The Wolfswood was aptly named, Robb thought. Everywhere he went, the howl of wind and wolf were his constant companion. The echo passed through thick ironwoods like sun through glass. Grey Wind howled back, a conversation with no face.
"Loud one," said the king from atop his destrier. Robert Baratheon was a towering man, six-and-a-half feet tall, and on his horse he seemed even larger. He'd a brimming beard of black hair and jolly blue eyes, a gut as thick as a barrel too. "Train it right and you'll not have a better companion."
"I intend to do that and more." Robb replied, gripping his spear.
"Har!" laughed the king. He slapped his horses' arse, and the animal cantered off. "You do that, lad! Come now! We've a hunt to have!"
Robb snorted and continued onward, slow due to his lack of horse. This month had been an exciting one. First, he found direwolves for his siblings, and then the arrival of the Baratheon host. Winterfell had life that Robb hadn't long seen. His father was to be Hand of the King, Sansa betrothed to Prince Joffrey. He was to be brother to the queen of Westeros. It still hadn't sunk in on Robb yet.
Bran loved it all, Sansa too. Bran had dreams of being a knight, of joining the Kingsguard. Sansa had always enjoyed southron tales, and to be queen was something she'd very much liked the thought of. After the announcement, she'd taken to following Joffrey and the queen around. At least her head wasn't wholly in the clouds, Jon had shown her well enough that story's and life were not one and the same.
Thoughts of his brother brought Robb to a grim place. Jon Snow may have been a bastard, but he felt truer than anybody else. A wild boy that loved fiercely and held his heart on a sleeve. The Stark clan had been devastated by his departure. To go beyond the Wall was dangerous enough for the rangers of the Night's Watch, but to go alone was doom. They'd heard no news of him these past two years, and though they did not proclaim such, it was assumed that Jon had died.
They'd all taken it hard, Robb's father, Eddard Stark, the hardest. His mother had tried to comfort him as best she could and found herself carrying the only thing that could distract the Warden of the North. Ten months after Jon had ventured off and little Ryon was born, the only of Robb's siblings save for Arya to entirely take after their father in coloring, dark haired and grey eyed as he was. Ned Stark loved Ryon, seeing much of Jon in the boy, but still was not wholly healed of his grief.
Truly, the direwolves had been a blessing. They brought Robb's family back together, a link that they'd desperately needed. Grey Wind for him, Lady for Sansa, Nymeria for Arya, Shaggydog for Rickon. Bran was the only one who hadn't named his wolf yet. Even little Ryon, a babe of a year who spoke only a few words, had given his wolf, the albino runt of the litter, a name. His first reaction to the silent beast was to clap and scream "Ghos'! Ghos'!"
"Lord Robb! M'lord!"
Robb turned around, toward the voice. Hubard approached, one of the Winterfell guards, a man that had nine years on Robb and a carrying pitch.
"Yes?" Hubard hadn't been invited to the hunt. King Robert had invited all the noblemen of his court and the North that were able and willing to join. More than fifty men traipsed the Wolfswood after the Stag King. But Hubard was not one of them.
"M'lord, Maester Luwin sent me to fetch your father," Hubard breathed. He'd ridden hard, and his horse was proof of that. The brown mare looked worse off. "Riders approach, bearing banners. Northern banners, he says. They need to be greeted. I was meant to let Lord Eddard know, but-"
"Father is farther ahead," Robb said. He looked around and sighed, making note that he had trailed the back and was alone. "I'll greet them. Leave me your horse so I may get there quicker."
Wordlessly, Hubard dismounted and offered Robb his reins. Robb traded his spear for them and clapped the man on his shoulder. He took to the horse easily enough and made a quick trot back to Winterfell, Grey Wind following along with a lolling tongue. They'd only been some two miles out, and by horse it was an easy ride of ten minutes.
Maester Luwin stood waiting for him at the front gate, holding Bran by his scruff. His nameless wolf nibbled on the hem of the learned man's grey robe. "What's he done now?" Robb asked.
