Winterfell
Some Weeks Prior
Jon could feel the cold damp of the Winterfell crypts seeping into his marrow. If he stood down here long enough, his teeth would start to ache from the cold. Jon was used to the ache now. Liked it, even. It took the edge off the constant gnawing in his gut.
For days, he'd had the anger to tide him over, burning hot and keen in his belly. Anger at Lord Stark for the secret, anger at Rhaegar and Lyanna for their reckless lives, for their dying. Anger at the injustice of this world. Anger that his whole life had been whipped out from below his feet, leaving him scrambling on thin air.
Yet it had not taken long for the anger to fade into guilt and despair. Now it chewed slowly at his insides, this slow, creeping pain, and Jon did not think he could ever be rid of it. Not now that he knew the truth. He tried everything he could to escape it: trained harder in the yard, rode harder with the scouts.
Yet even in this escape, he failed. No longer could he prod Robb into a fistfight—their mutual way of releasing their anger through their childhood—for it would be unseemly for the Lord of Winterfell to be seen pounding fists with his bastard brother. And so, every moment of the day, Jon was restless and ill and grim, and at night, he tossed in his bed and could not find sleep.
For the millionth time since that terrible day, Jon was standing now before Lyanna Stark's statue in the middle of the night, a wilting bunch of little wildflowers in his hand, staring up at her face. She looked like Lord Stark. Jon looked like her. That much was clear.
Arya looked like her, too. It had no doubt been the reason Jon had not been allowed on the hunt and kept away from the king's gaze, especially in the company of his siblings. It was not to spare the Lannister queen the insult of a bastard under her nose. Of course Amma would not care about the feelings of Cersei Lannister. It was so King Robert would not look at Jon's face and see Lyanna Stark.
Jon should have known. Everything seemed to fit now, all the mysteries of his childhood, all the vague answers Jon had encountered.
Absurdly, Jon remembered with squirming vividness the day Lord Stark had lined up the four oldest boys in his solar after Robb had asked him about a joke Theon made. Jon could still see him pacing the chamber as he told them of bedding, could still remember feeling the chill down his spine as he recounted in detail the dangers they could put women through if they were not careful with where they spilled their seed.
Theon and Sam had nodded solemnly, but Jon had seen Robb's face turn white and felt his own stomach churn. Had he not thought even at twelve that Lord Stark had been warning him of the perils of fathering a bastard and killing some poor girl in the process? Jon had believed then that it was guilt over the way his birth mother had died, but now he could see how unthinking his conclusions had been. Lord Stark would not have broken his marriage vows, even if he had not known Robb's mother well.
How had no one seen the truth in all these years past, he wondered now, staring at his mother's dead eyes. How had King Robert and the late Lord Arryn simply believed that Ned Stark would dishonour his first wife? Did they know him not at all? How had his parents hidden his identity in plain sight these many years?
No, Jon reminded himself. Not his parents. It was a constant pang these past moons, this slipping of his mind, and it rubbed like a sharp stone in his shoe, chafing his skin. Or...no…Amma was still Amma. That was alright, for she had spoken true. Jon had always known that he was not of her blood.
She was the one person his pathetic mind scrambled to cling to, the one person who was still the same in his life when all others were suddenly not who he had always known. Well, Amma and Uncle Benjen. Jon had not thought to ask if Uncle Ben had known about him. Perhaps he ought to write to him.
But it was the hard, raw truth now that Lord Stark was not his father. Jon knew that these fine lines of distinction and reasoning bore no examining in the light, yet this was the conclusion he had made. There was no other way for him to manage. Everything was a tangle of knotted threads, dyed by an acute pain like a toothache he'd rather not touch, and all he knew now was that he must stop calling Lord Stark father in his mind, for he no longer had the right.
The day before the royal party departed, Lord Stark had once again summoned Jon to Amma's library. This time, he had laid before him the plans he'd had for Jon.
