3
When he woke up, the first thing he registered was aching pain, surrounding him in a net, prodding at every inch of his body. The second was the cold; although the rain was gone and his soaked self had dried hours ago under the sun, it was descending into night-time, and Jon was not as well protected now from the natural elements.
Pushing with both hands, he propped himself up. He curled in a ball, hugging his sides in an attempt at keeping warm, and sneezed into the nonchalant air.
He was now in the boundless North, barefoot with only a scant tunic in his name. He didn't even have a weapon, whether to defend himself or hunt for food.
His only chance of survival was to travel towards White Harbor at top speed, now without anything weighing him down. The cold would also force him to travel at night-time, or he would fall asleep into the ground's frosty arms and never wake again.
Being less than a few feet away, the sounds of the river enveloped his ears, ringing in chaotic distortion. He flinched, recoiling in horror, feeling again as if he was drowning, being wrenched under the murky depths, brown from the dirt washed into the river by the pouring rain.
Then, a few dozen feet away, he saw something. Along a patch of red-stained rocks at the bank of the river was a body. Its limbs were twisted in unnatural angles in a gruesome display, a jagged and broken wooden plank stuck out from its chest. Water lapped at the bare, bruised feet.
It was Stigg.
He hurriedly ended his rest, eager to distance as far away from the river as he could. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was empty. Even after separating himself away from it by over a mile, he could see the body in his mind, he could still feel the noise echoing in his head: a bell that doesn't stop its concordant motions, clanging and crashing, pushing him into the verge of insanity.
Quickening his pace, Jon moved forward in steady motions, wincing at his occasion stepping on of coarse rocks, ignoring his protesting body, still recovering from the previous trauma.
He kept his mind blank, not thinking of anything in particular, numbing to the world on both outside and inside. Through the night, he covered dozens of miles, and in the morning, he was beyond exhausted, feeling his muscles drained of energy and occasionally giving out dry, tickling coughs.
He traveled to the river. Although it was much calmer, Jon's heart started beating rapidly, pounding forcefully in his ribs. He kneeled, gulping down a dozen mouthfuls of water.
Satisfied, he retreated from the river, much more preferring the plains of green.
Food was his most important issue; without it, he would lack the fuel to travel the distance to White Harbor. He crouched down, ruffling through grass, as if he was a scavenging sparrow.
Fingers shaped like a pair of tongs, Jon picked up a squirming earthworm, eyeing it with revulsion and disgust. He knew it was edible, courtesy of one of the dust-covered tomes in Winterfell, but he loathed to put the thing into his mouth.
Crushing the head off, Jon closed his eyes and thrust the still lightly wriggling animal into his mouth and chewed frantically and swallowed it. It tasted like dirt—dirt was what it ate and digested—and was sharp and stingy, leaving a bitter tang in his mouth.
To prevent his stomach from heaving, he tried to expel all thoughts of the dead creature in his stomach; it was all the food he could get, and he was going to have to deal with it.
Head still hurting, a dull, aching sensation, Jon continued on his journey, going on a light, steady pace to appease his defecting vitality, and occasionally making pauses to scavenge for food or to hydrate himself.
It was on the second day that his condition took a turn for the worse. He had pushed himself hard, traveling the entire night and half the day, sleeping through the afternoon so he could remain warm. He was lucky that he was already resistant and used to the cold, having explored all areas of Winterfell in clothing only a tad bit more generous than this. Moreover, now that he was closing the distance to the south, the nights were quite a lot less frosty.
Despite this, he still suffered, coming from his experience in the waters, and made worse by the persistent cold. An hour ago, he started feeling some feverishness, nausea wafting through him.
However, he didn't understand the origins of his worsening conditions, and nor could he do anything about it: although the rivers had a swift flow, limiting the pathogens which could develop, days of drinking large amounts meant that it was inevitable that he would eventually contract an illness.
And so he did, and his body quickly deteriorated. While only a few dozen miles from White Harbor, he was stumbling, struggling to drag himself forward, groaning from each and every step.
Skin ashen, whole body searing despite the cold winds, Jon decided that he could no longer continue like this — or else he'd soon collapse and never rise — much less evade the patrols around the Manderly lands.