"I haven't done anything," Bran said, his bottom lip wet and pouting.
"He was making to climb again," said the chain-bearing man. Bran scowled at him. "The broken tower. He's sure of foot and I would not have cared, but with bannermen coming I felt it prudent to have him at the ready in case you or your father were too far out."
"Good thought." Robb allowed, smiling ruefully. The broken tower was Bran's favorite haunt, a former watchtower that was struck with lightning over a hundred years ago, setting it afire. The stone was twisted and mangled and the Lord of Winterfell at the time decided to create a new watchtower instead of repairing it, and it'd been called the broken tower since. It was perfect for climbing, which Robb's squirrel of a brother like very much to do.
"Can I go?" Bran asked, trying to break. Maester Luwin held a firm grip. "You're here now. I'm not needed."
"It's a matter of courtesy, Bran." Robb said. He knelt before his brother and ruffled his hair. Bran was a slight lad of nine, with grey-blue eyes, fair skin, and a mop of brown hair. And he was strong for his age, would be a fine man soon enough. "Our bannermen swore themselves to the name Stark and offer men and grain and tax to us. It's only right that we show them the respect they're due. When you're older and have a keep of your own, you'll have to do this too. Might be you'll be the Stark in Winterfell should I die before siring a son."
"You wouldn't do that." His younger brother said, both fearful and fully confident.
"I hope not," Robb nodded. He wasn't anywhere near ready to think on dying. "But some things cannot be controlled. Our own lord father was a second son. Just stay Bran. Do it and I'll help you practice the lance, like a knight. You wanted to impress one when you go down south with father, right? To be a squire?"
His eyes lit up, and he offered no more complaints. Robb chuckled and stood, turning to the maester he'd known all his life. A silent question in his eyes.
Luwin caught his mind. "Four banners, three I know and one I do not. Skagos banners, my lord, seen from my spyglass. Magnar, Crowl, Stane. I presume the last banner is also of Skagos."
"How far out are they?"
"Five miles, possibly more. It's a small party, only a few riders and a wagon led by goats by what I could tell."
"Did they send a raven telling why they were coming?"
"No," Luwin said, shaking his head. His chains rattled with the motion. "Though I hazard it a simple enough reason. I know all the banners of the North and yet do not know this one. I would say that it is a new house coming to swear their loyalty to Stark. With the king and his court here as well, it would be a grand time for them."
Robb nodded, taking on a thoughtful turn. Skagos did not have much in the way of communication with the rest of the North, Winterfell included. All Robb really know of the place was that the rumors surrounding cannibals and lords that still practiced the right of first night could not be trusted. It was a hard place that bred hard people. His father had met Drystan Magnar once and said he was a wise man, if terse. Robb hadn't met a single lord of the North that wasn't terse.
The courtyard began to liven, Northern banners meddling with the crowned stag of Baratheon and the lion of Lannister. Robb took a stool and sat his wait, Bran by his side. Arya had shown up fifteen minutes in, dashing from her lessons with Septa Mordane, curious about the approaching Skagosi houses. He hoped she'd keep her mouth shut during.
Their three direwolves were playing, wrestling amongst the mud. Nymeria had the advantage of size over the other two, but they were quick and worked together to pin her. Southern men and women watched with keen attention, wary and excited to see the rare wolves in their fight.
Horns blew from the rampart, one blow to signal an arrival. Two blows meant an enemy, and three meant war. Robb had only ever heard the horns blow more than once when the Greyjoy rebellion began, three horn blows that brought his father south of the Neck.
Horses began to file in, with men riding them and banners in their hands. A plyflame on a field of black came first, then a green lobster wielding a harpoon on a field of white and then a thin tree on a field of green. Robb knew all of those banners.
