Yes, it's a new one. What can I say? It's been gnawing at me.

For those who can't remember what's happened, it seems like a good opportunity to read through the story again ;)

2. Honor on the Moon, Chapter 5

The sun, yellow-white and rising, bloomed morning light over grassy plains and thin forestry. Far away, the Mountains of the Moon peeked over the eastern horizon in shadowy silhouettes.

They faced each other tersely under a hilltop tree. Jon held a wooden sword in both hands, its blunt edge keenly pointed forward. Jyck stood opposite, his own wooden blade pointed casually at the ground. Striding in a wide circle around the older man, Jon sought an in.

The barn they'd slept in stood not too far, and the farmer who'd given them shelter for the night was doing his morning rounds, feeding his chickens in a chorus of crazed clucking. Tyrion sat on a stool they'd pulled out from the house, drinking cheap wine and watching their bout with groggy interest. Ghost sat by him, silent and attentively as was his manner.

Without warning, Jyck surged forward. Jon stepped back, barely parrying the thrust. Teeth clenched, he planted his feet and slashed at the man, who merely stepped forward once more and blocked the attack with a thick clap. With his free arm, Jyck made to grab Jon's wrist. Jon leaped back again, and the man swiped at air, stumbling forward.

Seeing this, Jon planted his feet again and thrust the tip of his sword up against Jyck's jaw. They both froze there, taking in their position, and after a moment lowered their weapons.

"Another for you," Jyck grumbled.

Jon grinned, though he tried to temper it. "We're pulling blows," he said, offering the man his hand. "Things might turn out differently in a real fight."

Jyck nodded, taking his hand. Suddenly, the man pulled Jon into an outstretched boot, tripping him. Jon landed on his elbows with a yelp, and soon found a wooden sword pointed at his face. Looking up, he saw Jyck's small, smug smirk looming over him.

"We wouldn't want you getting too big a head, boy," Jyck said, pulling his sword back. Generously, he offered Jon his own hand. "Remember to save your courtesy for the dining table, not the battlefield."

Unimpressed, Jon took it and felt himself plucked straight from the ground and onto his feet. "I'll make sure to keep it in mind," he said sourly.

Tyrion seemed ready to shout something from his seat some feet away, but at that moment Morrec came out from the house down the path from the barn. Following him was the farmwife Eina, her babe wrapped up and carried by a cloth wrapped over her shoulder.

"Who's up for breakfast?" she asked, walking over with a basket of bread, cheese, and what looked like the same blackberry jam they'd been offered the night before. Strong and buxom, she held it all with one arm, the other propping up her baby. Grey streaked through her hair like wrinkles streaked down her face, signs of strain from a lifetime of labor, and yet she smiled kindly and somehow brought youth to her plump cheeks and dark eyes.

"I know I am," Morrec said, grinning wide. For his part, the guardsman carried a plate stacked with fried eggs, some burnt, others a bit raw. He'd been the one to cook, it seemed. Looking over at them, he raised a bushy brow. "Is Yoren not up yet?"

Jyck grunted, marching toward them and shouting at the barn. "Yoren, you lazy pest! Get out here or starve on the road!"

Almost immediately, the wandering crow stumbled out, hay threaded in his hair and beard. "Stop that yammerin'. " With a heave, Yoren sat on the ground beside Tyrion, back against the barn wall. "Pass me some drink, will yeh, m'lordly dwarf?"

Tyrion tossed him the bag, and it landed on Yoren's lap in a flaccid heap. When the man raised the bag up to eye level, noting its emptiness, he scowled sideways at the Lannister who'd drunk the whole thing.

"I still feel quite parched," Tyrion said, smirking. "You wouldn't mind fetching us some water, would you, Yoren? I'm sure we'd all appreciate it."

Yoren stared at him for a moment, then dragged himself onto his feet with a string of curses. "Damned drunk you are, fuckin' slavedrivin' little…"

He went on like that even as he walked off to the well some ways away, passing by some grazing sheep. Jon, Jyck, and Tyrion all watched him leave with varying levels of humor, then turned to greet Morrec and Eina as they neared.

"I'll say, m'lord," Eina said, setting the food basket down by their feet, "You sure seem lax for the noble sort."

"I'm rich and powerful. What else have I to prove?" Tyrion reached into the basket and plucked out a roll of bread. He broke off a chunk, then did the same with the wedge of cheese. "But how is the girl today? Sleeping still?"

