Honor on the Moon, Chapter 7

"They're like wildlings, then," Jon said.

Ser Willis shook his head, frowning against the wind. "Not like. The mountain clans are wildlings. They follow no lord's law, they eat the flesh of men, and they sleep in mud like barbarians. Vermin, plain and simple." His brow dipped lower. "It's troubling to see how bold they've grown. I am surprised the lady Arryn has left them to fester."

Jon shared a glance with Ser Rodrik trotting along beside him, and both then looked ahead to where Catelyn rode with Ser Donnel Waynwood. The knight had come riding to their rescue earlier that morning, and along with his small company taken it upon himself to escort them the rest of the short way to the Vale of Arryn. Stocky and young, he'd seemed especially heroic to all of them as he charged in during their latest encounter with a band of hostile clansmen. They'd already fought back three such raids along their journey, losing much of their party to an enemy sword or club.

This was all that was left of them now: the lady Catelyn Stark, her prisoner Lord Tyrion Lannister, his sole remaining bodyguard Morrec, the sellsword Bronn, the knights Ser Rodrik Cassell and Ser Willis Wode, the singer Marillion, and the bastard Jon Snow. After all the fighting and death it felt like something of a miracle to have even that many still alive, though it wasn't a miracle they could take great pride in.

"Are there no such tribes in the riverlands?" Jon asked. Ser Willis still seemed not to like him much, but fighting side by side made him comfortable enough with the man to offer questions.

"Our lords were conscientious about getting such rabble in line long before I was born," Ser Willis said. "You northerners made peace with yours, I hear. I suppose you've some kinship with them we Andals don't share."

"It's not kinship so much as necessity," Ser Rodrik put in. He wheezed lightly as he breathed, their journey having taxed him more than anyone else. Skilled and hardy as he was, age could bring any man low. "Your riverlands are flat, open, and plentiful. It must have been difficult for such clans to hide or stand their ground there, but the hill tribes of the north have the same advantage these do here. No army could break such a fortress of peaks, and it is foolish to fight on another's terrain."

Ser Willis scoffed. "Even so, I'd not rest until they were all run from their mountain nests."

And so you would not rest until death, Jon thought. He looked at the steep pass through which they rode, with its sharp drops and inclines, and couldn't imagine the effort it would take to launch a campaign on such a place. The raiders had buzzed about them like hornets, stinging them and flying back out of sight just as they lost the initiative with a nimbleness no outsider could ever replicate. Eventually their paranoia and their sleeplessness had been just as detrimental to their chances of survival as the enemies they faced.

Guerilla tactics, the same as those the crannogmen of the Neck employed, or so Tyrion had once claimed. Jon glanced back and saw the dwarf trailing behind on one of their surviving palfreys, axe strapped to his back and head covered by one of the dead Bracken men's helmets. The battles had made him less a prisoner and more a warrior, though one who depended mostly on luck and dedicated self-preservation.

Beside Tyrion rode Bronn, who had proven himself just as ruthless and practical with the sword as he seemed in life, offering neither mercy to his enemies nor grace to his allies. Jon remembered cutting down a fighter who'd been ready to stab the man in the back. Bronn had glanced his way, offering hardly a nod or smile of acknowledgement before getting back to the fight at hand. Once Jon put his back to Bronn's—trusting the man to defend him in kind—he'd found himself alone within seconds, surrounded and turning anxiously in circles to keep the raiders out of his blind spot. Ser Rodrik had ridden in to save him from that knot, thankfully, even if it had strained the old knight all the more.

Jon had confronted Bronn after the fight and was given a brutally flat response. "I've nothing personal against you, boy," the man had said, "but the lady and the Imp are the only two worth anything here. Add their lives to my own and that makes three I need to look after. Three lives is already a heavy enough burden, if you ask me."

Now Ser Rodrik leaned close to Jon and whispered over the sound of their horses trotting. "I don't like seeing them together," he said, eyes on Tyrion and Bronn just as Jon's were. "Lady Catelyn finds it worrying as well."

Jon grimaced when he saw Tyrion and Bronn laugh at some shared joke. The two had grown rather close the last few days, Tyrion's charms finally coming into effect. It frustrated him to watch, but he couldn't see any real danger in it, particularly now that they were surrounded by men loyal to Lady Catelyn's own sister. Ser Donnel aside, two men-at-arms led the group up front with him while two more rode at the back with Morrec and Marillion.