The last one was of more interest to the Winterfell heir. A grey dragon whose wings formed a circle on a field of white. No noble house had been ostentatious enough to wield a dragon banner since the Targaryen's, not even the Velaryon's who once had a dragonrider or two in their line. The banner was not held by a horseman, but by a wagon. Two large and overly furred goats near the size of a pony, each with only one horn atop their heads, pulled the cart, earning Robbs awe. Unicorns, he thought. Arya was shaking in excitement by his side.
"I bid you welcome to Winterfell, my lords." Robb said, standing. Bran and Arya stood by his sides, Bran to his left and Arya to his right. "I am Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. If you would be so kind, let us know why you have arrived before I share bread and salt."
"Lord Stark's son, aye?" The horsed man bearing the Magnar sigil asked. He was a man of twenty, Robb would say. Red of hair and blue of eye, with freckled skin. "Names Broden, heir to House Magnar and the Kingshouse. Next to me are Rickon Stane and Jory Crowl, both heirs to their own houses. Our liege lord Skruul thought it a good time to meet the Starks, and we followed suit."
"And where is your liege? Lord Skruul, you say?" Robb asked, looking around.
Silently, Broden withdrew a thick rock from a pocket attached to his saddle. Robb tensed for a moment, but relaxed when the man tossed it at the wagon behind him. It hit against the wood with a decisive twang, and a muffled curse sounded from its inside. The cloth covering of the wagon shifted around, and then it billowed out like a blanket, a man as tall as King Robert hopping out from it.
A man that Robb knew well.
"Jon?" He asked, scarcely believing his eyes. But this was no illusion. It was his brother, had to be. Same hair, if long like a girl, same face, same eyes. Only difference was the beard and the height and the shaggy furs he wore. And he was confident. Jon had always been confident and sure in himself, but this was somehow different.
Jon approached with a smile, idly punching Broden Magnar in the side. The ginger groaned. "Stark. It's been a while."
Robb hadn't the chance to say anything. Arya did the talking for him. She rushed away from his left and barreled into Jon, hugging him harshly. He laughed giddily and held her high, swinging her around, peppering her face with kisses. Bran ran after him next, climbing over his legs and back like a squirrel, finding rest atop his shoulders.
"Where have you been?" Arya asked with a watery tone, unwilling to let go. Bran nodded from above. They were both teary eyed.
"I've been all over, sister." Jon said, waving a greeting toward the staff of Winterfell that recognized him. The southerners were suitably confused by their interaction, muttering amongst themselves. "Beyond the Wall, the Vale of Arryn, Essos; all over. I'll tell tale about it, I promise. But I'd rather do it tonight, where Sansa and Rickon and your mother and our father can hear."
Robb approached and hugged his half-brother strongly, Jon returning it with even more strength. Arya let out an oomph as she was squished between the two.
"We'll wait gladly," Robb decreed. "It's damn good to see you, Snow. You've been missed. Damn good to see you."
"Skruul, actually." Jon said, grimacing. Robb nodded haltingly, unsure of how to think. Jon had always been a Snow. He was glad that he'd apparently gained a name and lands and vassals of his own, but it felt strange to call him Jon Skruul.
Bran took on a worried face, his lip wobbling. "Does that mean your not our brother anymore?"
Jon shook his head wildly, positioning Bran so that they were at eye to one another. It made for a sight, Bran now on Arya's shoulders, both clinging to Jon like a tree. "I'd be dead before I wasn't your brother, Bran. Just because I've taken a new name doesn't mean I am not your brother."
Bran nodded tearily and hugged Jon again. Arya grumbled his weight but did not move still.
Robb would have joined in, but he was heir to Winterfell and he'd a duty. He grabbed the bread and salt one of his guards held and offered them to the Skagosi lords. Jon took a piece idly, and Robb scrunched his brow.
"Perfect stitching's as always, Sansa." Septa Mordane praised, clapping lightly from her stool seat. The sun shone against her cloth covered cowl, making shadow over her face.
Sansa smiled demurely, idly patting Lady at her heel. Though happy to receive kind words, she'd grown accustomed to the septa's nature. A woman that only knew how to teach manners and never knew how to share experiences. Septa Mordane had been raised in a sept since she was a girl of four and hadn't much else to her name.