Eina smiled, bending to let the dwarf see the baby held against her chest. "Oh no, not with all this noise, an' so early in the day." She said, and they all saw that the child, young enough to be almost androgynous, stared up at them with wide, curious eyes. "All calm now, thank the Mother. Danley an' I were at our wit's end last night. Oh, I'm sorry if it kept you all up."

"No problem at all," Tyrion said, and Jon winced as he bit into the eggs Morrec had passed over, knowing it was a lie. They'd all kept awake late into the night due to the crying, playing card games with Tyrion's deck until the noise had eased off. "We are all grateful for your hospitality, brief as it was."

"We'd be glad to have you longer, m'lord, though I know you've a long ride ahead."

"Not much longer. We've made more than half the trip already."

They certainly had, Jon reflected. Here he sat deep in the Riverlands, the wide, bright, open hills around him a different world from the muted forests he'd grown up with. Clouds were beginning to sweep in overhead, dark and stark against the bright blue, a sign of rain whose contrast looked almost alien. Back home the sky seemed always gray, always ready to fall. Here such a sight was the exception.

Something nudged his arm. Looking down, Jon saw Ghost stare up at him, obviously expectant. The feeling came into him wordlessly, either from some light in the Ghost's red eyes or from something… more. Jon couldn't say which, and the fact he could even contemplate a difference still amazed him. Idly, he broke off a bit of his bread and fed it to Ghost, who started crunching on it in a puff of crumbs. No real meal for a direwolf, but Jon knew Ghost sometimes just liked chewing on something, could feel the pleasure of it nudging at him with each grind of teeth.

Jon put a hand behind Ghost's ear, scratching at the white fur. He had no clue how he'd even begin explaining what Jojen had shared with him once he saw his sisters.

Warging, Jojen had called it. You throw yourself outside your body and into another. Mostly wargs used it to rule over other creatures, but you, Jon… You're too kind to do something like that. You've let your wolf into your heart just as much as he's let you into his, and now you share everything. Your senses, your feelings, your doubts…

Even after so many days to mull it over Jon still had a hard time accepting the idea, though he supposed it explained some things. Robb might think it interesting too, but Jon had a feeling his brother would still laugh at the first mention of magic and dreams. Only Bran would understand. Bran, whose mind had always been open to the hidden wonders of the world.

It's been too long, Jon thought. Nearly a month since they left Winterfell. He liked the rhythm of his horse on the road, liked the peace of sleeping under the stars and the joy of finding an inn to eat well in. He liked the new sights, the new tastes, even some of the dangers, and so did not regret taking the journey. But he missed his siblings, missed knowing where they were and what they were doing. The closer they got to King's Landing the more restless he grew about crossing its gates and seeing Arya again, mussing up her hair and helping her ditch her lessons. Strangely, he even looked forward to seeing Sansa's sneering looks and the shallow sighs she'd let out whenever he walked into the same room she was in. It would feel like home again.

Something triggered the baby, and she began to gurgle. Eina immediately began to rock her back and forth, bouncing lightly on her feet. "How far will you go today, m'lord, if you don't mind me askin'?"

Tyrion swallowed the bite of cheese he'd taken. "Just down to the River Road, to the inn by the crossroads. We stayed there on the way up north with the king's party." He paused, dipping some bread in the jam. "After that, we could ride to Harrenhal and see if Lady Whent is feeling generous."

Eina shivered, brows drawn up in apprehension. "That castle's cursed, m'lord. Always has been. My brother goes down to trade with the Harrenton folk, and they all avoid it, so says he."

"It's not the prettiest castle, that's for sure," Morrec said, brushing his hands free of bread crumbs. "And with the Isle of Faces just over the shore. Aye, I'd see why their folk think it cursed."

"Curses are for children's tales," Tyrion said, shrugging. "Harrenhal has served the crown all these three hundred years, as have its rulers. But should ghosts take me away in the night, I'll trust you lot to rescue me."

"Hell of a lot you're trustin', dwarf lord," Yoren said. They turned to see the large, hunched man come back with a bucket full of water. He set it down, reached for the bag he'd tied to his belt, and tossed it over to Tyrion. With little more fanfare he then sat and swiped the plate of eggs from Morrec, shoveling them all into his mouth in one rough motion.

The rest watched him do so with the sort of tempered annoyance that could only come from weeks of shared time on the road. The baby gurgled loudly, and Eina, unused to the brief bout of awkwardness, forced out a laugh. "My, you all make for a more… interesting group than we're used to gettin'."