"I have rebuilt Moat Cailin because I intend you to rule it one day in Robb's name. I intended, too, that when you should marry and take up your place at the castle, I would write to the king to ask that you are legitimised. You do understand, do you not, why I could not do it sooner? Why I must not do it now? The less heed the king pays to you, the better. But Moat Cailin is yours. The Stark name is yours. Nothing need change."
Those same words his mother had said in the godswood that awful day. They felt like a cruel jape instead of the comforting assurance they were meant to be.
Once, such news would have made Jon dizzy with miraculous incredulity. Once, it would have made Jon's chest swell so that he floated up among the clouds. Jon Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin. He would have revelled in the sound of that for many days indeed, even as he felt the wistful loss of the thrill scouting always brought him.
Yet now, that was the smallest of his worries. No matter scout or lord, there was an ugly, stubborn corner of him that insisted he did not deserve the Stark name. Not by rights. Not by fact. He could never be Jon Stark. How could he let the rest of his life be a lie as well?
My father was Rhaegar Targaryen, for all that I have no right to the Targaryen name either.
He had nodded wordlessly and thanked his father stiffly. No, not my damn father! He had remembered that when he'd bowed, though, and called him Lord Stark. Perhaps it had been wrong of him. Part of Jon had felt wrong, felt ugly and murky inside. Even if Lord Stark's face had not flashed with pain, Jon knew he had been thankless and petulant and mean. Yet, just as he could not bring himself to tell Arya or Robb of this terrible truth, he could not call Ned Stark 'father'. He had no right any longer, now that he knew who he was.
As he always did, Jon lost track of time, standing there peering up at Lyanna's statue in the torchlight, staring at her face, cold, smooth and beautiful. Like snow that had been hardened by the cold. She did not look as he had imagined from Amma's words. He could not imagine this still face alight with life and spirit. Even when he closed his eyes as he lay sleepless in his bed, he could not see her features thawing from stone into flesh. This was his mother, then, this lady of stone.
He had passed by her statue many times before, but he had never before stopped to look at her. Why would he? She was only an aunt he had never known. This woman who had given him life…all these years he had never given her a second glance. Jon set down the flowers. They lay limply at her feet, a few petals already setting into the pedestal, already dying.
The throbbing pain was insistent in his chest, hot and festering despite the chill. So very young—younger than you are now. She had been but sixteen, Jon knew, when her life had been cut short. Because of me.
All these years, Jon had known vaguely that his mother had died at his birth, but only until now, when there was a name and face to her, did the truth of her death hit him square in the chest. She had given her last breath and lifeblood so that he may live.
He wondered suddenly if Robb had been haunted by this knowledge all his life.
And worse, graver still, it was not only Lyanna Stark who had died. There had been three knights of the Kingsguard at the tower, guarding Jon, protecting him. Lord Stark had brought six of his bannermen to Dorne, and they had fought for his sake. Eight men. Dead.
Amma's brother had died because of Jon. Lord Stark had lost his men—his friends—because of Jon. And here Jon stood. All those deaths, all that suffering, and what did he have to give that was worth anything at all?
And what of Princess Elia and her children? His brother Aegon. His sister Rhaenys. Just names to him, swirling in his mind, for they had been reduced to bloody corpses, and Jon could not escape the blame for that, either. Oh, he had read Princess Elia's faded letter—folded into a tiny square and tucked way with Rhaegar's ring—giving Rhaegar and Lyanna her blessing. Still, for the prince to leave his wife and children behind…did he not have a duty to protect them, even if he acted on his honour to save Lyanna from the mad king? And did it never play on Lyanna's conscience that Rhaegar already had a wife?
And the war…at once his mind was filled with the details of history lessons, details Jon had not even known he had truly learned when Maester Luwin had lectured. Of the three battles Robert fought at Summerhall, of the string of Hands the Mad King murdered for incompetence, of the clash of armies at the Trident and Rhaegar's rubies scattering as his chest caved in.