Before, when she was younger, Septa Mordane had been a woman Sansa loved like a second mother. Always there for her, a constant voice in the ear. An ever-present guardian who showed Arya her place. It was hard not to see her that way. But as she grew older, as she took Jon's lessons and learned of the world instead of stories and how important family was, that changed. Seeing the way Septa Mordane harried Arya, seeing the way she derided Jon, calling Bran too willful and Rickon too whining and Ryon dull… Sansa's respect for the faithful woman had taken a steep dive over these past few years.
"I can't figure it out," Myrcella Baratheon said, frowning. Curly blonde hair and twinkling green eyes, she looked the queen anew, only her cheeks were puppyish and her teeth slightly gapped. Her stitches were crooked, what was meant to be a stag looking more like a cat with horns.
"It's a skill all women must learn, princess." Mordane stated clearly, offering a fresh sewing pad and a ball of black yarn. A silent demand for the girl of eleven to redo her work. Had it been Arya, she would not have been so reserved in her reprimand.
"But I've never needed to," the princess denied, scrunching her brow. She took the sewing pad, but seemed confused. "Mother has people do stitches for me, they make me my dresses too. She says that a princess need not worry about such things."
"What I would give to have a life like that," Jeyne Poole said from Sansa's side, her eyes glazed in impossible dreams. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's little girl, nodded with her.
"You'll not be a princess forever," Sansa softly said. Myrcella was similar to Arya in their apparent dislike of the womanly arts. The difference being that Myrcella had never really performed them. "One day you'll marry a high lord, be the lady of his keep and birth his children. It will be useful then."
"How?" Myrcella asked, her head cocked to the side. "If I were to marry into the North and meant to keep warm I might see the need, but in the south there is none."
"She's got you there." A deep voice sounded from the far of the room, jolting Sansa. She turned towards the voice, and dropped her sewing pad as her hands hovered over her lips, eyes wide and mouth agape. Jon was there, Arya and Bran hanging off of his neck like a scarf of children.
Ignoring any semblance of decorum, Sansa rushed to her brother and hugged him fiercely. Septa Mordane protested, but she hadn't a care. She missed this, missed him. He embraced her with a gentle strength, kissing her crown and whispering I'm back into her ear.
Though it was improper for a girl to have any favorite brother or sister, Jon was hers. He was everyone's, really. Only Ryon and Rickon did not view Jon as such, and they were young besides. When she was a child, still looking to Septa Mordane for direction, she'd not liked him. He was a bastard, and she wanted to be the perfect genteel lady. Lady's didn't associate with bastards. But he took that as a challenge and would not leave her be. Their relationship held a rocky start, and yet it grew strong and fast and hard, and Sansa had been better for it. Jon did not tell her how to be a lady like Septa Mordane, nor did he demean the tasks of one like Arya. He instead asked questions, why does this matter? and who is this important to? and how does this help anybody? Sansa hadn't thought of these before. Now, they were her ever-present thoughts.
"Who's that?" Myrcella asked. Sansa didn't answer, didn't turn away, too caught up in her half-brother's presence.
"Jon Snow," Beth answered, her voice halting and high. "Lord Stark's bastard son, Sansa's oldest brother. He's been gone for two years now. Most of us thought him dead."
"Better dead than a stain on the family," Septa Mordane grumbled lowly.
Sansa whirled to her, a blue fury in her eye. "Repeat that, servant."
She balked. "Sansa, do not talk to me like that. You must always remember your manners"
"Manners?" Sansa echoed, eyebrows knit in consternation. "How can you talk of manners when you just wished my brother to have been dead? When you mock my family's anguish? I've prayed to the Old Gods and the New for his return, you know this. And yet you've the gall to talk on manners?"
"Sansa, my lady. Understand that-"
"You're dismissed, Septa."
"Sa-"
"Dismissed."