"Do you think they're plotting something?" Jon asked. "I'm not sure there's much Tyrion could do with only two loyal men, and Morrec…"

Ser Rodrik nodded. Like Jon he knew Tyrion's last remaining guard had become all but useless since Jyck died, for like Jon he'd needed to save the man several times from his own distraction. "You're right, of course. But Jon, remember what I taught you. The more assured you are of victory in battle the more likely it is the tide will turn against you." He heaved, sinking into his saddle, but his eyes stayed sharp on Jon's. "You rode with the Imp. Mayhap you've some idea of how he might hope to get fortune back on his side?"

Jon fell silent, thinking. For a moment he considered not saying anything, considered saving Tyrion from yet another shove deeper into the pit, but he'd already dedicated himself to the Starks. What would it make him now, to hesitate walking down the path he'd already chosen?

"Tyrion is quick to try and bribe his way through everything," Jon said.

"He has no money now," Rodrik said, frowning.

"Of course he does. We confiscated his coin, but I don't expect Lady Stark will take ownership of it. She's no thief."

"Still, the dwarf cannot use it."

"Not now. But he could in the future should he find some escape. And as a Lannister he could offer far more than whatever he was carrying on his person."

Rodrik raised a brow. "You think the sellsword would betray us for the mere promise of reward?"

"Why not? He joined us for the mere promise of reward." Jon scowled, lips thin. "That man is only loyal to himself, and he cares not for his good name. Whether Lady Stark will pay him or whether Tyrion will, I don't think he has any preference. What matters to him is who he's most likely to benefit from, and by how much."

"And… I suppose it's hard to compete against the promise of a Lannister's riches."

"Tyrion has an advantage in the terrain of promises, yes. But you yourself said it's foolish to fight on another's terrain, so why should we?" Jon smiled wryly. "If you want to make Bronn your ally in truth, tell Lady Stark to pay the man now, and pay him more than she first said she would. Real gold in his hands will convince him to stay the proper course more than any promise."

"That could be… But Lady Catelyn is not exactly flush with gold at the moment."

"No, but I would bet her sister is. Lady Stark can borrow the money from her. Robb won't mind paying off the debt once his mother is back safe by his side at Winterfell."

Rodrik stared at him, nodding minutely. "I will see what Lady Stark thinks." His hard eyes looked closely at Jon, taking the boy in as if for the first time. "You've changed, Jon. I never knew you to be the subtle sort."

To Jon it seemed like nothing particularly impressive. Had Catelyn not already thought to do the same? He found it hard to believe, but then again he supposed he knew Tyrion's methods better than anyone else here except Morrec, and perhaps during their months of travel he'd learned to see things as the dwarf did at least somewhat. What were people if not their values, and what was loyalty between people if not their values becoming aligned? Catelyn, Tyrion, even Jon himself—they all valued their respective houses and acted accordingly. Bronn valued nothing but wealth and personal satisfaction, so loyalty to him was merely a matter of who or what could provide him with it. There was nothing complicated about that.

The more Jon mulled it over, the less pleasure he got from Rodrik's praise. If people were so simple, why was the world they built filled with such duplicity? The old gods are cruel, Maester Aemon had told him. Both the old and the new. But they do have a knack for beauty. Jon could remember the sight from the maester's window, could remember the moon shining over fields of clean snow, but had such beauty been restricted only to nature? Had the gods kept beauty away from the hearts of men?

He was still ruminating when they reached the gate. The pass they rode on, narrow already, narrowed even more as it funneled itself into a tall wall seemingly carved out of the mountains themselves. It was flanked by twin watchtowers atop which Jon could see archers glaring down at their nearing party.

The group slowed, more so when a knight rode out from the structure to meet them. His armor was as grey as his horse and did not gleam in the daylight, as if made of stone, but his cloak waved in a stark blue and red. And against his shoulder was pinned an insignia Jon immediately recognized from years of playing battle games with Robb: a black fish set against gold.

Ser Brynden Tully looked back at them, large and imposing, voice booming like that of a giant. "Who would pass the Bloody Gate?"

