2. Honor on the Moon, Chapter 2


The sun barely peeked into sight, and as it did they walked out to the yard. Robb dressed in a lord's jerkin, a grey Stark cloak draped over his shoulders, whereas Jon had donned the same black leathers he'd traveled with from the Wall. Both were joined by their wolves, who padded behind them.

"I've yet to replace our good septa either," Robb was saying, pulling on his gloves. "You'd think we'd have no need with the girls gone, but it turns out some of our stewards were learning their numbers from her. Maester Luwin is of course too busied with the boys and his research…"

"It's not too late to join me," Jon said with a laugh.

"And it's not too late for you to stay. Mayhaps you'll sit the chair a bit and allow me some rest."

They reached Joseth at the stables, their horses already saddled.

"Safe goings, my lord," Joseth said, handing Robb the reins of his brown stallion.

Robb took them, his other hand coming up to pat the beast's neck. "Thank you, Joseth, though I'll not be long. Make sure to get the hay ready for our return."

"Of course. And farewell to you, Jon. Nice to have you come back if even just for a night."

Jon mounted his horse along with Robb, and the two strutted toward the front gate. It was early enough that the yard remained quiet yet, though even now the smell of breakfast seeped from the kitchens, and some guardsmen trained at forms along the armory. The hounds had already woken, and the hungriest of them barked their complaints, the sharp sounds eliciting a brief twitch of Ghost's ear before the wolf grew bored of them.

"You don't seem to need much help," Jon said. "The place runs smooth as ever."

"We've a fairly well-equipped household, aye."

"I'm serious." Jon turned to his brother. "Father was right to trust you. I'll be sure to tell him things are just fine in Winterfell."

Robb smiled at that, though he flushed at the compliment. "I'm young yet, but… Thank you, Jon." He breathed a cloud of cool air, smile turning playful. "And don't think I've not noticed your own swashbuckling air. Who knew two weeks away would turn you into a storied adventurer?"

"I've only one story so far," Jon grumbled. He looked ahead, where some other men waited for them. "But I suppose we've both had to grow up a bit."

Yoren loitered by the gate, already on his own horse, along with four guardsmen. One of them, Quent, sat mounted on his horse, a wooden block strapped to his saddle. Another, looking more bored than the others, stood alongside an equally bound Osha, though her own appearance was decidedly neater, the woman having thrown out her old rags for a clean woolen dress she seemed decidedly uncomfortable wearing. The last two flanked a frazzled Stiv, whose hands remained bound behind his back, face and clothes matted with dirt and sweat.

"Hold," Robb said, pulling his horse to a stop.

Frowning, Jon did the same. "What is it?"

Eyes shifting sideways, Robb leaned close, voice lowered. "Be honest, Jon. That one story you told last night to Bran and I… When you killed that man, how did it feel?"

His frown softened, and now Jon looked at his brother with consideration. The Stark heir had darkened skin around his eyes, and his jaw seemed tense. Jon wondered how long Robb had stayed up wondering about his coming duty. Had he lay as sleepless as his brother, that first night after Edwen's death?

"If I'm honest, I don't quite know how to feel about it," Jon said, sighing. "I think I was right to kill him, but I can't feel good at having done so. The best I can tell myself is that sometimes killing others is necessary."

After a quiet moment, Robb nodded, hand clamping on Jon's shoulder in a strong pat. He straightened on his saddle, raising his voice. "Are you all ready?"

Watching them trot up, Quent raised a hand in greeting. "Aye, my lord. We've the blade as well." He gestured to one of the guards, upon whose back was hung a hefty great sword. Not as large as Ice, but not every blade was made from Valyrian steel, and so its weight must've been hard enough to carry.

"Excellent," Robb said.

Stiv chortled, though it came rather haggard. "Can you even hold that sword up, Stark boy?"

One of the guards cuffed him over the head. "Enough to take your head, scum."

As they passed, Jon noticed how Robb refused to look down at the deserter, chin up and face stern. Grey Wind, on the other hand, made his own irritation clear, snarling up at the bound man in a low, throaty growl. It was enough for Stiv to hunch away.

Shaking his head, Jon looked to Yoren, watching the man scratch at his uncombed beard. "Earlier than you're used to?"