Huffing, the cloth covered woman stood and walked away. The glass garden they had been taking their lesson in took a strained turn. Even through the beauty of this room, rich green grass and blooming flowers and running streams of hot spring water, the room was tense.
"You've grown a spine," Jon noted. He looked at her in approval. Arya and Bran stared at her in quiet awe. She felt her cheeks grow warm, warmer than anything her septa had brought from her before.
"A lot has changed." Years without Jon to keep her council had made Sansa think more, and the more she thought and the more she questioned the smarter and stronger she felt.
"Well," Jon huffed, moving to the stool the septa had been sat on. He picked up her stitching pad and made to work at it, only to frown. Septa Mordane had been making a seven-pointed star with red. He tossed it away and grabbed a new pad, a roll of blue string with it. "What are we making?"
Arya grumbled as she sat by his side and Bran looked on in confusion, unsure of what to do. He'd never sewn and was raised to believe it woman's work. But Sansa knew. Jon didn't let his being a man or her being a girl hold him back from things. She taught him to sew years ago, though he'd been a poor hand at it even then and he'd likely not had much practice since. And in return, he'd taught her to wield a dagger, the castle-forged dirk he'd secretly gifted her three years ago strapped to her thigh even now.
"Stags." Sansa said, a watery voice. She returned to her chair and held her stitching once more. "We're making stags."
"So, you're the bastard, hm?" King Robert Baratheon said, cutting at a shoulder of beef on his dinner plate.
"Was." Jon said, spearing a knife through the haunch on his own plate. One of the king's men had killed a wild bull during the hunt, and it was spread through the hall for feast. It was to be their last night in Winterfell, which meant the hall was especially loud. Sansa and Arya were on either side of him, barely looking at their own plates. Lady Stark glared from her seat on the farther side of the high table but held her tongue. Robb and Bran were by her side, keeping her comfortable.
The Starks had been glad to see his return. His father had held his face when Robb's man brought him back from the hunt, but once they were in private the quiet man hugged him strongly and did not let go for many minutes. Their words were sparse, stilted and unsure, but Ned Stark had missed him terribly. Sansa and Arya and Bran hadn't left him alone for the rest of the day, and Robb had joined in after his duties were settled. Rickon barely remembered him, sadly, but he was happy enough that his family was happy and trailed along anyway.
Perhaps the greatest surprise to Jon had been Ryon Stark. Gone two years and he'd a new little brother. Ryon was a precocious thing, colored like his father. Arya loved him best. Ghost, the albino direwolf, was his constant companion, never leaving him for long. The runt of the litters both, Jon thought.
Robert Baratheon had been taken by the tale of his dearest friend's son returning from afar and invited him to the high table, wanting to hear more. Jon would rather have been with his vassals, Broden was one of the best drinking companions he'd ever had and Jory told the bawdiest stories, but he'd not made an issue.
"Right, Skruul." Robert nodded, shrugging a meaty shoulder. "Lord of Skagos, eh? Warden of the Shivering Sea. Hefty titles for a boy that was born a bastard." Ned frowned at his side.
Jon rolled his neck, offering a small smirk. The king hadn't meant it as an insult and Jon wouldn't take it as such. "The thing about bastards, your grace, is that we're a greedy lot. We see what we could have in our siblings and we want. But I'm no usurper, I won't steal from them. The Stark's were good to me and earned their keep and I would never repay that with treason. I thought it best to mark my own, and so I did. I've a castle on the way now, High Hollow it is called."
"Well, good on you then." The king nodded. "I'm sure it's a fine story. A boy of five and ten goes beyond the Wall and ends up a lord in his own right only two years later. Might even get a song for it. I remember well when Varys told me that Ned put a bounty on your return. Brought a tear to my eye. I would have sent some of my own men on the search, had the gods-be-damned dragon not been around. I'll expect a solemn vow from you though, to ensure you don't steal Ned's trueborn sons' birthrights later on."