Rhaegar. Rhaegar and Lyanna. Selfish, selfish people, and careless, so careless. No matter the little details of mystery knights and the Mad King's soldiers, had not Rhaegar and Lyanna been at the root of this rebellion? A war that claimed thousands? A war that killed Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon, Ser Arthur and Princess Elia? And what was Jon but the fruit of that war, borne from the blood of innocent, pointless deaths, poison on this earth?
Unbidden came the memory of a cozy dinner on a balmy summer evening, his siblings and parents, Theon and Sam crowded into Amma's solar—one of those nights when Father did not take dinner with his men in the Great Hall, but left aside his Lord face to smile at Amma's teasing and raise a brow at Lia's antics.
Conversation had been lively, and at some point Lia had succeeded in coaxing Arthur to stick string beans up his nose. Jon could not remember how the topic had turned, for his parents rarely talked of the Rebellion, but this evening, someone brought up the name of Aunt Lyanna in passing, and twelve-year-old Sansa's eyes had gone distant and starry.
"King Robert waged a war to get back his love. It is so romantic."
"Sansa Stark!"
Deathly silence froze over the chamber. The only sound had been his mother's sharp voice echoing on the rough walls.
"War is never romantic." Her voice was so jagged that Jon half expected the air to bleed. "It is never a song, never a bard's tale. Do not say so ever again."
Sansa's eyes had gone wide, frightened, and their mother's face had softened.
"Thousands of men died in that war, Sansa," she sighed, and the room seemed to thaw, though gone was the warm uproar of only a moment ago.
"Thousands died for King Robert's pride, more than his love. Young men, boys really, for whom Robert and Lyanna and Rhaegar meant no more than names on the wind. Innocent women and babes whose only crime was that they were in the path of an invading army. " Jon had snuck a look at his father then, but his face had become a frozen mask, his eyes fixed to a point only he could see.
"Good, honourable men lost their lives, and with their deaths cut wounds that could never heal, only scar. War is not a story, not a song, daughter. Do you understand me?"
Now, here in the darkness, Jon heard those words ringing in his ears, clear as if his mother stood beside him. Even at thirteen, Jon had heard the pain in her words, had understood that she talked of her own wounds, her own scars. Lord Stark was his uncle. Despite his scars, perhaps he felt an obligation to his own blood. But his mother...
Jon thought now that Amma was a generous person indeed, for it seemed a miracle she did not hate Lyanna Stark, and an even greater one that she did not despise Jon for all that his birth had taken from her.
000
Robb paced Lord Stark's solar, restless heat rolling off him like waves, and Jon thought idiotically that he rather resembled a brazier, his red hair flopping like shifting embers. Before, Jon might have made a jape about such a resemblance, but now was not the time for jokes, even if he had the heart for them. Robb was not Robb at present. He was Lord of Winterfell, and Jon and Theon were in the solar to advise their lord, not to laugh with their brother.
Their lord had not yet asked for their advice. Or any advice. He had not said anything at all since Hallis Mollen had informed them that their outriders had apprehended a band of poachers and were bringing them back to Winterfell for sentencing. Robb had simply nodded at the news, dismissed Hallis, summoned Maester Luwin and Ser Roderick, and begun his pacing in silence.
Yet Jon did not need words to understand the weight settling on Robb's mind, for this incident of poachers was like nothing they had dealt with prior.
In the past moons since Lord Stark departed Winterfell, Jon and Theon had helped Robb through so many lordly duties that there had been some days when Jon thought his head might burst. When Lia had been abed and ill, Lord Stark had given them duties to attend, but they had not realised until now just how much he had been holding back.
Now that he was gone, Robb was well and truly Lord, with all the duties that entailed. From closing the accounts for the coin spent during King Robert's visit to pouring over law and precedent to decide on smallfolk land disputes to answering cryptic letters from the Manderlys, Robb had been thrown head-first into the role, and Jon and Theon had been tossed unceremoniously in right after him. Any notions they'd had of their freedom at being left alone in Winterfell had long since fled like morning mist.
"You will all rule over lands and vassals one day," Lord Stark had told them that last morning, though Jon had not been able to meet his eyes.