"I've travelled these roads longer than you've been a pea in your mother's belly, Snow," Yoren grumbled. He stretched his arms over his head, silent yawn stifled by the clopping of his horse. "You'd best worry for yer own disposition, and that of this wildling here."

Osha looked up at this, lips curled, but stayed silent.

The Stark heir led them out of the gate and out into Winter Town. They rode slowly along the main road, grabbing some attention from the smallfolk, though what stores and stands there were out in the market had only begun setting up. Then, at a split, they drew their horses to a stop along with the folk walking behind them.

Robb looked back at Osha, who looked back with equal steadiness, then he looked over at Jon, voice lowered.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

Jon shrugged. "Can't hurt with her like that. You'll have her back soon enough anyway."

Grumbling, Robb then looked down at the guardsman at Osha's side, and the man straightened under his gaze. His voice steeled to that of a lord's. "Have her in the servant's quarters as soon as she's done with whatever it is, then. As soon as she's done, am I clear?"

"Aye, my lord."

Nodding, Robb sighed and reached into his pockets. "Before I forget," he said, "here."

He threw Jon a small leather bag which rang as it tumbled through the air. Jon caught it with a fumble, weighing it in his hand. He could tell what it was without having to open it, as anyone could.

"I can't take this," he said.

"Of course you can. Your purse is barren enough for ten dragons." Robb saw that he meant to argue more, and clicked his tongue. "Snow, don't doubt me here after all that praise. You might travel with a Lannister, but gods damn me if I'll not look out for my wayward brother."

They held each other's eyes, Jon clutching the coins in a tight grip. Finally, he sighed and pocketed the bag.

"You're a prick, Stark" he said.

"And you're a bore, Snow." Robb smirked, holding out his arm. "But I suppose I've gotten used to it."

Jon took the offered hand. They looked at each other, thrilled and downcast, and Jon was glad he'd stopped by Winterfell one final time. His goodbyes before the Wall had felt definitive, and he'd not been able to clamp down on the forlorn air with which he'd preformed them. Now, going south, having played with Rickon and entertained Bran with tales the night before, and having seen Robb as a lord, he felt strangely nostalgic. He looked forward to feeling that way again, when he came back one day.

"Farewell, brother," he said.

The Stark's smile waned, though it held still in the soft glow of daybreak. "Give father and the girls my love," he said. Then, hand tightening, "and eyes up on the road. Safe goings, Jon. You too, Yoren."

"Yeah, yeah," the man said, scratching at his eyes.

Nodding, Jon waved Osha and her guard forward, his horse striding away from the others. Yoren followed at a slower pace, and after one last sniff at his wolven brother, Ghost did the same. They weaved through the thin foot traffic of the morning, heading for the town's edge, eyes roaming about for a mounted dwarf.


The Lannister party waited along the road, just on the cusp of leaving town. They sat atop their horses, looking at the crowd of smallfolk milling about them, eyes searching, Jon figured, for him and Yoren.

It must've been surprising, then, to see Osha with them. She walked now with purpose, not the shameful shuffle she'd travelled with the day before. Even the guard at her side seemed to have trouble keeping pace.

"Jon, Yoren," Tyrion said, hands tight on his reins. "And you've brought a guest. Or will she be joining us too?"

"Not as far as I know," Jon said. He looked at Osha, who stood now with the bulk of attention on her shoulders.

Feeling his gaze, she made to raise her hands, but only succeeded in fumbling fruitlessly with her bindings. The guard made to grab her then, but she stopped before he could lay a hand on her and instead raised her chin, looking toward a bemused Jyck.

"You kneelers think low of us Free Folk," she said, "but we're no more savage than you. I came because you showed me mercy, southron, and I would thank you for it."

Jyck stared at her along with the others, silent. Finally, Tyrion spoke, voice sardonic. "Why, Jyck, who'd have thought it? You were the first of us to woo a northern maid!"

Yoren laughed outright, and Morrec covered his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent chuckling. Osha glared at them, eyes shooting anger at each before finding Jyck and doing the same. Her words were one thing, Jon thought, but by the furrow of her brow he saw that they certainly came with much reluctance. Still, she stood before them, proud and impatient, but there nevertheless, and Jon found that he could not laugh.

