perhaps having already smelled his scent outside, they neared Tyrion. Summer began to growl first. Grey Wind picked it up. They prowled toward the dwarf, a pack on the hunt.

"The wolves do not like your smell, Lannister," Theon noted, as if trying to keep his voice light, but it was obvious to all that he was just as taken aback as everyone else.

"I see that very well," Tyrion said, struggling to keep calm. "Perhaps I'd better take my leave." He took a step away from the nearing wolves.

As he did, Shaggydog came out of the shadows behind him, snarling. Tyrion recoiled, and

Summer lunged at him from the other side. Grey Wind lunged also, ready to bite at his arm, but in that moment a white blur came between them. Ghost scuffled with Grey Wind, both beasts growling and snapping at each other with more fury than they ever had before. Watching them, shocked into paralysis as everyone else, Jon had the sudden realization that they might actually be trying to kill each other.

Robb seemed to realize this too. "Grey Wind!" he shouted, voice booming across the hall. "To me! To me!"

At his command, Grey Wind retracted himself, jumping back with a snarl. Ghost found his footing and slowly neared his brother, snarling also, still smelling blood.

"Ghost," Jon said, voice markedly lower than Robb's. It was enough, however, and at once the direwolf stopped his prowl, standing instead in a ready crouch.

Summer and Shaggydog also rumbled at the throat, moving about around Tyrion, but Ghost stood between them, red eyes following their every step.

"Bran, Rickon," Robb said, tone wavering. "Call them off."

Bran was the first to wake from his daze. "Summer, here!"

Glancing from him to the dwarf, Summer crept away, settling at Bran's dangling feet. Rickon, having watched all these events with widened eyes, ran first to his brothers, stopping next to Robb before screaming down at his own wolf.

"Home, Shaggy!"

The youngest direwolf, fur blacker than all his brothers, snarled one last time at Tyrion before bounding over to his owner, and Rickon hugged him tightly around the neck.

In the sudden burst of violence, Jyck had fully bared his steel, as had Morrec. The former stared gravely at the wolves, still tensed for action, while the latter glanced nervously down at Tyrion, who had begun mopping at his brow with his scarf.

"Are you hurt, my lord?" Morrec asked.

"I've gone and dampened my breeches, but nothing was harmed save my dignity," Tyrion said. He looked at the white direwolf beside him. "I always knew I liked this one more than the rest for a reason."

Robb looked shaken. Looking at him, Jon saw that the Stark heir had now fully lost the guise of lord that he'd taken up at their audience. Now he looked far more like the Robb Jon had known before leaving: a boy of four and ten just like himself. "The wolves… I don't know why they did that…"

"Perhaps they thought me small enough to snack on," Tyrion said dryly. He bowed to Robb, stiff and hurried. "I thank you for calling them off, young lord. And now I will be leaving, truly."

"A moment, my lord," Maester Luwin said. He moved to Robb and they huddled close

together, whispering. Jon heard not what they were saying, but from Robb's pinched expression he could guess it was embarrassing.

As the maester moved away from him, Robb sheathed his sword. "I… I may have been hasty with you, Lannister" he said. He seemed to be looking over their heads at the open door behind them, as if unable to bring his eyes to theirs. "You've done Bran a kindness, and, well… The hospitality of Winterfell is yours if you wish it, my lord."

"Spare me your false courtesies, boy," Tyrion said. He'd finally managed to compose himself, but with that composure came a quiet anger Jon had yet to see in the Lannister. "You've made it clear that you do not want me here. I saw an inn outside your walls, in the winter town. I'll find a bed there, and both of us will sleep easier. I might even find myself a wench for my trouble."

The dwarf twisted on his heel, hand waving at his men. Jyck and Morrec sheathed their blades, and at this the guardsmen all around them seemed to shift their feet.

"Jon, Yoren, we go south at daybreak," Tyrion said, already walking to the entrance. "You will find me on the road, no doubt." With that he made his exit, and his men followed.

Watching him leave, Jon felt a peculiar split in himself. He thought to follow the dwarf out, but as soon as he did he refused to do so. Turning to Robb and his other brothers, Jon breathed in, and to his small comfort, Ghost walked up to him, standing by his side. He drew what little solace he could from that.