Altering his plans by a little, Jon decided to head east, towards the road from Hornwood to White Harbor a few miles off. Now that he wasn't too far from his destination, he could safely persuade kind travelers, or even patrols, to aid his passage while telling a believable story.
Every step was a chore. He stopped twice to empty his barren stomach, heaving and gagging. But with immense effort, dragged himself upwards. He knew he was close now, just a little further, but every movement, a jerk of his leg, felt like an hour and every step a day.
He didn't know when he had collapsed. But he knew that he did at some point, lying with half his face in the dirt, in vast open fields, barely conscious with an unresponsive body, staring at the microscopic brown grains.
It was in this position—seconds, minutes, or hours, he didn't know—later that he heard approaching hooves closing on him and faint noises, by the time they had reached him, everything had already blacked out.
In his raging fever, Jon was faced with fluttering nightmares.
He heard mighty, flapping wings, thrumming gloriously, fantastic beasts chasing the sun.
He remembered opening his eyes once, seeing damp, grey walls but wasn't too convinced if it was real or not. At another point, he saw a girl, young, of about ten-name-days, staring concernedly with wide brown eyes. He tried to assure her he was alright, opening his mouth, but croaked something indistinguishable, and she disappeared into a vortex of blackness.
A sea of fire replaced the void, an all-consuming flame, tentacles of red-orange ruthlessly cutting a swath of destruction, sparing nothing, except… he saw a figure, a darkened outline in the great ocean, wielding a sword that glowed brighter than the roaring inferno surrounding him.
He was then plunged into enraged waters, a hundred-fold colder and more violent than the currents of flooding rivers. A mountain, curled in angry fists, pulling down ships with barely an ounce of effort, ambivalent of the tiny figures flailing in panic. He sank, deeper and deeper, to suffocating darkness, where even light didn't dare to approach, until he saw a castle, in disrepair, missing chunks of great marble and covered in vines, but standing proudly in the murky depths.
Just as quickly, he was pulled roughly from the mystical scene and made witness to blood-soaked pavements, the crimson liquid freely flowing down the streets, imbuing the ground with the life-blood of thousands, shining a glistening radiance.
Then he beheld the earth turning, cracking in deafening movements, ancient trees toppling, and the land crumbling to create deep muddy canyons, spanning as far as the eye could see. He saw weirwoods, like the ones in Winterfell, but grinning triumphantly, with ageless wisdom but bloodthirsty glints in their eyes.
He watched events, too many to count, whirling in confused devastation, supernatural, and physically impossible. Were these delusions in the midst of fever? …or was he a greenseer — like the stories of old — witnessing events of past and future?
Eventually, the storm subsided, skies calming, and he was gently pulled back into the mortal world and felt the pressure that previously threatened to split him lessening.
He tentatively opened his eyes and was assaulted by aching pains, not as bad as it was on his journey, but he still felt like shit.
It was dark outside. The room he was in was slightly illuminated by a single sputtering candle, allowing him to see dark-gray walls—almost black due to the dim lighting—and a windowsill, blocked by blinds, with flutters of fuzzy light seeping in from the sides.
He sat on a cot, the only piece of furniture in the otherwise bare and empty room. He felt a bit of apprehension, a looming nervousness, and hesitantly stood up, stabilizing himself from the surging dizziness by leaning heavily onto the coarse walls.
He stepped, or stumbled, towards the blinds—fuzzy black dots fading from his vision—and carefully opened the wooden frame outwards, cool air flowing freely in and flinching at the squeak of the untactful iron joints. Gasping in wonderment, even though he couldn't see very far nor well, he recognized that he was in White Harbor, as rows upon rows of houses — most white of color — arranged themselves beneath him, and the mysterious mist of night covering anything beyond.
Backing from the window, he approached the door—a plain wooden board devoid of a lock—and gently pushed it outwards. He was greeted with a silent corridor, finely—if not overly—decorated, lit with torches hung on the walls, each equal distances apart.
With a combination of childish excitement and weary reservedness, Jon made his way down the hallway, heart thumping a steady drum at the possibility of being intersected by a guard, and found a set of stairs on a turn.
Deciding to climb upwards, as it was unlikely that he could sneak out from the keep, being caught doing so would be insulting to the gracious hosts who had saved his life, and he ascended several flights of stairs.