"Do you help many travelers, then?" Jon asked.

Eina began to bounce in a small, quick rhythm, and the babe in her arms quieted down. "Sure, I s'pose. Right by the Kingsroad we are, and we've plenty of space in the barn, so we'll get our fair share of strangers goin' up and down with their wares, thank the Father above. Things got rough after the last war."

Robert's Rebellion, Jon had to remind himself, not the Greyjoy one his father fought against only half a decade later. It almost made him ask Eina if she'd known anyone who fought in either, but he had enough prudence to keep the question to himself. Chances were she did, and the terse silence that grew among them spoke more to it than any words she could have given.

His hand suddenly grabbed at nothing. Looking down, Jon saw he'd reached inside the basket and found it empty. Eina saw it too, and gave him a tight smile. "You men sure can eat."

Tyrion coughed. "Yes, well, we're all still growing, as you can see." Then, looking aside, "Morrec? All packed up, are we?"

The guard gave a crisp nod. "Aye, my lord."

Standing on his stubby legs, Tyrion passed an eye over all of them before settling on Eina. "Then it is time we left. I wouldn't want to overstep."

"It's no trouble, m'lord," Eina said.

Unprompted, the babe began to cry. It started low at first, ramping up as the moment passed. Soon enough, the woman took her child up against her shoulder, bouncing, patting, shushing, all to no avail. Still, she looked at them with a kindliness bordering on manic.

"No trouble at all…"

On the road again. As they rode it had started to drizzle just as Jon had predicted, and now water dripped down on them in a soft, chill shower amidst the dwindling daylight. The cold had followed them down, and wet as they were it oozed in through their furs. Morrec whistled a song for himself and for the rest too, something to get their minds off the discomfort in this last stretch, the tone steady and melodic from much practice.

Ghost, having not eaten his fill that morning, had gone out hunting along the woods just over the hillside. It was something the direwolf did often during their trip, disappearing at midday and reappearing by nighttime, licking his chops in tempered satisfaction. They'd all gotten used to it, and even Yoren had stopped cursing in shock whenever the white beast quietly turned up beside them like an apparition.

Always Jon felt a certain tension this time of the day. He'd figured it was the lack of an intimidating and protective wolf by his side, but after they left Greywater Watch he started thinking it might be something to do with warging. Ghost and he were connected in some indiscernible way, and this he could now feel more acutely, as if merely being attentive to it made the connection stronger. Maybe, as the wolf prowled around in the forest, some of that prowling… carried over? A breeze came, slapping them with a thin wave of rain, and Jon thought the magic worked something like that. Ghost's senses flew to him like droplets in the wind, sometimes brushing gently against him, sometimes drowning him in storm and thunder.

The dreams crept up once in a while, but now Jon didn't wake with the same damp uncertainty he had when they'd started. He was aware in them now, could see clearly what happened, could even try throwing his body this way and that, though whether Ghost actually followed along with this instruction he couldn't say. It all still seemed a bit too farfetched, but though it was hard to describe even to himself Jon couldn't deny what he felt.

"We're coming up on the inn!" Morrec said, the tallest among them.

Seconds later, Jon saw he was right. Over the hill there rose a bundle of buildings surrounded by fenced grazing land. Some cows dotted the open plain, moving slowly about it, and men walked to and fro like ants atop a nest. A distant ring reached them over the rustling grass. The dinner bell, for those with enough coin.

"Just in time!" Yoren called. He kicked and clicked his tongue and his horse passed the rest of them.

Jon watched the wandering crow taking the lead of their party for the first time since they'd come down from the Wall. Tyrion pulled up alongside him, meeting his eyes and smirking with a soft, infectious humor Jon couldn't help but return.

"I could hear his stomach growling over our horses," Tyrion said.

"I could hear it growling over the baby last night," Jon said.

They laughed together. Then, after trotting a bit in comfortable silence, Tyrion turned to Jon with a curious brow. "So, Jon, what plans have you after we reach King's Landing?"

"I'll talk to Lord Stark. You know already."

"Yes, yes, but after that." Tyrion leaned in rather conspiratorially, though his voice remained just as lively. "I mean to say once you've accomplished your quest and are done with all this business about your mother, what then?" He leaned back on his saddle, seeming to enjoy the sudden vexation on Jon's face. "Will you take up residence at the capital? Ride back up to Winterfell? Get in some southern knight's good graces? What will you do with your life?" When Jon remained silently dumbfounded, Tyrion broke into a low cackle. "I knew it! You've not even thought about it, have you?"