The godswood lay in a cold haze that evening. With winter now upon them, few orange or red leaves littered the ground. White wood, naked trees rose up from the cold dirt, their roots surrounded by the natural mulch of their own creation. The pond had not yet frozen over, but even now Jon could see the lack of frogs and, and having dipped his hand upon its surface he knew it wouldn't be long before ice formed over its still waters.

Robb found him sitting there on the ground. He neared with Grey wind at his side, and two wooden training swords in his hands. Before Jon could say anything, he had to catch one of them against his chest.

"I know you want to talk," Robb said, standing over him, "but I also know you've the urge to give me a beating, so I thought we'd settle that first."

Jon looked at the wooden sword now in his arms. Ghost, having been resting beside him, now looked up as Grey Wind came. The two wolves sniffed at each other, both tepid, before dashing off together into the woods. He turned his head up at his own brother.

"What?" Robb said, raising his blunted blade. "Don't tell me you've gone soft in your time away."

"You'll wish I had," Jon said, standing up. He unclasped his cloak, letting it fall, before raising his own sword. The two looked at each other, both waiting and watching. They hear the barking of the wolves and the drift of a wind unencumbered by leaves.

Robb struck first. An overhead swing, aimed down at Jon's shoulder. Jon parried it, letting the blade slide down his own, before replicating the move, Robb's guard now completely open. As his arm came down, Robb caught it by the wrist, and before Jon could pull back, Robb twisted and threw him over onto his back.

Jon hit the ground with a gasp, his bad shoulder spiking up, but he had to roll onto it to avoid Robb's ensuing stab. Straining his shoulder even more, Jon used the bad arm to throw himself back onto his feet. He parried another swipe, then blocked the following one, trapping Robb's sword against his guard. Jon twisted the blade, trying for a disarm, but Robb drew back and pulled his sword with him.

They circled each other, waiting again, though now Jon couldn't deny the intense soreness in his shoulder and a good part of his chest. He recalled too that Robb had learned long ago not to take it easy on him. Years against him on the training yard had forged Robb's swordplay into one of desperation, where any opening was to be exploited and any vulnerability on his own part was to be escaped from.

Thinking on this, Jon went on the offense with a heavy step forward and a heavier swing at Robb's arm. The other boy parried it easily aside, of course, as Jon had made the move obvious to see and avoid. But where this should've had him stumble, weight suddenly displaced, Jon instead leaned into the swing and spun all the way around on his heel. He ducked under Robb's follow-up slash, and as he turned his other leg came around and kicked Robb's ankle, tripping it and sending the other boy tumbling down.

As Jon finished his spin, he lay the wooden tip of his practice blade on Robb's chest, pressing down lightly.

"I believe that's another win for me," Jon said, breathing heavier.

Robb's own breath matched his. With a groan, the Stark heir propped himself up on his elbows. "You're as sneaky as ever, Snow," he said. Curling up to sit, he rubbed at the back of his head, fingers digging into his red curls. "That hurt."

Jon sat as well, sword propped against his good shoulder. He put a hand on his bad one, pressing on it experimentally and flinching each time he did. "You can take it, my lord."

Robb shoved him, and Jon laughed.

"It's a rot," Robb said. "You're lucky not to inherit that seat, Jon. It's worse than all our arithmetic and etiquette lessons put together."

"I'd hope so, seeing as it's why you sat through them."

"Rickon's started to as well," Robb said. "Reading, at least. Maester Luwin's taken advantage of mother's absence and started on him early. I think he hopes to have at least one of us take some interest in his work."

"If Rickon's his last hope, I truly do pity him."

At this they both laughed. Rickon could hardly keep still to eat, and that was something the youngest Stark actually liked doing. The thought of him holding a book, much less reading it, seemed as fantastic as Old Nan's tales.

But as their laughter waned, Jon felt the mood turn once more. Without the adrenaline of battle, he returned to those same churning thoughts which had assailed him ever since he'd returned to Winterfell.

"Where is your lady mother, anyway?" he asked. "I thought she'd stayed to help you during father's absence."

"Are you saying I can't take care of things myself?" When Jon only sent him a deadpan look at that, Robb grinned. His expression then became one of ponderous worry, and he looked down at the ground between his feet. "She left shortly after you all did. It's… Well…"

Jon leaned closer. "What? Robb, it's clear something's happened. Tell me."