Few living warriors could stand proudly alongside the legends of the past, against the likes of Arthur Dayne or even King Robert Baratheon himself before the throne turned his muscle into fat. Brynden Tully was one of those people. The Blackfish he was called, a man who'd won so many battles that fear of his blade spanned from the Wall down to the shores of the Summer Sea.

But for all his reputation preceded him, he was luckily also Catelyn Stark's uncle. "Ah, Ser Donnel. And the lady beside you looks rather familiar." Ser Brynden lifted off his helm, and a weathered face lined with the lines of many years smiled widely. "You are far from home, little Cat."

"And you, uncle," Catelyn said, sounding far happier than she had at any point since they'd set out. "It has been many years. Too many, in truth."

"The longer an absence, the happier the reunion. Did Lysa know you were coming?"

"There was no time to send word," Catelyn said, joy slipping. "I fear we ride before the storm, uncle. May we enter the Vale?"

Ser Brynden nodded. "In the name of Robin Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace. Come."

The Bloody Gate was opened, and as they rode Jon gaped at the sight it hid. Vale of Arryn was a land of green fields, of a rich blue ceiling that stretched far into the distance, of rich soil and steady rivers and lakes, of corn and barley and pumpkins and sweet fruit. It wasn't a large place—maybe half a day's ride across, the land walled off by sheltering peaks—but Jon could see it was occupied by hamlets and wheat fields, a miniature kingdom pulled right from some children's story.

And far behind, topping the greatest peak in sight, was a castle. Its towers gleamed white and tall, like swords stabbing up from the mountain, the waterfall beside it falling as cloudy mist. The Eyrie, one of the great wonders of the Seven Kingdoms.

Before, Jon had compared every small holding he visited to Winterfell, and the comparison had always made them seem bare and poor. Now he found it was Winterfell that came out the worse. This new castle did not seem larger than his old home, a mere dot in the distance, but it was far grander as it rose into the sky as if stretching to escape the world. A dream of stone and mist.

"Amazing," Jon said, breathing out in awe.

Ser Willis nodded, for once looking anything but stern. "This journey… Mayhap it was worth it for this moment alone."

So long they'd spent amidst cold barren stone and miserable cloudy skies, it was no wonder such a hidden gift could rejuvenate their spirits. All of them enjoyed the surprise together, almost bathing in it. Even Tyrion seemed to forget what fate awaited him, Jon noticed, lips for once drawn into a smile that lacked its usual irony.

But all too quickly their responsibilities gnawed at them. Catelyn began to organize the rest, starting by asking Ser Willis and Morrec to stay behind at the Bloody Gate. "You should have your wounds treated, my good ser. They've a septon here to do it. And you, guardsman, your loyalty to your lord does you credit, but worry not. I will make sure no harm comes to him."

Morrec tried to argue, but no amount of words could combat the number of swords now surrounding him. Ser Brynden had the authority here, and through him his niece, something Catelyn took full advantage of. One less man on Tyrion's employ she'll have to worry about, Jon thought. Technically the last.

Ser Rodrik nearly stayed behind at the Bloody Gate himself, but when Marillion and Bronn both insisted they'd carry on beside Catelyn he'd stressed his own necessity. "What's one more day's ride, my lady?" the old knight said. "I've still some strength left in these old bones."

Ultimately Rodrik proved too stubborn to convince, though Catelyn clearly didn't like putting the man through any more strain now that they were safe. Jon prepared to emulate that stubbornness, thinking Catelyn would order him to stay behind as well, but to his surprise the lady simply glanced his way, nodded, and led her horse down the valley.

So the party rode together with Ser Brynden at the head, their wide eyes and hung lips taking in the plentiful land around them. They passed merchant wagons and walking farmers and women sowing out on rocking chairs, all of them bowing or moving aside before the moon-and-falcon banner of House Arryn hoisted by the standard-bearer. Catelyn talked with her uncle as they went, at times loud enough that Jon could make out some words, at times whispering with forced calm. He'd not been privy to her plans save for the bare essentials, an ignorance that helped startle him all the more when she suddenly slowed her horse and trotted along beside him.

For a long moment the two rode in silence, Catelyn's tight face set ahead and Jon glancing bemusedly her way. When she finally spoke, her voice was civil. "A pretty sight."

"Y-Yes," Jon said, trying to hide his nerves. Small talk wasn't exactly his strong suit even in the best of times. "I didn't think… This looks impossible."