Jyck seemed of similar mind, though for different reasons. "I care not for your gratitude, wildling," he barked. "If you're to thank me, do it by getting out of my sight and serving your new lord well." With that he turned his horse, trotting away down the road, his own face red with irritation. He gave Osha one last look, a glare as stern as ever. "You'd best count your blessings and make off with the one chance you've been given! Now, my lord, if we may please get on with things?"

Sighing, Tyrion turned his own horse to follow. "Oh, if we must. Come then, everyone. Another day of chaffed legs awaits."

As they all left, Jon looked back at Osha, still confused. She glared up at him, though at seeing his somber face she wilted a bit.

"I thank you too, wolf lord," she said, and before he could reply, she walked off back into town and toward Winterfell's gates, followed by a guard struggling to keep at her heels.

Eyes tarrying on her retreating back, Jon kicked his horse into motion after the others. His first impulse was to talk to Tyrion, but the dwarf had already ridden up to Jyck and it looked like they were in some discussion about logistics. That, and all Jon's uncertainties had seeped back into mind like encroaching mold, so instead he turned to Morrec, who seemed otherwise unoccupied save for passively examining the northern countryside.

"Wasn't he a bit too harsh on her?" Jon asked.

The man startled at his words, thick eyebrows drawn in surprise as his head snapped toward him.

"Ah, what was that?"

"Jyck. To Osha, the wildling. She came to thank him. He could afford to be more lenient."

Morrec's large nose scrunched in thought. Then, as if waking from a dream, his beady eyes widened, and he laughed in jolly cheer. "Oh, that! Well, I suppose you're right, though Lord Tyrion didn't help things."

"Mayhaps, but what's that to do with it?"

"Oh, Jyck's got a habit of getting into these moods. He's a tad shy, you see."

Jon frowned. "Don't tell me Tyrion was right about the wooing on his part…"

Laughing again, Morrec shook his head. "No, nothing like that. Jyck's engaged to marry already anyway." At Jon's surprise, he nodded, grinning in the special pleasure of gossip. "Aye, man's got himself a lady waiting for him at Lannisport! But no, Snow, Jyck's just got a soft spot for women."

"Really?" Jon said. "Him?"

Morrec looked at him, amused. "Of course. I know he's a bit rough, but he's got his own honor to think of."

"You sound like you've known each other for a long while."

"Since we were younglings," Morrec said. "Started working for the Lannisters together too…"

As Morrec told it, he and Jyck grew up as neighbors in the low rungs of Lannisport, sons to sailor merchants and fisherwomen. With so many fathers away on business, busy sailing along the Sunset Sea down to the Whispering Sound or up to Ironman's Bay, their young boys ran along the docks or through the alleyways like mice in a maze, their mothers powerless to rein them in with anything less than the promise of supper. The days, hot and heavy with sweat, would often lead them down to the seashore, where they could wave at the ships passing out to deeper waters.

The image enraptured Jon, far as it was from his own childhood of grey skies and pantries filling for winter. "I've seen the ocean once before," he said. "My father took me with him to Deepwood Motte some years ago. On clear days we could even see Bear Island far off from the shore."

"Ah, it's a grand thing, to live along the sea." Morrec smiled softly, mellowed now by the hoof-beat of their trotting. "Months now we've been on the road, Jyck and I. First I've gone so long without the salt breeze."

"If you miss it so much, you should've come along the Wall to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," Yoren said. "We've our own salt breeze too, here in the north."

"I might've, had Lord Tyrion felt the need." Morrec scratched at his round jaw, gloved hand running over the beginnings of a beard. "Though I admit I'm curious to see what things might look like east of the kingdoms. All I know comes from behind the walls of King's Landing."

Lord Stark's current home, as well as that of Jon's half-sisters. Hopefully, he'd join them soon enough, if only for a while. "What's the capital like?"

Yoren snorted. "A shit-heap," he said.

Jon noticed how Morrec struggled to keep the wince from his face. "Is it really?"

"It's not as bad as that," Morrec said. "Far more people than you'd see anywhere else, and it can get crowded. But the Red Keep is a wonder, and from there you'll see more homes than you'd ever imagine."