"Aid Robb in this business of ruling, and heed the words of Luwin and Roderick. I trust none of you will disappoint me."
It did not help at all that Sam—(who, if Jon was being brutally honest with himself, had a quicker mind than all three of them put together)—had left when the royal party did, at last making a visit home after all these years spent at Winterfell.
"Damn Tarly, skiving off when you actually have need of him," Theon could always be heard grumbling when, after their morning training session, he, Robb and Jon filed into Lord Stark's solar. Maester Luwin would place before them the bevy of letters from various lords and landed men-at-arms, and they would scramble to form replies on tariff restructuring, or pepper cultivation, or shipbuilding mishaps.
Some letters were set aside for when they could write to King's Landing and ask for advice, and others were filed for reference. Robb often wondered aloud how Lord Stark had done this work meant for ten minds all on his own, though Theon was sure the lords were taking this opportunity to test Robb's metal by showering him with parchment.
The afternoons were spent on the endless string of errands and tasks in the upkeep of Winterfell and the lands and towns surrounding it. Then, every sennight, an entire day was spent in the Great Hall, Robb rooted to the high chair as smallfolk came with their petitions.
Some Robb could decide on the spot, but others had to be compared with previous cases and the laws laid down by Stark ancestors, and naturally, Jon and Theon were not exempt from the research.
The days were long, though Jon was secretly thankful that he was left with little time to be showered with sideways looks from Robb and Theon about his strangeness of late. Yet today…poachers on their land was like nothing they'd encountered yet. For poaching was a crime that called for a punishment of blood.
"There's nothing for it," Robb said, his sudden voice cutting the air. Jon looked up. There was a grim set to Robb's mouth, but when he spoke again his voice was steady and sure.
"There's nothing for it. They are poachers of unknown origin, come to steal our animals. I will ask if they prefer to lose a hand or go to the Wall, and we will carry out the sentencing this day."
He was right, of course. Even his words and his endless pacing were unnecessary. Each lord issued tokens to their smallfolk, a sign of permission to hunt large game on certain days of the month and in certain areas of a lord's forests. Each castle tended their own woodlands and game, and poachers from elsewhere took the food from the mouths of lord and smallfolk alike. There was no other recourse for poachers, and Jon could only hope now that the men would choose to join the Night's Watch.
And it was not only because Lord Stark and Uncle Ben had long lamented the lack of men up at the Wall, even after they had begun paying the families of willing recruits for giving up a son, and the numbers of volunteers had soared in the past years.
Jon did not wish to see Robb cut off the hands of men any more than his brother wished to do the deed.
Cousin, he corrected himself, and again felt the loss like a hole carved into his chest. Damnit Jon, when will you learn?
"That is indeed the sentence, my lord," said Maester Luwin, and silence fell once more in the chamber. In the distance, the calls of men and the rearing of horses rose from outside the castle.
Robb nodded slowly, then, before his eyes, Jon saw him draw himself up to his full height.
"Jon, my sword," he said, and, after another grim nod at them all, led them from the solar.
000
There were six men standing in the bailey, hands and feet bound with fraying rope. The rest of their clothes—if they could still be called clothes—were frayed and ragged too, hanging from their thin frames, dotted with tears, any dye long faded to a pale grey. Their faces were grimy—the kind of grime one accumulated from fortnights of movement in the wilderness without a chance to properly bathe—and the skin that peeked from the tears in their clothes was chapped and scaly with cold.
And they were skinny, so skinny. These did not look like evildoers intent on starving their smallfolk for the sake of extra coin. They reminded Jon of the men Lord Stark had executed as deserters of the Night's Watch, but their faces did not hold the vacant, wild fear of the deserters. No, these men had set, determined looks, their eyes beady pebbles and jaws tight.
Hollis stepped forward to address them.
"Before you stands Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell," he announced, then turned to Robb. "My lord, these six men were found in the Wolfswood without hunting tokens, carting three freshly-shot deer behind them. They put up resistance against our guards, and two were very lightly injured. We have apprehended them and brought them to await your sentencing."