"The world is full of wonders." Catelyn looked at him. "This land is where Lord Stark was sent to ward. Where he learned to be a man, him and King Robert, under the tutelage of your namesake."

Jon had heard this story. "Lord Jon Arryn, you mean. The last Hand of the King."

"A fair and just man, or so my husband always claims. He was devastated to learn of Lord Arryn's death…" Catelyn sighed then, some great weight settling on her shoulders. "You did well during our journey here. Ser Rodrik and Ser Willis both credit you with saving their lives on more than one occasion. Even I must credit you with the same."

A genuine compliment from Lady Catelyn put Jon at a complete loss of words. He took it with a shocked silence, then gulped it down once he realized that might be considered rude. "We all fought together, my lady. None of us could have made it alone."

"Still, you should be commended," she said, eyes measuring him. "I assume you know of my uncle, Ser Brynden the Blackfish?"

Jon blinked at the change in topic. "Robb often played as him during our games. I've heard he's a great warrior."

"One of the best in the kingdoms. Do you know why they call him the Blackfish?"

"It's his personal coat of arms," Jon said lamely. Robb had told him many of Ser Brynden's stories, but they had all been of the rebellion and the War of the Ninepenny Kings across the Narrow Sea.

"The trout is a Tully symbol," Catelyn said. "Years ago, before Robert's Rebellion… Before I had even wed Lord Stark, my father thought to marry Ser Brynden to Lady Bethany Redwyne of the Arbor. Such a union would have given us the greatest fleet in the kingdoms, so you can imagine how much importance my father placed on it." She waited, and Jon nodded to show he was listening. "But my uncle refused, and ever since he and my father have been at great odds. Once, my father called him the black goat of the Tully flock, and while it should have been an insult my uncle saw it as an honor. He took the silver trout of the Tullys and turned it black, and he's borne it so ever since."

Jon frowned warily at her. "An interesting story, my lady, but… I don't understand. Why tell it to me?"

"Because, child, I've been thinking you and my uncle share much in common." She turned to him just in time to see his confused blink, and now the smile was clear on her face. It was a tight smile, half-forced, the kind that came when one tried not to show offense when turned into the target of a joke. "You are both dependable warriors, but more than that, you both understand what it's like to be made… distant."

She made no direct admission of guilt, but even this was startling enough that Jon almost fell from his horse at hearing it. When he glanced back to Catelyn she'd already turned away, perhaps too prideful or too embarrassed to look at him now.

"Still, even when my uncle was made distant, he remained loyal," Catelyn said. "He came here to the Vale so my sister Lysa would have someone she could trust by her side after being sent to marry so far from home. Family, duty, honor. No matter how he was treated, the Blackfish never forgot our Tully words, and though he paints it black he still wears our sigil proudly." She turned back to him then, and there was something like softness in her eyes, one hidden behind years of resentment. "In any case, I've told my uncle that you would benefit from some years of useful employment, and that you're not likely to disappoint any who'll accept you into their service."

It took a moment, but when Jon saw what she meant his eyes grew wide all over again. "My lady, I… I don't know… I mean, I was planning to…"

"Ah, yes. Ser Rodrik told me you wished to make for King's Landing after we were finished here."

"Aye. Not to stay!" he added, remembering she hadn't wanted him to go south with the rest of the Stark household and stain his father's reputation. "I only want to speak with Lord Stark, to ask him about…"

Jon trailed off, realizing that to finish would remind her of the very source of her hatred for him and this was far from the moment to do it. Catelyn seemed to guess this too, for the smile she had, strained as it already was, now disappeared.

"The choice is yours in the end," she said. "Think on it. Your future is worth some consideration."

And what a considerable thing he now had before him. Jon imagined himself armored and cloaked as Ser Brynden was, imagined himself kneeling and a blade tapping his shoulders, imagined earning land and a name of his own. Fanciful as those images were, and slim as their possibility was, this could be a true path towards them. What will you do with your life? Tyrion had asked, and with everything that happened after Jon hadn't spent much time with the question, but if he was to have any future this seemed like the most promising.

To think Lady Catelyn of all people would open the door for it. I saved her life, Jon reasoned. Perhaps that was enough to explain her newfound magnanimity, but when he remembered all those years of chilly separation he couldn't quite believe it.