"You'll see Flea Bottom too, 'rounding all those nice little streets." Yoren spit down from his saddle. "Rotten as any slum and twice as large. It stinks up the whole rest of it." He looked at Jon, grinning at the boy's discomfort. "Can't go anywhere in King's Landing that doesn't smell like shit. Folk massed like sardines, all sittin' on a shit-heap of a city. That's the capital, Snow."

"Maybe so," Morrec said, and now he seemed to grow irritated. "But should you see it, you'll not forget the Great Sept of Baelor. The Dragonpit too, even if you can't step inside."

"Fine buildings," Yoren admitted. "The lords make sure to polish their favorite places."

Jon realized then that the two men flanking him had journeyed long and far, perhaps all around the Seven Kingdoms between them. Wandering crows like Yoren walked up and down the Kingsroad often enough, and as well-travelled as Tyrion seemed, Morrec might've attained a similar experience at his side.

He slouched on his seat, looking down to make sure Ghost hadn't silently run off, though he knew the wolf would in due time. "Where else have you been?" Jon asked.

"Oh, I've run the whole length of this damn continent," Yoren was saying, combing through his beard. For the first time, he seemed somewhat pleased, if not with his memories then at least with himself. "From the Bay of Seals down to the Broken Arm and back up along the Narrow Sea."

"Should I have joined the Watch, mayhaps I'd have been a wandering crow," Jon said. "Though I suppose there's not…"

He stopped himself, but Yoren must've gleamed his meaning by the tone of his voice. "There's not what, boy?" the man asked, lips curled in frank amusement. "Honor in it? Glory?" At Jon's hesitant nod, he laughed. "Aye, the rangers get it all up there, fighting the wildlings. But don't be fooled, Lord Snow. A'times they send me out with the cart, and I'm stuck along the road, but in a case like this with only myself and a horse, all I'm to do is commiserate with the lordly folk. I come down to good weather and softer beds and better wine, and my only chore is to find my daily meals. There's a freedom in it you'll not see from any of those bums up on the ice."

"Truly?" Morrec said, chuckling. "You don't come off as the sort to wanderlust, Yoren."

Kicking at the sides of his horse, Yoren dropped his smile. "Aye, well, I might as well enjoy what little I can with these damn vows."

Morrec hummed in thought. "Well, as for myself, I accompanied Lord Tyrion once to Oldtown. Why, we could see the Hightower from far beyond the gates…"

They talked for a good part of the day as they rode, the first they'd truly done so even in the weeks since they'd met. Though Jon would've liked to attribute this to the strained circumstances of their trip—filled as it was with escaped criminals and roving bandits—the truth was that he'd simply been rather shy himself. After all, what might he have to say to them that was of any value? But after everything, it seemed to Jon that such thoughts had only made him miss much.

As they rode and shared stories, Jon saw in his mind the ensnaring image of stone-topped peaks and blown out sails cast over churning waves. The Eyrie atop the Giant's Lance. Harrenhal and Casterly Rock and Sunspear and all those other great castles Jon had heard about from the stories. Their party would soon come upon the Ruby Ford on their way to King's Landing, and he'd already spent time at the Wall. Perhaps, once he talked to his father, he would act a wandering crow and seek out all those places that had so enraptured him in his daydreams.

Ghost suddenly stopped, ears up. Jon felt it too, though he couldn't place what exactly had disturbed the wolf so, and nearly stopped himself, arms readying to pull on his reins.

It was then that they all heard it. A voice, far off down the road. Seeing Jyck and Tyrion gallop off before them, Jon and Morrec and Yoren glanced at each other before kicking up to the same pace, Ghost following behind. Perturbed, Jon put a hand on the hilt of his sword, rocking up and down with the beat of his horse.

As they rode, the voice grew louder, and soon enough they all pulled up alongside a wagon run off the road, nothing out of place save for the beast which had once surely pulled it. Its tongue sat empty on the dirt along with the origin of the shouts, a boy half Jon's age kneeling over an overturned body.

The boy looked up at them, face pleading, and upon seeing it Jon immediately dismounted. He was followed shortly after by Jyck and Morrec and Ghost.

"Stay, Ghost!" Jon said, hand out toward the wolf, having watched how scared the boy was as the beast drew near.

"What happened there?" Tyrion asked, looking over them from his saddle.