Robb's face was uncertain, but when he saw the severity in Jon's look, he sighed, nodding. "You'll not like it, but… The truth is, after you and father left, there was an attempt on Bran's life."

Jon rose at that, as if drawing back from a sudden flame. "An… Someone tried to assassinate him? Is he alright?"

"Yes, Jon. He's fine." Robb waved him back down, and after a moment Jon sat again. The two inclined their heads close, and the night served to nurture the a conspiratorial air which now encircled them. "You saw him. You talked to him. All's fine with Bran, but it's the assassin we should be worried about. Or rather, the one who hired him."

"And who's that?"

"We don't know for certain, but…"

"… But?"

Robb looked at him, eyes steady. "The knife he carried was Valyrian steel, with a dragonbone hilt." At Jon's frown, he nodded. "A bit gaudy for your average catspaw, isn't it? Mother thought so too. We think it the work of another great house. One who just recently slept under our roof."

"The Lannisters…" Jon's voice bled with revulsion even as he said it. "But how can we know for certain? They left along with father and the king."

"Mother left with Ser Rodrik to investigate in secret, and took the knife as evidence to father in King's Landing. We'll see what comes of it, but Jon…" Here Robb grabbed Jon's arm, eyes boring into his. "As you ride south with the Imp, keep your eyes open. Perhaps he's got a clue on hand."

"Tyrion wouldn't do such a thing!" Jon said harshly. It came without warning, and at Robb's flinch he calmed, almost out of guilt. He looked down, hand once more going to his shoulder. "I mean… You saw his gift to Bran. What reason could he have to help someone he plotted to murder?"

Robb was silent. As they each thought over their words, Ghost and Grey Wind came bounding into sight, nipping at each other like always. Watching them, Robb smiled again, though it came softer than before.

"Have you ever gotten the impression that those wolves of ours know more than we think?" Robb asked, and Jon looked up at him, if only due to the sudden change in subject. "Sometimes, looking at Grey Wind, I feel … I can't really say, but it's like he can understand me without my having to say anything at all. Does that make sense?"

Slowly, Jon nodded. "I've felt the same with Ghost," he admitted. "Sometimes, it's like my commands to him aren't made with words. Like I say them out loud due to nothing but… Well, my own comfort, I suppose."

"Exactly!" Here, Robb's smile faded. "In the hall, when the wolves barged in, I could hardly believe it. They've never been so wild. Even Shaggydog doesn't get like that without good reason. A part of me thought that they might know something I didn't."

"You thought they could smell the blood on Tyrion's hands," Jon said, and Robb nodded. His frown deepened as the wolves neared them, settling at their side, and Jon almost instinctively reached over to scratch at Ghost's ear. "Mayhaps… But in that case, why did Ghost defend him? Isn't it just as likely that they... I don't know, reacted to your own suspicions?"

"It's possible," Robb said, Grey Wind setting his head on the boy's lap. "But we can't know, can we? Look, all I'm asking is that you stay attentive. We can't do anything without evidence regardless."

"I just…" Jon gulped, struggling with the words. "I just can't see him as a murderer."

"And if he is?" Robb asked, and at this Jon's ministrations on Ghost stopped entirely. "If he's the cause, or if he knew… Were he guilty somehow, you can't hesitate, Jon. Bran almost died. Had it not been for Mother and Summer and a heap of luck, that Valyrian steel would've stuck him dead. It's an act of war."

War. The word bounced around his head in fits and stops, and Jon smelled blood again, and his wound flared, and he remembered what Arya had said in the crypt in what felt like so long ago.

If I do kill anyone, it'll only be evil men.

"If he's at fault…" Jon tasted each word as it came, and they tasked sour. "If he is, I'll deal with him myself."

Robb's grip on his arm tightened. "For our family."

"Aye," Jon said. "For our family."

Ghost looked up at him, pawing at his hand. Jon's hand returned to the wolf's head, petting it, comforting himself just as much.


AN:

We're back. Some of the feedback I've gotten has given me the impression that the story works well when split into segmented parts, and thinking forward into my future plans I find that this is very apt. So, as you might've noticed, this is now the beginning of part two. This chapter is about twice as long as what I'm used to writing for this story, but I thought it necessary to set up this next leg of the story. Don't get used to it.

Thanks again for reading and reviewing.