When he saw himself from her perspective, who was he? Jon Snow, the dreaded bastard son of her husband, one she feared might steal her legitimate son's inheritance. Catelyn may have thought the threat over when he went to the Night's Watch, but now it had returned with his riding back south. Should he find no other destiny for himself, Jon very well might go back to Winterfell, and she'd made her opinion on that quite clear. Better to give the bastard something else to strive for, something enticing enough to keep him away from the north forever. If the cattle prod wasn't enough to scare him off maybe a bit of honey could draw him elsewhere, and what better honey than the possibility of tutelage under a renowned knight hundreds of leagues away?

Jon felt angry at her then—how dare she keep him from his home? He thought to confront her and confirm his suspicions, but he wasn't dense enough to risk insulting her just when she'd decided to help him. This was, whatever her reasons for it, a gift he could not refuse. So instead he simply bowed his head and spoke through gritted teeth. "I don't know how to thank you…"

"Then avoid doing so," Catelyn said. "Don't think me more useful to you than I have been. All I've done is put in a good word, and my uncle is not the sort of man to act for so little reason. It will be up to you to convince him you are worth his attention."

"I'll not waste the opportunity."

"See that you do not." Catelyn glanced back to where Tyrion and Bronn rode, still caught up in some bawdy conversation, and Jon followed her eyes. "By the way, Ser Rodrik also told me your advice. I find it quite prudent myself."

Advice? It took a second for Jon to recall what she was talking about, but when he did all his joy and expectation and even annoyance at her turned to ash in his mouth. "I see."

"I dislike how much freedom we've allowed the Imp these last few days," Catelyn went on. "Our difficulties made it necessary, but now we must remind him of his position, and it would behoove us to ensure he has no allies."

Jon fidgeted uneasily in his saddle. This horse he rode, one of the Bracken men's, had yet to learn his silent commands, and the boy found himself fighting with the reins much more than he had with Steelfoot. The rhythm of the ride, which had before felt so natural, now jostled him. "I suppose you'll ask for your lady sister's help tomorrow, then?"

"No. The sooner we isolate the Lannister the better. I've asked Ser Brynden to provide the coin." Catelyn sighed. "It's shameful for a niece to greet her uncle by asking him for money, but he saw the wisdom in it."

"Good. That's… good."

"Yes." Catelyn nodded to him again, once more with measuring eyes. "The coming days… I fear they will bring no less hardship than what we've already faced. Ready yourself for it, Jon."

Her piece said, she trotted ahead back to her uncle. Jon watched her go, still uncomfortable on this new horse, and as soon as she began talking to Ser Brynden he turned away, too embarrassed in case the man happened to look back at him. Jon found himself glancing towards Tyrion and Bronn again, seeing their laughter, and it was as if the cold beyond the Bloody Gate had followed after him even in this paradise.

They reached the Gates of the Moon just after sundown. Jon sat at one of several tables populating the castle's great hall, the bustle and warm torchlight that filled it a stark contrast to the cold, empty nights he'd grown used to along the mountain passes.

He looked across the hall at the head table where Lady Catelyn sat with Lord Nestor Royce and the other highborn lords and ladies. She was their guest of honor, joined there by Ser Rodrik and Ser Brynden, and their hosts made sure to properly entertain her with a feast of food and drink and merry songs.

It had nearly been otherwise, Jon remembered. Lord Royce had met them once they reached his castle, waiting in his yard as they crossed the lowered drawbridge. As large a man as Jon had ever seen, he spoke gruffly and with a clumsy politeness fueled more by sincerity than any genuine practice. After exchanging niceties, he told them his news. "My lady Catelyn, your sister the lady Lysa has sent down word from the Eyrie. She wishes to see you at once. The rest of your party will be housed here and sent up at first light."

"What madness is this?" Ser Brynden said. "A night ascent, with the moon not even full? Lysa should know that's an invitation to a broken neck."

Catelyn looked ready to take the trip regardless, but then Ser Rodrik stepped in. "We have journeyed far these last weeks," he said, head bowed to Lord Royce but voice stern with what little energy he had left after the long day's ride. "And I was charged by Lord Stark himself to keep his lady wife safe from all the dangers on her way here. I beg the lady Arryn's forgiveness, but by the authority of the Warden of the North I'm afraid I must insist Lady Catelyn delay her climb until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Lord Royce looked at them all with heavy eyes before finally settling on Catelyn. "Personally, I agree some rest would do you all well, but…" A sigh filled him then. "Ah, let it be so, then. If Lady Lysa will not accept the sense in it then I'll make some excuse. Gods know I've grown used enough to her bad temper these last few months."