Tears in his eyes, the boy made to speak but seemed to choke on his words, gasping in effort with only strained warbling to show for it. Jyck ignored him entirely, walking around to the body and kneeling down to examine it. He put a hand on the neck—it was a man, wrinkled and glassy-eyed, blood pooled by his head. Looking up at them, Jyck heaved a sigh, face grim.

"Dead," he said. "Looks like a blunt tool."

By then, Morrec had kneeled too, though he did so to calm the crying boy. "Shush, child," he said, voice soft. "Shush. We'll not hurt you now. Can you tell us what happened?"

"Th-They said…" the boy gulped, breathing hard. "They kept saying goro gran, goro gran, goro gran…"

The boy kept mumbling the phrase, trembling and ignorant of them even as Morrec grabbed him by the shoulder, trying to calm him. Ghost came up to Jon, and this time the boy seemed not to notice.

Tyrion frowned, discomforted as the rest. "Goro gran… Well, that doesn't tell us anything."

"Tells us plenty, dwarf lord," Yoren said, nose flared in distaste. "Goro gran, it means 'kill the man' in the old tongue. Don't know 'bout you all, but I don't know anyone using that this side of the Wall."

His meaning was clear. "Wildlings…" Jon breathed, and Yoren gave him a grave nod in response.

"What should we do, my lord?" Jyck said, still staring down at the body.

The dwarf looked at Jyck, then at Morrec with the boy in his arms, then at Yoren, and finally at Jon, Ghost staring intently back. Judging by his face, Jon could tell some headache had already subsumed him, and Tyrion confirmed it by rubbing at his temples.

"Bring him along," he said, tired. "We'll see what Lord Cerwyn has to say. Can't be too far now…"

Nodding, Jyck stood and walked back to his horse, hardly a glance back at the dead man on the ground. Morrec too, plucking the boy up by the armpits without much issue—still crying and rattled, Jon didn't think they'd hear much else from him for a while.

As for Jon, he gave one last look to the body, hand on Ghost's head, before walking back to Steelfoot. They carried on, the midday sun beaming high above, and once again, conversation was sparse between them.


Men congregated around the yard of the castle. Some five of them, wearing chainmail over their leathers and swords strapped to their belts. Rallying them was a man in full plate, a Ser Kyle Condon, his surcoat bearing the black axe of House Cerwyn.

"We'll rout them onto the road!" he was saying, voice booming over the yard so that even the servants stopped their duties to look. "Then, we'll ride them down!"

Jon watched them from under a canopy along the castle walls. Mostly, he focused on the boy sat astride one of the horses, back to one of the armed men. Holden, the boy they'd found some hours before, father dead and soul crushed by a stray band of wildlings. The men would deliver him to his mother and sister waiting in a village nearby, a family unaware that their one pillar of support had been killed by chance. Then, once the boy was safely back home, they'd hunt down the culprits. All this and more Ser Kyle shouted from atop his horse.

"He certainly plays it well," Tyrion said, standing and watching beside Jon. "The role of a knight."

Watching Kyle, Jon couldn't help but agree, more when the men around him roared their approval. "It's not many men they're sending out."

"They don't need to," Tyrion said, shrugging. "And the Cerwyns don't have many men to give in any case. We of the great houses are rare in that respect."

Jon could see that. He was no Stark, but having lived in Winterfell he'd gotten used to thinking of castles as townships in and of themselves. Castle Cerwyn was a hunk of rock by comparison, with only two towers and a no godswood of their own. The thought made him uncomfortable. How much more did the Starks have than even their closest vassals?

"We'll stay until tomorrow morning," Tyrion said. "Ride out at daylight, just like today. I'm hoping we'll not run into any more trouble."

"With our record so far, I'd not be too optimistic."

"Ha! Then I'll be sure to keep close to you, Jon. Let the warriors do all the work."

Unbidden, Jon considered that Tyrion might not like the work he would do should certain things come to light. But he couldn't hold onto his doubt just then. It took too much energy.

"That boy will have to grow up rather quickly," Tyrion said.

"Yes…"

They watched the men roar once more. Then, the castle gates opening before them, they rode out, Ser Kyle leading the way. As they did, Holden looked over at Jon and Tyrion, face blank as it had been ever since he'd come into the castle, tears dried up. The boy raised a hand, waving a dull farewell, and Jon did the same, trying not to show too much of his pity.