On his second flight, he was met with a guard a few feet away, probably guarding important quarters as shown by the greater level of luxury involved in the design, with door frames inlaid with gold, painting grandiose patterns. He had recoiled backward, horrified at being found and preparing to flee foolishly, but realized that the guard was fast asleep, body and armor rested against the wall, deaf to the surroundings.
He quickly climbed several more levels. Lightly panting, he eventually was met with the open sky, displaying its many constellations. The tower's roof was a large, open circle, which would allow a limitless view of the city and beyond in the daytime.
Paying attention to his immediate surroundings, he was surprised to see that he was not alone, a girl—Jon could only see flowing black hair—was laid on a mess of what looked like bedsheets, wrapped in a bundle of furs and blankets, half-asleep and gazing dreamily at the night sky.
Jon was frozen, trembling in terror, her back was facing him, but one single indication towards her surroundings and he would be found.
Naturally, as Jon attempted to shuffle backward, his left foot, covered with a thin, loose sock, caught on a bump, crashing his toes upon a stone and eliciting a loud hiss.
The girl spun backward, tangled in the blankets, seeing Jon and giving a sharp shriek.
They both recognized each other, and she quickly went mute, moving her mouth in a silent 'O'.
Slightly abashed for her sudden outburst and relieved that no guards had rushed up, ready with their swords to impale an intruder, she stated, plainly, "You're that boy."
And was given a similarly awkward response, "Uh.. well, yes?"
She stared at him, face flitting through several emotions, and promptly blasted him with a rapid-fire of statements and questions. "You were passed out in the middle of the grasslands, barely alive, the guards only carried you back here after I threatened their positions, and Maester Garin stated that you were better left for dead—at least eleven times over the past week. He only grudgingly compromised yesterday after your fever broke, that it was some medical anomaly. What were you even doing? Where are your parents? Who are you? Are you a wildling?" the girl barely breathed as she blurted in quick succession.
While Jon was annoyed, if not slightly overwhelmed, by the barrage of questions aimed at him, he was also greatly touched, as if it wasn't for her, he would be a pile of decomposing flesh being fed on by carrions. He settled for just answering one of her questions.
"I'm Jon S- ," pausing himself, he reiterated, "Just Jon."
"Jon… Snow?" she stated inquisitively, confused why he was attempting to hide his last name, probably thinking that he found it embarrassing.
"Yeah," he stated dumbly. "I got lost and fell into the river, then got even more lost and…" he sputtered, trying to explain himself, not meeting her eyes.
Obviously, she didn't believe that for a second, even the river part. "Next time, work on your deception skills," she said with a trace of bite in her words.
It was met with silence, and after a moment, the girl shrugged, letting the matter slide past. "I'm Wynn… Wynafryd. Wynafryd Manderly," she elaborated, one after another.
He regained his composure. "Nice to meet you, my lady," he said politely, giving a small bow.
The girl said, flustered, but with some authority, "Just call me Wynn. My friends call me that," and added hesitantly, after a moment, in a lower voice, "I'm not allowed to have many, though."
Jon gave a small smile, "I'll be lucky to be considered your friend," and hurriedly added, "If you'll have me, m — Wynn…" stopping himself in time.
The girl beamed, slightly wrinkling her smooth, pale skin. "Sure!"
The two observed each other, but in a lighter mood. A brazier dimly lighted the scene, the iron stripes, arranged as a shell, held dancing flames, softly illuminating her face.
She had swift, dark hair fluttering down the sides of her face, accentuating sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were brown, warm with a particular kindness, but held wisdom unusual for such a young girl.
"Take a seat," she offered a moment later, gesturing at a section of her campsite—bedsheets—spanning a quarter of the floor. It was dense and soft.
The two almost-strangers and nearly-friends leaned against the ramparts, a small distance apart. The cool stone walls felt soothing. Jon was initially slightly uncomfortable, unused to being in close proximity with another and bewildered at the situation he found himself in, but slowly relaxed under the cool winds.
A few minutes passed, Jon broke the silence in a low voice, inquiring, "So… you come here often?"
"The guards here are lax; most don't care, which is good, but also concerning—well, it's good for me at least," she started, in a temperate tone. "It's so much quieter, especially now that most fighting men had left for the war. It's calm here. Most nights in my room, it's hard to fall asleep, or I just feel like I'm suffocating."