And so here they were, safe and secure in a warm castle hall full for the first time in weeks. Jon glanced to where Bronn sat, the sellsword already commiserating with some of the Royce warriors across the room, merry and full and from now on rich with coin. No Tyrion in sight of course; he'd been sent to some room in the castle to sup alone, with a guard posted on his door to ensure he'd stay there. Now that they had all returned to civilization, the dwarf's isolation had begun in earnest.

"You've a face made for crying with, bastard."

Jon turned, the words sending him back through the months so that he suddenly expected to find the mummer Pyp sitting beside him, but time returned just as quickly and he saw they had come from Marillion. The singer dropped onto the bench with a tired heave beside him, still cradling his broken hand, but by then a maester had looked over the injury at Catelyn's request and the limb was wrapped in a tight bandage that should in some weeks heal his skilled fingers.

"You're not the first to tell me something of the like," Jon said, going back to his plate of roast chicken and onion salad.

Rather than food, Marillion had brought a goblet filled to the brim with wine. By the looks of him it wasn't his first. "Will you make the climb with us, then?" he asked, words slurring slightly.

"Of course." Jon sent him a frowning glance. "I'm surprised you will. You're still hurt."

Marillion waved his broken hand dismissively. The injury had kept him from playing his harp for the remainder of their journey, but Jon had caught him staring longingly at the strings during those cold nights, mouthing some silent song. "It's nothing time won't fix. I have to see the end of this story, you see. I've come too far not to."

"I suppose there's some sense in that…"

"Certainly there is. Listen." Marillion set down his goblet and leaned forward, hands chopping lightly on the table and face blooming with a passion far more intense than any Jon had seen from him before. "You've heard my other stories. My other travels. I'll admit, some of what I've told has been a bit… embellished."

"You don't say."

"I've walked road and meadow all throughout the riverlands. A long time I've done it, performing at all the inns and all the great castles. But how small that kingdom truly is, and how safe, and how boring!" Marillion shook his head, eyes glinting in the torchlight of the hall. "These few weeks… I've never been more terrified, nor more inspired! Death seemed always so close, yet it's made me feel more alive than I thought was possible."

"We've all fought hard to survive," Jon said lightly. He still remembered the sight of Marillion crouched behind a boulder, looking on as the rest fought for all their lives.

Some of this memory must have seeped into his tone, because when Marillion next looked over at him his face was flush red. "I'm not… I'm not like you, bastard. I'm no warrior. I know nothing of arms and battle."

There was something sorry enough in those words to make Jon feel bad for what he'd implied. "Not everyone does. But not everyone knows of harps and songs either, myself included. You've your own skills to be proud of."

"I… Yes, I agree." Marillion smiled, and where once it was filled with arrogance Jon now found it surprisingly sheepish. "I'll make a good song of this journey yet. I see it as my purpose now, just as yours was to fight our enemies." Still smiling, the singer dipped his goblet back and gulped the whole thing down in one go. Breathing out a satisfied sigh, he then broke into full, belly-aching laughter. "How grand it has been, don't you think? A real adventure! I feel like a changed man!"

Jon supposed he was. The Marillion he met at the crossroads inn had been all bluster, all pretty words without much substance. Now he sat beside a Marillion who'd seen and risked death. How could one go through such a thing and not come out at least a little more humble, find confidence a little more grounded in truth?

It made Jon consider whether he'd also changed during his travels. Ser Rodrik seemed to think so, had even told him as much, but Jon didn't feel any different. Mostly he felt himself in this castle's hall among the men-at-arms, among the servants and the lowborn guests, just as it had been in Winterfell. For all he had travelled and learned and fought, maybe his place in halls like these would never truly change. What good was a supposed adventure if it ended the same way it began?

A face made for crying with indeed, Jon thought sourly. He stood, no longer hungry and desiring above all to find somewhere quiet. Being surrounded by all this noise, all this joy, only seemed to deepen his misery by contrast. "Good night, Marillion," he said, but already the singer had gotten distracted with some serving girl pouring more wine, and when he left the hall the exit caused no stir.