Tyrion was waving as well, though with his height there was a chance the boy hadn't seen. "You did a kind thing, by the way," he said.

Jon clenched his jaw. "And what exactly did I do?"

"Oh, don't be coy." Tyrion walked over to one of the barrels set upright against the stone wall. Coiling like a spring, he leaped up and landed sitting atop it. "The others might've been distracted, but I saw you slip those dragons into his hands." Shifting around to get comfortable, the dwarf looked at Jon as he leaned against the canopy leg, face tight in discomfort. "Don't tell me you gave him all you had."

"… Would ten dragons be enough for a new horse, you think?"

"Yes, it's plenty…" Tyrion sighed, though he was smiling. "Seriously, Jon, do you expect me to pay for your trudge south all out of my own pocket?"

"I figured you had enough money." Jon looked over him, brow drawn up. "Consider it a charge for my services as your warrior."

"Should you be travelling with anyone but me, you'd be in right trouble."

Despite himself, Jon returned Tyrion's smile. They chuckled together, shaking their heads, then looked out at the yard. The servants had by then carried on with their tasks, not enough to ignite the same bustle Jon was used to, but a few women chatted away as they carried baskets of fruit into the kitchens, and he could see the maester step into the rookery across from them, likely to inform the nearby castles of the local threat.

The thought nagged at him, and Jon felt his smile drop. Even now, Yoren was talking to Lord Cerwyn, discussing the situation north of the Wall. The wandering crow had done the same with Robb back in Winterfell along with Osha, and though Jon had been too busy with Bran and Rickon to sit in for that meeting, he'd heard a summary on their way south after finding Holden and the run down wagon.

So many wildlings climbing over the Wall, sowing chaos in the north, it only happened perhaps every few generations. Once again, a King-Beyond-the-Wall had risen. Mance Rayder, a deserter of the Watch, had begun to unite wildling tribes, set on building the numbers necessary to launch an invasion on the Seven Kingdoms. He wouldn't win, of course, even if he did take the Wall, but he might just get into a position where the great lords would have to negotiate for peace.

This alone would be enough to worry about, and certainly enough for Yoren to go around requesting more men for the Wall. But, Yoren had told them, it seemed there was more to it. Another man, a wildling known by all who'd heard of him simply as the Weeper, had also begun a campaign to unite the tribes north of the Wall. For him, as Osha told it, there would be no negotiation. Only death, one way or the other.

Two kings, battling for support in an unclaimed and lawless land. Already their clashes had led to a waft of refugees, and when their conflict eventually plunged into open war that waft was sure to become a violent wave. Should the brothers of the Watch not be ready for it, they'd surely get washed away by it before the war's victor even reached the Wall's steps. Even now, it seemed those in the north would have to take more care on the roads. It was impossible to know how many wildlings had already crossed over.

"Must feel strange," Tyrion said, softly. "Escaping the north just as it becomes more dangerous."

Jon shrugged. "What use am I? I've but one pair of hands."

"One and a half, more like. Is that shoulder any better?"

"A bit." It still hurt even as he rode, each step of his horse a tiny nail. Thinking on it, Jon figured he'd been north of the Wall himself, if only briefly, and ironically enough, the most dangerous person he'd found there was a man of the kingdoms just like himself. "That woman, Osha," he said, tasting the unfamiliar name, different that any he'd known. "She gave me her thanks too. Before her, I'd never met a wildling."

"Other than the one who pressed a blade to your neck?" Tyrion asked.

"You know what I meant."

"Yes, yes… I suppose she's the first wildling I've met too. Not many of them hanging about the westerlands."

"Why…" Jon hesitated, then, wary of himself, "Why do we keep them out of the kingdoms anyway?"

"You should know already," Tyrion said, eyeing him. "After all, it was your ancestor who built that Wall."

Bran the Builder, his brother's namesake and the legendary founder of House Stark. The man who built the Wall and Winterfell, and according to the tales, did so with the help of giants. Jon had heard the stories from Old Nan many times, and had studied it more thoroughly with Maester Luwin. If there were any string of history he'd made sure to remember, it was that of the Starks. Yet, in all those stories and pages and scrolls, Jon had never seen a reason for it. He'd never even thought to ask for one.