"I… suppose I haven't," Jon said, surprising himself. He stared ahead at the nearing inn, not a silhouette anymore but a growing and bustling place. The sounds of marching horses and men, as well as their stink, already bumped against his senses. "I'll have to find work. Maybe Lord Stark can help me. I've… never had a job before." Admitting this was as unpleasant as the prospect of work in the first place, and Jon's brow furrowed to show it.

"Counting on Eddard Stark for good connections at the capital? Your faith in him is admirable, if nothing else." Tyrion ignored the dry look Jon sent him for that. "But as much as I can appreciate such starry-eyed confidence, I bet I've some better opportunities to offer than your father."

"You know someone who would hire me?"

"Of course. There's myself, for one."

"I'll not be much help with your accounting, sorry to say."

"No, but tell me, how have you liked these last few months on the road with us Lannister men?"

"It hasn't been too bad, save for the company." Jon turned to the dwarf with a bemused smile. "What, are you looking for a cupbearer?"

"I'm thinking more like a bodyguard."

Slowly, the humor slipped from Jon's face. "Are you being serious?"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Now it was Tyrion's turn to grin, though it looked far less impish than usual. "You're better with a blade than Jyck, and he's about ready to hang it up. Married life awaits him, and I'll need a replacement. You could fill his shoes well enough."

"I doubt that."

"Your humility would do you well in this. My own pride can only stand so much competition." Jon didn't respond, looking down at the reins of his horse in clear thought, and noticing this, Tyrion's ever-present smirk softened some. "It won't all be roadside travel, mind. I spend much of my time at Casterly Rock, and I'm sure there'll be plenty of time spent at King's Landing to visit your father and sisters, for as long as they stay there. I pay those under me quite handsomely too. It'd be baffling not to, with as much gold as I have."

"That's a very kind offer," Jon said, hesitating with each syllable.

"No need to brood on it so soon, but keep it in mind as we ride down. Should some miracle bring you more fetching work I'd not hold it against you." Hand coming up to his chest, Tyrion's voice turned almost melodic. "We can part ways amicably like a pair of questing knights from one of the old tales, swords raised to the sky and promising to meet again someday."

"They can call it 'The Bastard and the Dwarf,' " Jon said flatly.

"Personally I prefer 'The Dwarf and the Bastard,' but that's for the singers to decide." They both chuckled. "Oh, but I would appreciate keeping you around, Jon. Sour as you can be, you're at least good enough for a laugh." Sighing, Tyrion nodded ahead at the inn, now not a couple dozen paces ahead. "Here we are. Hurry, I've tired of being cold and wet."

It was a sizable building, two floors at least, and had its own well out front. Solidly built with sturdy, well-kept walls, and popular too, the stables along one of its walls filled nearly to the brim. They'd have had trouble finding room if they weren't traveling with a Lannister, or more accurately a Lannister's coin purse.

Jon kept to his own thoughts as they dismounted their horses, mulling over Tyrion's offer. It was a good one, he could admit that much. Respectable, well-paid, filled with the kind of travel and adventure he'd now grown fond of. And he liked Tyrion, crass as the man could be at times. They understood one another, had both lived on the outside of things in their own way. Just some months before, Jon's future seemed locked into a bleak life at the Wall, but now… This was a better opportunity than he could've reasonably hoped for.

But Robb's words came back to him. Stay attentive. For our family.

Had Tyrion sent Bran's unlucky catspaw? Was he the kind of man capable of doing something so foul as trying to kill a crippled, bedridden child? Jon didn't think so. Still, to say yes to Tyrion now—to even consider it—felt like something of a betrayal. A betrayal to his family, but also to the dwarf himself. How could he stay loyal to both with them tugging at him from opposite ends?

Stepping inside, Jon saw it was a long common room, the light from the fireplace a spot of orange warmth against the dull greys and browns of the tables and their crowded benches. Folk from the nearby town mingled with farmers, with travelers and merchants and smiths, with fishermen from the river. There were a good amount of warriors too, some men-at-arms for local lords judging by their surcoats and others grizzled sellswords. An eclectic crowd, all eating with uncouth manners, all talking and shouting over the plucking harp of the singer by the corner, all competing for the poor serving boy's attention as they asked for more meat or more drink. Jon and the rest drew eyes as they entered, but most of the folk at the inn went on as they were, unbothered and busy already with their own company.