The yard wasn't particularly big, but the castle's four walls were set against the backdrop of sheer cliffs that reached into the sky. The Giant's Lance loomed tall and near, and atop this most massive of all mountains Jon could see the Eyrie set against the dark night sky, its pointed white towers shining like blades standing upright. He and the others would somehow attempt that steep climb tomorrow, a distressing thought.

He walked the yard, taking in the muted sounds of revelry and the soft chirp of crickets in the night, the receding wind of the valley beyond the castle walls, the crackle of torches that barely lit the empty space. Jon saw some guardsmen loitering by the gates, others atop the wall, some glancing his way and nodding silently before returning to their work. When he reached the stables, he saw his new horse still up alongside the other horses, and saw too a set of shorter beasts still eating the gruel from their long trough.

But Jon wasn't here for them, nor for the night, nor in truth even for his own solitude. He closed his eyes and centered his mind, straining to find the spark that now seemed so dull and faded, focusing his ears to hear the barest echo of a howl he'd almost lost all hope for.

"Ghost…" The name slipped through his lips like a spell, or a prayer. "Where are you?"

The only time Jon ever saw Ghost now was in his dreams, or rather the one dream he had again and again since their separation. Always the direwolf sat by that heavy wooden door, watching him run in the other direction as the snow and ice creeped in, white fur consumed in a whiter blizzard but eyes always piercing red and angry into his. Whenever Jon woke he would look around, expecting to feel himself covered with frostbite and needing to remember he'd been asleep, that what cold he felt had not yet killed him. All he had left of Ghost, then, was a memory repeated. It was maddening.

He thought he could still feel their connection, thought the direwolf must have followed their group into the Vale of Arryn and even now hunted rabbits or deer in the valley wilds, but the idea had Jon worried. He worried someone might see Ghost and think the direwolf a dangerous monster and kill the beast out of fear or for a hunting trophy. He worried Ghost might forget himself and attack some innocent person in a fit of frenzy. Above all Jon worried even this small, thin connection he thought they still shared wasn't real and had for days now been a mere product of wishful thinking.

"Ghost," he said again, pleading softly to the night. "Please… Don't abandon me…"

"Who are you talking to?"

Jon twisted around, startled to see a woman looking back at him. She stood half a head taller than him and stared back with a loose smile, but the longer he stared the more he saw the youth in her features. Her eyes were a deep sky blue, and they gauged him as a trader would a new horse. At once Jon felt mortified, his face heating up, dreading what she'd heard him say.

"I remember you," she said, walking to one of the stable posts and leaning against it. Her coat was practical, and on her legs she wore trousers as a man would have. Stranger still, she wore a deep red shawl rather than a cloak, one that wrapped snugly over her shoulders down almost to her elbows. "You were with the lady Stark's party, right? Jon Snow, I take it?"

Jon stepped back. "Yes. And you are…" He frowned, thinking back. There had been a girl there with Lord Royce to greet them, hadn't there? "Our… Our guide for the climb tomorrow. I think I remember you too."

"Mya Stone. I've been told our fathers are best friends."

"Ah." Stone was a name given to bastards here in the Vale just as Snow was given to those up north. Little as Jon knew about these southern lands, this was something he'd made sure to learn. And if she was right about their fathers, then… "So the king… I mean, he's…"

"Aye, my mother was once blessed by his royal presence, and now here I am."

The joke fell rather flat, mostly since Jon wasn't in the mood to laugh. "Well, nice to meet you."

"And you, Snow." Her eyes shifted to look over his shoulder. "It seems Blossom's taken a liking to you."

Jon turned his head and almost jumped when he saw one of the mules had silently crept over behind him. The beast sniffed his arm, head lolling up and down in what he supposed was a kind of curiosity. "I'm just… good with animals."

Mya pushed herself from the post and walked closer. Jon stepped gingerly out of her way as she reached the mule, then played audience to her as she reached over to scratch Blossom on her neck. "I'm good with them too. Mules, at least. I stopped by to make sure they were fed properly." She smiled back at him. "Folk like us need to be good at something, don't we? Makes it easier for the noble ones to look the other way when it comes to matters of birth and blood."