Robb nodded.
"Men, do you know the punishment for poaching on Winterfell lands?"
For a moment, none answered, and the air itself seemed to sink with the weight of the silence.
Finally, one of the taller men spoke.
"Aye, we know yer punishment, milord. Just our right hands, eh? Get on wi'it then." One of his companions jabbed an elbow into his side. The first man grunted.
"If you please, milord," he added.
Robb frowned. Jon knew that he must be just as curious about their tattered state as he was.
"What is your name?"
A glare. "Kane, milord."
"From whence do you come, Kane? You appear to have travelled many days to poach on our lands."
Again, there was silence before he grudgingly spoke once more.
"We farm the foothills of the Sheepshead."
"Bolton lands, or Hornwood?" asked Robb.
Jon saw Maester Luwin frown as if recalling something troubling.
The man let out a laugh, and it was ugly and grating and lifeless.
"Who can say? We pay taxes to the first men what come to collect. This year it were the Boltons, but Lord Hornwood's men beat them to it the three years 'fore that. And when the other men come, well, we haven't anything left to give save the food from our mouths. They don't want us all starvin' to death, see, so they leave us to our rations another year."
Robb's frown was deepening, and Jon could feel his own brows knotting.
"Then whose land do you have hunting rights on?"
Kane shrugged.
"Some 'o' us got tokens from Lord Hornwood. Some from Lord Bolton. Not like we use them. Can't catching nothing bigger than a rabbit in the woods allowed us, not in the thirty years I've been kickin'."
Jon saw Robb swallow, and he knew his brother was having trouble keeping the anger from his voice. What were Lord Hornwood and Lord Bolton doing, playing so loosely with land and taxes, allowing their smallfolk to live in uncertainty for decades?
"So you have always poached the lands around you? Why have you crossed the White Knife into Winterfell lands this year?"
"We did no such thing!"
It was not Kane's voice that rang in the yard now. The shortest man had somehow scrambled off the ground, his face red as he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.
"We ain't no poachers. You think we want to break your damned laws and risk our hands? You think we like sneakin' round the woods in the night just to keep our bellies full? Huh, milord? Do you know the sound of your babes cryin' 'cause they ache from hunger?"
A round of tuts and admonitions of "Rhys, settle," came from the other bound men, and finally the man called Rhys was made to kneel on the ground once more. Jon felt his head swim. Had it really been last night that he had stood in the crypts and lamented the gods for their injustice to him? Beside him, he thought he heard Theon mutter "fucking hells" under his breath. Robb closed his eyes, his hands closing into fists.
"Tell me all, from the start," he finally said, addressing the taller man who had spoken before.
And so the story came out. There were about fifty families living in the foothills, spread out in little settlements. Farming yielded barely enough crops to survive, even in the summers, and so they frequently hunted small animals in the sparse woods around their farms. For generations they had lived thus, and though winters were always harsh and deadly, they managed to make do with stored food and the occasional fish from long fishing trips to the White Knife.
This year, however, even the small animals were suddenly nowhere to be had, and upon reaching the White Knife, it was as if fish bigger than minnows had never lived in the waters. Some families chose to dig into the rations they'd saved for winter, while others cut their meals to one a day, then two every three days.
They sent representatives to both the Dreadfort and Hornwood to ask for access to other, more fertile woods, but the replies had been the same: game was scarce everywhere, and they would have to make do.
Fearing outriders from both castles would now know to look for poachers, the men of the settlements decided that it would be best to send a group of the most capable over the river into Winterfell lands, hunt as much game as they could, and cart it back home to share. These men had been chosen, and they had chased a herd for days in the Wolfswood before they'd managed to fell a few to take home.
As Kane's voice died, a silence like death had settled among the guards in the bailey. Finally, it was Robb's voice that broke through the stillness.