"Of course," Jon stated, blinking. "I could speak the words now, if needed. Winterfell is Robb's, and Bran's and Rickon's and Ryon's before me. Sansa and Arya will have it before I do, their descendants before mine own."
"Do you swear that?"
"I do."
"Then it is done," the king proclaimed, nodding decisively. "We'll have a maester write it up. Try to take Winterfell and you'll be hanged an oathbreaker and your line struck from the world."
"Returning to the topic of the dragon," Cersei Lannister joined, her green eyes hard. Certainly, she was a pretty woman, full lips and high cheeks. But her voice was sharp and filled with accusation. She'd not at all been pleased when her husband gave Jon invitation. "Your sigil. Why use a dragon for it? Do you mean to imitate the Targaryen's? You said it yourself, bastards are a greedy lot, and there is no greater prize than the Iron Throne."
"Never, your grace." Ignoring the fact that he was a Targaryen in his own right. "I have enough to my name and need no more, certainly not the throne. I've had the good luck, or poor luck depending on who asks, to have seen the dragon close up. Far beyond the Wall he flew. Grey scales and big as can be. I thought it more than worthy of basing my sigil on, and I chose the field for the snows I found him in."
"I want it dead," Robert Baratheon sounded, his eyes glaring. He drank from a horn heavily then.
Jon wisely said nothing, taking a bite from his meat, watering it down with a drink of ale. Stinmirnahl was on Skagos, still working on his nest. It'd been seven months since Jon gained control of Skagos, and still his friend was not done. For perhaps the first time in their partnership, Stinmirnahl had forbidden his Thuri from something. Jon hadn't been allowed to see the nest, and he was decidedly unhappy for it.
But Stinmirnahl was firm. It was not ready. He'd taken to having the Children of the Forest help with his preparations, and even recruited a band of nine score giants from the True North for construction, liberally bending them to his will. All Jon really knew was that it was soon to be finished, and that the Children had named it High Hollow.
"Oh! Did you find it?" Sansa asked when the conversation stilted. "I forgot to ask earlier."
"Mm?" Jon sounded, turning to her.
"The sword. Dark Sister," she clarified. The king turned to her sharply, as did Prince Joffrey who was sat on her other side. "You went beyond the Wall looking for it."
Jon hummed, taking in the interest of the table. His Dovahsos thrummed with the want of bragging, to show off his power and hoard, and he acquiesced to its nature. Standing, he called for Broden from the lower end of the hall. The Magnar heir looked up at the sound of his name and walked forward, and Jon took his scabbarded belt from the man. He'd not been permitted to carry his arms at the high table.
He undid his belt buckle, the two swords strapped to its sides falling. He placed them on the table and handed one of the scabbards over to his father.
Lord Eddard took the sword with unhidden interest. He unsheathed it and whistled as the smoky sword's steel rang out. The Kingsguard that stood behind the king tensed at the sound. "Where was it?"
"Brynden Rivers, the Targaryen Great Bastard that last held it, had a child with a woman beyond the Wall," Jon said. The greenseer had given his leave to make up a tale. So long as they thought him dead, the albino cared not what was said. "That child took the sword and joined up with a clan, but their numbers were low. I found their leader, a man named Garamun, and challenged him for it. Brynden's grandson. He thought the steel made him the better warrior, and…"
"Got his head bashed in." Robert Baratheon finished, grinning. He took the sword from his Hand, inspecting it with an appreciative eye. "Ah, would that I could have done the deed myself. A well-earned honor! Reminds me of my own youth. Were I not the Lord of Storm's End, had I been the second or third son like my brothers, I'd have ventured the Free Cities in search of glory. What I would do with some Valyrian steel…"
"You should have it then," Cersei said. "The sword of a king deserves to go to a king. Or to Joffrey. Or to Jaime, to better protect us."
"I'm many things, woman. But I'm no thief." Robert snorted, sheathing the sword.
"And I would not give it away even if it were a royal demand, my queen." Jon said, taking the blade back from the king. She glared at him. He held his hands up. "No lordly house would. But I'm simple enough. If you've a good price, I might be willing to sell some steel."