She continued, "I hate it there; everything appears so pretentious—the rubies and jewelry, the walls lined with gold."
"Don't get me wrong," she added, "I'm not ungrateful for it, but there are people—millions, if not more, of them—that couldn't hope to touch any of those luxurious items within three lifetimes of hard work, I once visited King's Landing… and most couldn't even afford to purchase bread for their families. The world up here just feels serene, better—it's sort of my escape…" she trailed off, surprised she'd opened herself up so much.
"Sorry. I ramble a lot," she added.
"I think you're amazing. One day you'll help those people, not many people care as much as you do," Jon declared, admiring her compassion.
She let out a bitter laugh. "I'll eventually be sold off like cattle, wife to a boring—if not unfaithful—lord, and the greatest amount of control I could gain will be ordering servants to prepare feasts for his guests," she took a light breath of air and said, softer now, "It's scary, knowing I might not make a single impact on the world, not even a footnote on the history books, my dreams disappearing with me."
Jon did not respond, which was perhaps the best response. The two fell into companionable silence. Staring at the night sky freckled with stars, Jon drifted into sleep.
When Jon woke, dawn was approaching, and the skies were an intense orange. He could hear the sounds of a waking city.
He had a restful sleep and felt that he was in a much better condition since the start of his journey.
Wynn, as she liked to be called, was already awake. He saw that she had procured a jug of milk and slices of buttered bread.
She was much more energized compared to the previous night. Grinning cheerfully, she invited him to join her in breaking her fast.
Her good mood was contagious; the usually grim Jon quickly brightened up and found himself engaging in light conversation, chatting about nothing in particular.
She explained that she often carried a supply of large sheets up to the roof, much to the ire, but some amusement, of the servants, and participating herself in a mini camping trip on the roof as she was rarely allowed to leave White Harbor—it was the next-best alternative.
She was returning from a trip to Hornwood and wanted to explore the surroundings, and a guard from her small entourage spotted someone collapsed in the hills, with nothing but thin clothes on his back, and here he was now, one week later.
"Thank you," Jon said, realizing he didn't properly express his gratitude the previous night. "For saving my life."
"My pleasure," she replied graciously.
While she was curious, Wynn didn't pry into Jon's situation, having realized that he was uncomfortable talking about it.
The two finished their meals, and she dragged him down the stairs, leading him to the Maester to check on his health, earning odd glances from several guards along the way.
They arrived at a room with a plain wooden door and a knobbed metal handle. Wynn knocked twice, in fast succession, didn't wait for a response, and barged in.
Inside was a cozy room, not unlike Maester Luwin's study. At a wooden desk, a man sat. He was aging, with graying hair and wrinkling skin, but not quite as old as Winterfell's Maester.
"Young lady! Have some tact, please wait for my response before entering," the maester chided, but with amusement evident in his eyes.
He spotted Jon, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway, his expression quickly switching from laughter to shock, then to a profound puzzlement.
"Y-you! You were supposed to have died days ago. You were inflicted with certainly fatal diseases, and your body temperature was several scales beyond what a living person should have!" he exclaimed.
Jon continued standing awkwardly. "Ah, yes. Sure." He stared, feeling as if something was stuck in his throat.
Wynn facilitated this exchange, glancing back and forth as both stared confused at each other.
"Well, Jon's very much alive, unless the Night King brought him back as a wight. That would mean that I had been dining with an undead," she stated humorously, breaking the silence. "Would you mind checking him up? See if he still has any problems," she added with a small smile.
The next few minutes were filled with uncomfortable prodding with various instruments, and the maester's astonishment only grew.
"You're perfectly healthy," he exclaimed. "Not a trace of more than a week of being bed-ridden with a fever burning through you. I would send my findings to the Citadel, but they would certainly ridicule me for spouting nonsense."
"That's great to hear! Come, Jon, I'll show you around the keep!" Wynn started, with overflowing levels of enthusiasm.
Her interruption was largely ignored by the maester. "What were you doing for you to end up in that situation? Are you not feeling anything at all?" The questions were wholly unanswered as Wynn had already exited, dragging Jon away, leaving the muttering man seated in confused pondering.