A woman met them, old and bulbous with a mouth full of red teeth that chewed sourleaf while she spoke. "Sorry to say, gentlemen, but we're full up, as you can see."

Jyck stepped forward, his stony face and looming posture making the innkeep take a paralleled step back. "My lord of Lannister," he stressed, "requires a room and a bath. We also have horses that need stabling. At once, if you please."

The buzz quieted. Jon felt wary eyes on them, the crowd searching first up at the standing men and then glancing down to see the dwarf among them. The innkeep stammered a bit once she saw him there, and Tyrion smiled wryly back. "I realize there's only so much space," he said. "My men can of course sleep in your stable along with our horses. As for myself, you can plainly see I do not require a large room. Get me a warm fire and a bed not crawling with fleas and I'll be a happy man."

The innkeep was frowning, chewing on her sourleaf in fast, chittering clicks. "M'lord, there's nothing! It's the tourney. There's no help for it, oh…"

The Hand's Tourney. They'd heard news of it on the way down the kingsroad. Supposedly it was being held in Lord Stark's honor, a celebration of his new position in the king's council, though Jon couldn't imagine his father happy with so much pomp.

Tyrion reached into his purse and pulled out a coin. He flicked it spinning up in the air and caught it in one fluid motion, its gold gleaming in the firelight. "I am sure something could be arranged…"

A blue-cloaked man stood with a loud clatter. "You're welcome to my room, m'lord."

"Now there's a good man," Tyrion said. He flicked the coin again toward the man, who caught it with wide, disbelieving eyes. "And a nimble one to boot." The dwarf turned back to the innkeep. "You will be able to manage food, I trust?"

She looked relieved. "Anything you like, m'lord, anything at all."

Tyrion glanced at the nearest tables. "My men will have whatever you're serving these people. Double portions, we've had a long hard ride. I'll take a roast fowl—chicken, duck, pigeon, it makes no matter. And send up a flagon of your best wine. Yoren, Jon, will you sup with me?"

Yoren nodded at once, but Jon glanced sideways at Morrec and Jyck. He felt bad leaving them here by themselves while he got special treatment. Then again, chances were they'd not get to sit by the fire, and Jon felt a strong craving for warmth wrestling with his pity.

"My lord of Lannister!" Someone called out. Jon turned with Tyrion and the rest of the room to see the singer, who'd stopped playing his lute and now graced them with a toothy smile that did not reach his eyes. "I would be pleased to entertain you while you eat. Let me sing you the lay of your father's great victory at King's Landing!"

"Nothing would be more likely to ruin my supper," Tyrion said dryly. He started looking away when his mismatched eyes caught on something. His face twisted into a confused frown, but then he was smiling as if he'd heard a joke too bad not to laugh at. "Lady Stark! What an unexpected pleasure. I was sorry to miss you at Winterfell."

The room froze, all the chatter snapping to silence. Or maybe it was just Jon who froze, his whole being set into a static portrait as he followed Tyrion's gaze and saw the woman at the other end of it. She wore a ragged hood and had a head full of auburn hair frazzled by the elements, but at once he knew her marble cheeks and her piercing blue eyes.

Catelyn Stark. His liege lady. His step-mother. His greatest enemy. Jon stared at her, and to his horror she stared back, lips drawn into a thin line, something vile bubbling in her look. He realized with a surreal clarity that she was now seeing him there beside Tyrion, was seeing their friendship, and was surely thinking the worst of it. The bastard had fallen in with the Lannisters.

She rose slowly to her feet, and Jon felt his racing heart even when her eyes shifted back down to Tyrion. Beside her Jon noticed with equal surreal suddenness Ser Rodrik Cassel, the white whiskers under his nose long and ungroomed. He looked at Jon with as much surprise as Jon looked at him, both of them unblinking.

The innkeep had stopped her chewing. "Lady… Stark?" she said thickly.

Catelyn's gaze turned to her. "I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I bedded here," she said, and the confirmation of her identity elicited a round of mutters. She looked around the room, breathing deeply, and again everything seemed to stand still, as if the world had taken a breath with her. Face set in a hardness Jon found far too familiar, she set her eyes on one of the men-at-arms by her table. "You in the corner. Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your surcoat, ser?"

The man, old yet strident, got to his feet. "It is, my lady."

"And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?"

"She is."

Ser Rodrik rose quietly beside her, hand on the scabbard of his sword, and Jon at once understood what was happening. His eyes snapped down to look at Tyrion, noting the blank puzzlement on the dwarf's scrunched face.