"I see," he said, and his hand crept to pinch the bridge of his nose in a motion so like Lord Stark that Jon had to blink twice, despite the red of his hair.
"I see. You were…I see."
He wanted to pardon them. The whole yard of men could see that, clear as day. Jon wanted Robb to pardon them, too. He wanted Robb to let them go, feed them roasts and stews and cakes from the Winterfell kitchens, and send them back with cartloads of grain and meat. Jon would give up his own meals if it meant they could feed these men.
Gods knew he had never starved a day in his life, never even been hungry for more than a few hours. Gods knew he had never had arms so thin.
Maester Luwin could see it too. His strident cough pierced the air.
"My lord—"
"Yes, thank you, Maester." Robb's voice sounded like the crunching of dead twigs below a boot.
"This is a matter I will treat with the utmost urgency," Robb said, turning to the men on the ground. "I will send word to Hornwood and the Dreadfort post haste, and I will ensure that your families are fed. However."
He swallowed again, and Jon could almost feel the ache of it in his own throat.
"However, you have still poached on our lands. If I pardon you now, there will be no justice to be had in the North. You have said you understand the punishment. Which do you choose? The Wall? Or to part with your right hands?"
Kane gave Robb a dark nod.
"We've all talked this through 'forehand, see? We'll give you our hands, milord. We're needed back home."
Jon was going to be sick. Right now. He was going to retch his breakfast all over his boots. These were the best men that group of smallfolk had, and now they would all be cripples.
Yet, Maester Luwin was right. There was nothing Robb could do. Jon knew that much, at least, about ruling. If you start making exceptions, there is never a place to stop.
And what choice was there for them, in the end? Even short a hand, they were more help to their families back home than at the Wall. It was not as if criminals headed for the Night's Watch garnered compensation for their…
"My lord!"
The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think better of it. No matter. He was not the one to make the decision. He would give Robb options, and let him decide.
Robb looked up wearily.
"I beg but a word."
After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, and Jon approached.
"Jon, please, you know I have no other choice," Robb hissed as soon as Jon was close enough to her his whispers. "I don't like this any more than you do, and I'm the one who has to take off their fucking hands."
There was a frantic glint at the bottom of Robb's blue eyes. Jon put a surreptitious hand on his arm.
"No, listen, I'm not asking you to pardon them. But what if you offered them the terms regular smallfolk get when they join the Wall? A gold dragon for each man, paid in bronze stars to their families? Perhaps that would change their minds."
Robb's eyes narrowed in thought.
"Would they accept? Sounds like they are removed from any towns. Could they even make use of the coin?"
Jon could only shrug. He had not a clue. He did not even know how much food or equipment they could buy with a gold dragon. Perhaps only a cow. Perhaps enough supplies to set a new farmer up on untilled land.
"I don't know. But from the sound of it, most of their farms haven't had surplus in decades. Their plows and scythes must be worn down and rusted, and their cattle old. The trading boats should be coming up the White Knife soon. It's worth a try, to ask them."
Robb worried his lip.
"I will have to keep it secret from even our guards. No one must know these terms, and I will have to send Ser Rodrik himself to deliver the coin."
"I agree."
Jon straightened then, remembering himself and making a short bow before retreating. Theon gave him a questioning look from the side of his eye, and Jon mouthed 'later' as Robb beckoned Kane up to his seat.
They spoke in hushed voices for some moments, then Robb ordered the guards to cut the ropes binding the men. They huddled together in the centre of the bailey yard, their whispers whistling in the air. Finally, Kane broke away and turned to face them once more. He still had that hard set about his face.
"Aye, milord, we'll go to the Wall. There ain't much to trust no more, but a Stark's word is one of them."
ooo
They had received word a fortnight prior that knights from the Reach were sailing up to Torrhen's Square with criminals and recruits for the Wall. They would be staying a night at Winterfell, and so that afternoon, Robb dispatched the Sheepshead men to some empty barracks while they awaited the Reach party. He had sent Roderik to the foothills post-haste with the coin promised to the families, and if all went well, the men would have confirmation that they were indeed compensated before they started for the Wall.