Arya nudged his side with her elbow, looking horribly disappointed. "You went through all that trouble and left us for years for it and you'd sell it?" By her side, Tommen Baratheon looked on in confusion. She'd been forced to escort him, just as Sansa escorted Prince Joffrey, though she'd been happy for it. Arya had not at all been happy with her role.
"Oh, no." Jon denied, shaking his head. He patted her head consolingly. "Never. Dark Sister is mine. But Brynden Rivers was obsessed with Valyrian steel. When he learned he was being sent to the Night's Watch, he looted the Targaryen vaults and stole almost all of the material they had in his sullenness. Daggers and trinkets and even maester chain-links. I took it all from Garamun's clan and spent about a year figuring out how to rework the stuff."
"A smith then?" The queen taunted, her smile mocking. "How appropriate for your origins."
"Cercei," Robert growled. A warning in his tone.
Jon shrugged, uncaring. "I was born a bastard, your grace. We've all to work within our means. Before I journeyed past the Wall, I thought about being a sellsword or a master-at-arms or even a maester, but the forge called to me the strongest. I know my craft and I know it well, and I am proud of my work. I was told that there were only a handful men in the whole of the known world that knew the secret to reforging Valyrian steel. Now there's one more."
As proof, Jon removed his other sword from its scabbard. It too was Valyrian steel, though its ripples were lighter in quality and less noticeable when compared to Ice or Dark Sister. A subtle sword, thin and long, looking much the same as Dark Sister. Where Dark Sister was decorated with rubys, it held sapphires.
"Made it from those trinkets two months ago, still fresh forged." Jon said. Cersei had shut herself up after Robert's reprimand. "I call it Light Brother, to match Dark Sister. They'll be the twin swords of House Skruul. And I've enough steel left to forge one last sword. So, yes. If you speak the right price, I might be willing to create another blade."
"Could you make me a sword?" Arya asked, her interest keen. The queen looked at her as if she were a rare breed of snake then, and Catelyn Stark barely held back a reprimand.
"Mayhap," allowed Jon, smiling.
"You should come to the capitol then," the queen said. Her smile was back, curious and challenging, with something else hidden in its depths. "Tourney's to fight and high lords to find that would be willing to pay a fair price. Might even a woman to marry."
Robert nodded from her side. "I like it. Ned'll be my Hand, and you'll come south as his son and bannerman and sworn shield."
Jon's father protested. "There's no need-"
"Alright."
He blinked, turning to Jon. A severe frown on his face. "You do not need to, Jon. The North breeds true, and you've a land to care for."
"I don't have much land to do anything with right now, father. High Hollow is under construction and Skagos has survived for millennia without me. I meant to come down to Winterfell to be with my family once more, and if my family makes to go even further south, then I'll be coming with. If nothing else, I'd like to see the rest of Westeros before I settle."
"Good!" Robert nodded, bellowing for a flagon. A serving wench came to him with one, and he held her tightly. She laughed. "Then we've a feast to have!"
The next day was one of packing and prepping. Jon had arrived just before the royal party meant to leave for King's Landing. Since he'd never unpacked his wagon, he spent much of his remaining time with Robb, training and trading tales. Surprisingly, Tyrion Lannister, the Imp of Casterly Rock, joined in for talks, bringing wine. The three had drank and debated and had a surprisingly jolly time till the sun rose this morn. Tyrion was raring for the Wall, intent on pissing off its edge. Robb would be staying in Winterfell, along with his mother and Rickon and little Ryon. Bran and Arya and Sansa would be going south with Jon.
Of his vassals, Jon decided to have all but Rickon Stane return to Skagos. While he would be happy to have the lot of them down south, they were not bred for such climates and hadn't the willingness to play word games. That, and he didn't want to pay their tabs. Broden and Jory had spent almost all of their time in Winterfell in the Winter Town brothel, marveling at the women that would fuck them for some coppers, something Skagos certainly did not have. King's Landing was known to be home to whores of far higher quality, and they would not be able to resist. Rickon was at least devoted to his wife and hadn't strayed for a cheap cunt.