Somehow this calmed Jon. He hadn't realized how anxious he'd been until his breath slowed and he again could hear the quiet nighttime chorus of hooves and mulch. "I've never thought of it that way."

"Haven't you?" Mya looked down to his belt, where he'd strapped his bastard sword and ranger's sword both. They weighed on his hip, but he'd had nowhere else to put them and this made it easy to reach either as the situation called. "I'd imagine you fight well with those blades of yours."

Jon remembered his early days of training. There had been no great ambition in the effort, at least not any more than the daydreams of heroism and gallantry every boy grew up with. "I was raised in a castle with my siblings, and castle boys learn the blade as farmboys learn to plow their fields. It's nothing remarkable."

Mya glanced back up at his eyes, grin pursed and knowing. "Still, the warrior's life seems a straightforward path to gain renown." She leaned against the mule, who stood and let her with an ease that only came from years of familiarity. "I admit I'm rather jealous of you men. Your lives may end faster, but at least they seem far simpler too. Whenever you get angry or sad you can just go out and hit something."

That got a smile out of Jon. "It's not too hopeless for you. I've known women warriors."

"Really?"

"The lady Meera of House Reed is as good with a spear as any man I've met. My sister Arya… My half-sister, she's started training in the sword. And…" Jon was about to mention the women he'd fought from the mountain clans, but then he remembered the first one Jyck had killed for him, all the death of that day and the days that followed, and his smile dropped.

When he didn't break his pause, Mya hummed. "Mayhap it's not so rare as I thought, then." She shrugged, crossing her arms. "But still, I've no real interest in learning to fight. Sounds a risky way to live."

"And hiking up mountains carries no risk?"

"Not if you know what you're doing." She looked up at the Giant's Lance, and Jon followed her gaze up the thin, shrinking trail. "I've walked those steps since I was a child. My hands and feet know the stones, and my voice can lead any beast or man safely through their slopes."

Jon tried for a smile again, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That's good to hear. I'll be in your care as we climb."

"And I'll try not to have you slip off the edge, Snow."

Jon moved away, thinking to go back to the castle and find the bed that had been set out for him. "Then I'll see you come morning time."

He made it a few steps before the girl's voice rose up behind him. "Hark! One last thing, as your guide up the Giant's Lance." Jon turned to see her still leaning against her mule, eyes steady. "It does one well to climb in good spirits, so chin up, eh? Whatever led you out here on your lonesome… You should know it'll turn out alright."

Whatever led him here? Jon himself barely knew what that was. "How can you be so sure?" he asked, a bit ashamed at having his gloom be so easily spotted.

Mya's face softened. "Folk like us need to believe things will end well more than anyone. If you don't, who will for you?" Her hand came back to Blossom's neck, rubbing it as if on its own accord, seeking its own comfort. "Trust, Snow. Trust the stones won't crumble beneath you. That's what matters most as you climb."

Jon lingered in her eyes, and for the first time thought how strange her excuse to be here had been. She might have cared for these animals, but surely it wasn't her job to feed them. Perhaps the truth was she'd been searching for her own peace here in the night, like him unsettled by a feast that did not make her feel at home. And Mya seemed older than Jon, if only by a few years. How many hours had she spent in stables like these, with her mules as her only respite? Had she come to terms with the world she'd been born into, or was she still like him, always conscious of its constraints and always struggling against them? Living in the world of lords and ladies but not ever quite belonging to it due to the unfaithfulness of others, perhaps this was a curse all folk like them shared. If anyone had a right to speak to him about trust, it was her.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, meaning it. Then he turned to go. "Good night, Mya."

"And you, Snow. Sweet dreams."

But his dreams were not sweet. When he awoke the next morning, he could only remember the semblance of a cold wind, of a hearth kept always out of reach, of Ghost's red eyes staring, waiting, disappearing behind a white flood.

Thanks for reading.

It's interesting the expectations people come into these stories with, but I've read my fair share of fanfiction so I get it. The bashing stuff, well, I'm a little old for that at this point (and maybe fanfiction in general tbh). Catelyn's a woman who's been deeply hurt and that makes her act out of disdain at times, but she's still a lady of a great house literally trained since childhood to retain her dignity at all times. More than that, she's a human being! People are more complicated than their worst impulses. Glad to see folks here appreciating that.

Anyway, see you next week.