"Do you think Sam will be returning with those knights," Robb asked one late afternoon some days later, letting out a long breath and slumping in his chair. They had been pouring over records of judgements from generations past, looking for ways to compel either Hornwood or the Dreadfort to take responsibility for those families in the foothills. He had no desire to pit the two lords against one another in a dispute over territory, and could not even write to Lord Stark for guidance, for he was still on the road.
"Maybe he's read something about one of their ancestors claiming the land and can point me right to it."
"If he's ever coming back," Theon said darkly, looking up from his records. "Can't imagine why Old Man Tarly hasn't summoned his heir back to Horn Hill all these years, but now that he is back, he'll surely want to keep Tarly there for months."
Jon shot Theon an annoyed look.
"You know why he never summoned Sam. Heir or no, his father never writes. Sam's not exactly Randyll Tarly's ideal of an heir, I reckon. Can't imagine a visit home is easy for him."
It was entirely the wrong thing to say to Theon, and Jon knew it the moment the last word left his mouth. Theon, at Amma's insistence, had always written letters home—every moon turn for all these years. Yet while his mother sometimes wrote back, and his sister often, Balon Greyjoy had only written twice—once when Theon turned twelve, and one when he turned sixteen.
Indeed, Theon fixed Jon with still, frozen eyes for a moment, his jaw working, nails digging into the table. Then he shook his head like a wet dog and returned to his parchment.
The Reacher men and their band of recruits arrived ten days later, the knights with their silvery armour and summer-coloured banners looking out of place against the pale snow and dark pines. Robb stood in the bailey with a newly returned Ser Roderik, directing the knights to their chambers, the men to the barracks and the criminals to the dungeons.
Jon spotted Sam towards the back, his hulking form covered in dark furs. When he dismounted, Jon enveloped him in a tight embrace, and it was only when he pulled away that he realised Sam had looked more awkward than usual as he came off his horse.
"Are you alright, Sam? What happened to your leg?"
Sam offered him an expression that was half smile, half grimace.
"Just…just a hunting accident," he said, making an exaggerated shrug. "It's almost better now. Not much moving on a boat, is there?"
Something was very strange about Sam today. Off. He was doing that nervous sniffing before his words that he did when there was something he thought he ought to say, but did not know how.
"Well. Um, where're your trunks? And you should get Maester Luwin to look at the injury, just in case. Jeyne says she ordered a bath to your chambers when she spotted you over the hill."
Another nervous grimace that was trying to be a smile.
"Oh. That…that's awfully nice of her, isn't it?"
"Um, yes."
"Yes."
A pause.
"Sam? Your trunks?"
Another pause. Then he half-limped back to his horse, pulled the heaving rucksack from its back, and dropped it down on the ground between them.
"I don't have my trunks. This is all I brought from Horn Hill."
Jon stared at the bulging bag—its leather straps fading, its weave worn thin in the corners—then back at Sam's face, uncomprehending.
"What?"
"I…I'm joining the Night's Watch. Jon. So, you see, I haven't got much use for most of my things anymore."
A/N: Someone needs to give Jon a through analysis of history because I SO don't agree with the whole idea that Lyanna marrying Rhaegar was what caused the war. But with Jon's current state of mind, of course that's what he'd conclude.
About the poaching…guys I have no idea how these things work. It just made sense to have these token things that I completely pulled out of thin air, though the whole poachers plot line came from u/Kingofireland777 and u/Theredeeme on Reddit.
Happy Valentine's Day btw. I've been toying with doing a fluffy one-shot of Ned and Ash from my story. As I don't have anything specific on my mind at the moment, I'd love suggestions/requests for something short :)
And lastly, if you're well-versed in canon/lore and would like to help me out with planning and future plot arcs, please reach out! One of my betas is super busy at the moment and won't be able to do much discussion with me for a while. I really get ideas from bouncing my thoughts off of someone else, so you would be contributing greatly to the creation of this fic.