"You sure you want to go south?" Uncle Benjen asked. He'd been beyond happy to have seen Jon, and Jon he. But he'd also been a constant voice in the ear of his nephew, asking for him to join the Night's Watch.
Jon was securing his horse, a grey-brown filly that his father had gifted him. "Why wouldn't I?"
"The Wall could use a man like you."
"The Wall could use any man, uncle. I've seen it. Spoke to Lord Commander Mormont and kept study with Maester Aemon. Less than a thousand men it holds, last I heard. Likely fewer now."
"You've your own people to care for," Ben then tried.
"And my people can care for themselves. What's brought this on?"
"I don't like it." Benjen admitted. "You going south. Any Stark going south. I like it none. Last time that happened, I lost my father and brother and sister. I'd rather not lose my last remaining brother and my nieces and two of my nephews."
"I'm not planning on storming the Red Keep for a prince's head," Jon said, face stern. "What happened with Uncle Brandon and my grandfather… There will be no repeating it. I won't allow it."
"And if you can't stop it?"
"I can."
"But if you can't."
Benjen was imploring. Near begging. Jon liked it little when the man he took after acted in this manner. It suited him none.
"When I was beyond the Wall, I thought I might die a time or two. The cold was my constant enemy. You know the feel well enough, the lack of feeling. And I told myself, if I was to die, I'd not go meekly. I struggled and fought and won in the end. If I am to die down south, I'll do the same."
"But why would you risk death once more? Don't go south. Stay in the North, where you belong."
Jon shook his head. He'd made his choice and he was intent on keeping it. Arrogance was strong in him, but he thought it arrogance well earned. His use of the Thu'um was strong once more, he was armed enough to take on any man, and should it be needed, Stinmirnahl was ready for battle.
"I wish you safe travels," Jon said instead, hugging his uncle. Benjen silently relented and returned the hug, strong like an ox it was.
"I'll need them." Benjen joked, smiling awkwardly. "Three prisoners and the Imp. I don't know which is worse."
"Give him some wine and it'll be the prisoners, without question."
"I'll have to stock up then. Ned'll be gone and Winterfell's stores have already taken a hit. What's another flagon missing?"
Jon laughed, and clapped his uncle on the back. Benjen moved away, and Robb approached.
"You keep them safe, you hear Sn-Skruul?"
"I'll do that and more, Stark."
They held each other's gaze, their words hard and serious. Then, they embraced one last time, lasting longer than either meant to happen but neither minding. They only separated when a Lannister guard laughed.
"I'll have ravens this time," Jon said. "I won't forget to write."
"Better not." Robb nodded, a small scowl on his face. "If I have to hear of you from somebody else…"
Shrugging off the threat, Jon patted Robb on the head, his hand slapped away with an even stronger scowl. Then they laughed, and that was it.
Jon mounted his horse, bid goodbye to the rest of Winterfell, and rode side-by-side to Bran, who looked ready to burst in giddiness. Through the Hunters Gate did they ride, trailing the royal party who were already about a mile out.
High above the gate, a crow stood watch. In the light, it looked to have three eyes. It cawed and nodded, and then flew off in search of corn.
Not necessarily a small chapter, but it wasn't overly large either. Jon was back, and then he wasn't. But you'll notice some changes.
Bran didn't fall from the tower. Jon and co. arrived just before that happened, so Maester Luwin grabbed Bran before he could disturb the twins. This means no cripple, and no assassination. A slight ripple having the potential to cause massive change to the story. And Sansa is quite different from her original character. Less in her head and more understanding of the world.
In the story, when Bran fell, the royal party was delayed by about a week because Robert wanted to pay his respects and Ned was in grief. Without it, they left on time. Dunno if that'll change anything, but it's something to note.
Can't really tell you what Cersei's cooking up. Just know it's something.
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