"The red stallion was ever a welcome sight in Riverrun," Catelyn said to a group of three men by the fire. "My father counts Jonos Bracken among his oldest and most loyal bannermen."

The warriors exchanged uncertain looks. "Our lord is honored by his trust," one of them said slowly.

"I envy your father all these fine friends," Tyrion put in, "but I do not quite see the purpose of this, Lady Stark."

Rather than respond, Catelyn turned to a large party, all of them donned in grey surcoats that featured twin towers of blue. "I know your sigil as well. The twin towers of Frey. How fares your good lord, sers?"

One of them rose stoically. "Lord Walder is well, my lady. He plans to take a new wife on his ninetieth name day, and has asked your lord father to honor the wedding with his presence." Tyrion sniggered, perhaps thinking it all some big heat, and Jon huffed with a contained panic, thinking, You fool, can't you see?! Are you not a clever man?!

But the panic grew tenfold when Catelyn's eyes finally, with a heavy sense of inevitability, turned back to Jon himself. "And you," she said, each syllable crackling like ice, "Jon Snow. Raised by my own lord husband. I trust you will dutifully honor his house?"

The moment had come. Jon knew it, could feel it in the vibration of his skin, the shortness of his breath, the painful way Tyrion turned to look up at him with eyes still blinking in confusion. Jon felt those eyes, their weight settling on his shoulders along with Robb's words. For our family.

Jon could see two paths laid out before him now, and he could feel himself marching ahead, marching inexorably to the beat of time, each second pushing him one step closer toward the split. But though there were two paths, though Jon could see the choice drawn for him so distinctly, he knew this was an illusion. There was no choice to be made between them, no way for his feet to carry him down that new road with its green fields and open, blue skies. His path was the other, the withered and barren and cold. His was the path of the north, for winter had come and Jon knew where he was needed to help survive it.

"I owe my life to Lord Stark," he heard himself say, words hollow. "And I always stand ready to honor him and his family."

Catelyn stared a moment longer. Then she gave him a sharp nod of approval, and without wasting any more time pointed a finger at Tyrion. "This man came a guest into my house, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of seven!" she proclaimed. Ser Rodrik unsheathed his sword, and a second layer a dozen more men followed his example. "In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me return him to Winterfell to await the king's justice!"

Tyrion flinched at the sound of steel. He glanced around the room, startled and well aware now of the trap he'd fallen into. It was a vulnerability Jon had never before seen from the man, a genuine shock that broke right through all his smug confidence, all his quick-witted self-satisfaction. Searching for safety, he turned to his guards and saw Jyck and Morrec just as surrounded as perturbed as himself. He turned to Yoren and saw the wandering crow slink away from his side, abandoning him without so much as a word of pity or guilt.

Then he turned to Jon, and what he saw made him smile. It was a smile of exasperation and of absurdity, and in his eyes Jon also saw a twinge of pain. "You too?" Tyrion asked, his voice low, as if muttering to himself.

There was something halfway disbelieving in his tone, and it hurt Jon to hear it. But Jon did not let that hurt make his sword waver. He stepped back from Tyrion, slipping in with the crowd that now began to circle the dwarf and his retinue, blades ringing with the sharp quiet of promised violence. Tyrion watched him throughout, still with that strained smile.

What followed was a series of accusations and threats, but Jon did not pay much attention to it. Instead he remembered the road, the strut of their horses, the sun shining bright, the meals they ate with their hands and the sparring they did in their free time. He remembered sitting by the fire and learning about the world, remembered every night he hung on the precipice of sleep and wondered in a half-dream about those faraway cities he'd only heard about in stories and had hoped to one day see with his own eyes.

He remembered it all, and he savored those memories because someday he might find himself missing these days just as he missed Winterfell. And Jon knew, somehow, that neither could ever truly return.

AN:

Been a while. I finished all of "Honor on the Moon," so that'll be coming out weekly for the foreseeable future.

I've learned it's a bad idea to make promises here, so from now on this is the only one you'll get out of me: I won't ever post updates for this story unless I have a completed arc locked and ready to go. That way we can avoid a situation where I leave readers hanging halfway through a major arc for... jeez, like four years? The scope of this story is big enough that I genuinely don't know if I'll ever finish it, but at the very least this rule for myself ensures that wherever things end up feels at least somewhat conclusive.

That's all from me. Thanks for reading.