Having seen the Wall himself, been impressed and somewhat horrified by the sheer size of it, he found it strange now to think that such a thing could be built to keep the kingdoms safe from wildlings. The stories painted them as beasts in human skin, as fiends who ran off with unwatched babes in the night. As he grew older, Jon had realized the exaggeration in these descriptions, but it wasn't until he'd seen and spoken to one himself that he could fully appreciate the depths of their fantasy.

"Why shouldn't we let the wildlings come into the kingdoms?" Jon asked, dropping all pretense. "They're wild, but they've some sense of honor too, don't they? One of them did, at least, and who's to say most wouldn't if given the chance?" He frowned, struggling to put his thoughts to words after a day of brooding on them. "They wouldn't have reason to invade us if they were part of us…"

"You assume that they'd like to be part of us," Tyrion said. "From what I saw, Osha wasn't too keen on becoming a kneeler, as she called it, even if it did keep her alive."

"But maybe if not for all those years—"

"All those years already happened." Tyrion leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands propping his head. "What you say might've worked in the days of Bran the Builder, but centuries can't be cast out so easily. From what I understand, most wildlings can't even speak the common tongue." Watching Jon slump, he sighed. "The short of it is that they exist outside our laws and traditions. A few might integrate well enough, but the bulk would only splinter once more, and this time they'd do it within our borders. You'll not find a single lord in all the kingdoms who'll agree to that."

Jon looked down, arms crossed. "And you?" he asked. "What do you think? Are they really so different from us?"

Tyrion laughed. "Hardly!" At Jon's surprise he smirked. "I think people are the same everywhere, Jon. Greedy, selfish, and lustful, no matter where they are. And right now, the wildlings are learning once more that getting all those greedy, selfish, and lustful individuals to stop killing each other is difficult to do without having to kill each other some more first. We all did it down here centuries ago and we're still doing it. There's nothing special to all that." Slowly, his smirk soured. "But should either of those wildling kings succeed, they'll acquire something far more dangerous than any one greedy, selfish, lustful person could ever be."

"And that is?"

"A banner."

"A banner…" Jon repeated it. Brows knitting, he pointed over to the doors to Castle Cerwyn's great hall, where the black axe waved proudly in placards set at either side. "You mean like those?"

His own frown set in place, Tyrion nodded. "They might look harmless, but believe you me, Jon, banners are the most dangerous thing in the world. People will do for a banner all manner of things which they would never so much as think to do for their own benefit. Banners are what raze villages and tear castles to the ground. They're what… They're what break families apart." Something stuck to his throat. Jon noticed it, but before he could ask the dwarf had already gulped it down. "Should the wildlings come flying a banner, not even the gods could save us, for that banner would carry with it the entire history of their hatred for us. Even if this Weeper character loses, his call will win. Mance Ryder might think otherwise, but he's naught but a fool to do so."

They sat in the silence that followed. Then, just when it had become uncomfortable, Tyrion hopped off his seat.

"Well, I'd best go make sure Morrec's carried my things up," he said, walking off. "If you don't see me before it, I'll be the drunk dwarf at Lord Cerwyn's left this coming dinnertime."

Jon almost reached out. Something in the dwarf had changed, something subtle but heavy, enough to have struck them both. Even now, Jon could see Tyrion avoiding his gaze, and realized that he'd never seen the Lannister look quite so timid. But at thinking the word Lannister, Jon stopped himself. He watched Tyrion waddle away and disappear behind the hall doors, feeling guilt and sadness and confusion and a hint of fear all at once.

He'd never thought about politics in any serious way. What use was it to know why others held power to a bastard, someone with no power to speak of? But it seemed to Jon now that he'd been too naive yet again. Had Tyrion or some other Lannister really hired Bran's assassin, it would be in the name of their house. Should Jon act against them, it would be in the name of his own, Stark or not. In the end, he and Tyrion flew different banners, and it seemed like this transparent difference is what would always separate them.

That evening, he ate dinner with the servants yet again. Ghost couldn't be there with him, as the wolf had been denied entrance into the castle, and although he was joined by Jyck and Morrec, Jon couldn't find it in himself to feel anything but alone.


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