Throughout the morning, she led Jon around, showing him nooks and crannies and even a secret passage she had discovered a year back. The keep was well-maintained with polished floors and grandiose decorations. While it was all a little vain, it was sturdy and well defended.
The two quickly became friends, their contrasting personalities fitting perfectly together. Wynn would chatter excitedly while Jon nodded along with amusement.
Before noon, dressed as the average small-folk, Jon and Wynn pried open a wooden trapdoor in the castle's wine cellar, exposing rusted metal railings leading to a narrow tunnel.
Though most adults would have to crawl, the two, who were both still small in stature, managed a comfortable gait in its narrow confines.
Wynn, directly in front of Jon, explained, "We're directly beneath Castle Stair, which is actually a street leading from the New Castle—the one we were just in—down to the Wolf's den."
She continued, "The Wolf's Den is a castle constructed by King… who was it again? Oh, Jon, King Jon Stark, you're his namesake." Wynn giggled, Jon blushed a little. "Anyway, it now serves as a prison, as the Manderly constructed and moved into New Castle a few centuries ago."
After a few minutes in the damp tunnel, they reached the exit. It was a stone door covered in vines, blending into its surroundings. Packed very near the walls to the Wolf's Den were rows of houses. Even though they were clung together, they still appeared tidy and well organized.
"Unfortunately, I can't show you around the insides of the castle." Wynn winced. "The last time I snuck in, the guards thought I was an escaping thief and put me into one of the cells. I got quite the stern lecture from Grandpa.
Jon chuckled, he could perfectly imagine occurrences like this happening with Wynn on a daily basis.
Instead, they snuck into the Merman's Court, pretending to be servants going about their duties. Wynn winked cheekily at a horrified guard who recognized her, but he didn't dare speak up.
It was beautiful, glorious. The hall was cavernous. Wooden notches were joined together to create intricate patterns. The walls were inlaid with sea animals made from colorful stones—fish, dolphins, sharks, whales… —many of them which appeared to be jumping out from the tapestries of rocks..
A dozen chandeliers floated in the ceiling, none of them lit, but they would flood the room with marvelous light if they were. At the end of a long stone table was a throne-like chair, with embroidered velvet cushions. Carved beneath were great sea monsters—a leviathan and kraken—furiously locked in battle, shaking the very earth.
The hall was empty, which perhaps made it appear even more impressive, if not a little ominous. It would be packed in a few hours, with Wyman Manderly, her grandfather, holding court.
Wynn rolled her eyes, looking a little embarrassed. "I know, I know. Grandpa loves his opulence."
Jon stated sincerely, "No no… this place is wonderful, your city is so beautiful."
Wynn beamed, looking proud.
Not long after, they strode out with casual steps, not appearing out of place at all.
They were back into the open. The houses, built of pearly stone, arranged themselves neatly around wide and orderly cobbled streets. Merchants and vendors lined the roads in some areas, despite that Westeros was at war, shouting cheerfully at the passersby to check their goods out. The atmosphere was intoxicating, and Wynn proudly toured Jon around.
They eventually arrived at a large square. At its center stood a massive stone fountain, a merman standing on an altar gushing water to the sides, ten feet tall, holding a trident with muscled arms, poised to stab fiercely at its enemies.
Children played, chasing each other with gleeful laughter while old ladies watched, warm smiles on their faces.
Jon wished he could be like that: innocent, with not a care in his life.
In the afternoon, they purchased fried fish, sizzling and delicious, from a streetside store, and returned to New Castle not long after to avoid panicking the castle staff.
Wynn insisted on having Jon follow her everywhere, even to her lessons, to the great annoyance of the maester.
"Who was this peasant to attend lessons meant for Lords and Ladies?" Maester Garin grumbled under his breath.
"Boy," he grounded out. "Why are you still here? Where are your parents?"
Jon tried looking at Wynn for help, but she was equally curious, knowing close to nothing about him.
"I've never met my mother, but my father departed a few moons ago." Jon settled for just omitting truths. "I was stranded after falling into the river during a storm... and barely survived."
"Well, I'll have you meet Lord Wyman later. He can decide your situation," the maester grouched, hesitantly accepting his story.
He quickly added, "what are you doing here then? I must tutor Lady Wynafryd, not host a tea party!"
"Lady Wynafryd- " Jon gestured at her, who was still twinkling with amusement, "thought I could attend. Besides, I have some knowledge of letters and the sciences."
Doubting, Maester Garin decided to test Jon. He didn't like liars, after all.
With some unwilling hesitance, he answered every single of the maester's questions with precision, even giving detailed elaborations.
The maester was baffled, if not a little excited.
"If you go to the citadel, you can get your chains in barely a few years!"
Jon flushed, embarrassed and unused to praise.
The maester grudgingly began his lecture, explaining the economics and logistics of trade, something White Harbor flourished from, and Jon listened eagerly. Wynn, for all her cheekiness, was also attentive.
After the lesson, he instructed the guards to lead Jon to Lord Wyman's private studies for an audience, and he parted ways with Wynn.
The study room was large, and the man inside was almost larger. Seated on a polished wooden desk inlaid with gold, the man took his instant attention.
With a great, bulging belly and a round face, his eyes held a great measure of intelligence. He looked up curiously. The guard bowed, handing him a note written by the maester, and took a step back, standing next to Jon.
The Lord took a glance at the note and nodded to the guard, saying in a deep, booming voice, "Thank you, you may leave us alone."
As the doors closed behind him, Jon bowed. "Lord Manderly," he acknowledged.
"What are you doing here?" the fat lord said, not disrespectfully. "I know a Stark when I see one; you look like Ned when he was just a boy."
Jon blushed, "I'm not a S- " But was interrupted.
"Nonsense! All Starks are welcomed here!" he boomed. "Just how did you get here?"
Seeing no point in lying now, "I bought passage by ship, but a storm capasized it on the way. Your granddaughter saved my life."
"You swam the White Knife? During that freak storm a little over a week again?" he asked rhetorically. "Never mind, I don't want to hear any more of your madness. You're a Stark for sure, almost as bad as Brandon was." A trace of sadness lined his eyes.
"I'm just a bastard. I'm actually… not supposed to be here," Jon said, still a little flustered.
"Ah, yes, I just might know your name," Lord Wyman grinned, his teeth were pearly white. "But, don't tell me! That way, I won't have to lie to your father."
Jon nodded dumbly.
"You're welcome to stay here, for as long as you wish, I'll provide you some quarters to sleep in."
"Thank you, my lord," Jon said, grateful for the lord's generosity.
"Don't thank me! Your father's off defending the North. Quite successfully, I've heard. My son, Wylis, is with him. Hopefully, they'll return victoriously within a few moons," he boomed, quite impishly, Jon might add, for a lord of one of the most prosperous areas of the North. Jon could see where Wynn got her mischievousness from.
"Now go! Little Wynafryd needs a friend. I could tell she was starting to get lonely."
Jon stumbled out of the study, slightly overwhelmed.
The next moon passed with a blur. It was one of the happiest times of his life.
Jon met Wynn's younger sister, Wylla, who was so much more impudent and brash, even compared to her sister.
Despite their two-year age difference, Jon and Wynn got along perfectly, becoming inseparable friends.
On the twenty-eighth day, ravens heralding victory arrived, Pyke was stormed, and the troops were returning. The streets sounded in cheer and joy. While Jon was elated, he was also worried. His father was returning.
A few weeks later, Ser Wylis, Wynn's father, returned, sailing into the harbor to festivities and grandiose. While Jon's father had traveled from the Kingsroad, taking a short tour of the lands.
Lord Wyman was not present to receive his son, having traveled to Hornwood to settle a dispute, so Jon was met with instant dislike.
Like the Lord's father, Ser Wylis was almost as fat. However, he had none of the good humor and generosity, donning a stern and pompous look instead. With a large mustache, he stared at Jon. Who was this peasant who made himself home in his keep?
Fueled by condescending righteousness, he decided on secretly sending Jon away, protecting his daughter from this boy, exiling him from his lands.
While Jon couldn't be more glad, as he hoped to depart anyways, having stayed at White Harbor for far too long and relying on the hospitality of others, he was quite annoyed at being unable to say his farewells to Wynn besides leaving a quickly-written secret note in explanation.
He was escorted onto the first ship that accepted him.
As the newly anointed Cabin Boy headed to King's Landing, a furious and terrified Lord Wyman returned, dressing down his foolish son for banishing the son of Eddard Stark.