'The Warrior revealed himself to his faithful, he taught them to wield the weapons of steel the Smith had endowed them, he bid them to fight with honor and dignity, to protect the freedom of their kinsmen, the virtue of their mothers and sisters, and the dignity of their sons and fathers, he…'
His eyes glazed over as his mind turned to other thoughts, the words on the page turning illegible as his eyes continued to glide across them, until he heard Zephyr fluttering above him and landing on his shoulder.
Just in time. He thought, he closed the manuscript and laid it on the windowsill before checked the hawk for a letter, he plucked it from the bird's ankle and fished around his pockets.
"I got these for you." Jon said, pulling out a strip of jerky, then threw it out of the window he was leaning against for daylight, the hawk chirped and dashed off his shoulder, diving through branches and leaves chasing after it.
Unfurling the letter, he saw the words "FUck YOU" haphazardly scratched across the parchment and chuckled. Teaching Mya to read and write was a slow and sometimes painful process, but entirely worthwhile if it meant they could still prod each other even when she was stuck in the Eyrie tending cattle.
Zephyr was also making regular trips to Iron Oaks and occasionally Heart's Home, it was nice to keep up with Hardyng without having to go through the maesters, they hadn't seen each other in some time, but Jon liked to think he had found a true friend in him.
As for Mychel, there was a different story, the boy was simultaneous fond of Jon but also duty bound as a squire of Ser Corbray.
That boy has no spine. Jon thought. He would not go against his father for Mya, and now he tries to stay amenable with both me and Corbray, pick a cause.
Zephyr landed on the windowsill again and aggressively cawed at him, he smiled at the animal and tossed another slice of jerky from the window, deciding to take a quick ride in the hawk's mind as it dived after the meat. Flying remained as sweet as ever, no matter how long he spent indulging it, when he flew over the mountains and hamlets and forests and all the waring peoples within, he was simply free.
"Jon?" He heard off to his side, and quickly pulled back to reality, it was none other than the blackfish, he had grown used to the sight of the man, come to think of it, it was nearing two years since they arrived together in the Vale. Should I get him a gift to celebrate the occasion? Would it be appropriate? And even if it was, what do you get a master of a castle? A man who could have the finest steel, food or amenity whenever he desired? I'll write to father about it. "What are you up to?"
"It's nice and quiet here." Jon answered, and that was much harder to come by here compared to Winterfell. The Gates were smaller, but held a larger garrison, and all of the more cooks, smiths and servants that a larger garrison required. And with the threat of mountain men always looming above them, the castle was in constant commotion with no room for levity, it produced better fighters, but the atmosphere of mania could grow exhausting. "Good place to catch your breath."
"Is that the Seven-Pointed Star?" Brynden asked, stopping to stand next to him.
"Aye." Jon said, lifting the book. "I was curious, so I asked the Septa for a copy."
"Have you finished Maester Ryam's recounting of the Dornish Wars that I assigned you before delving into religious text?" Brynden asked, raising an eyebrow when Jon nodded. "What did you think of the Second Dornish War?"
"The Vulture king was a fool to split his army and allow the Iron Throne to hunt them one by one." Jon said, Brynden nodded his acknowledgment. "But regardless of which invasion it was, be it Aegon's or Daeron's, the Dornish fought dishonorably at every turn."
"Fought dishonorably? In war?" Brynden asked, almost scoffing at his words. "The only reprehensible act they took was drawing steel under a banner of peace, otherwise, they fought intelligently, never giving larger armies fights they would win and never giving the dragons armies to burn."
"Truly?" Jon asked. "Are ambushes and trickery not dishonorable?"
"Honor does not exist in war Snow." Brynden said, leaning on the sill next to him. "Imagine this, King Robert has gone mad, completely feral, he orders the death of all your kin, every little brother and sister, you're leading the only army standing between him and your undefended castle. The odds of the battle are even, but if you rely on ambushes, terrain, misdirection, every trick that the Dornish used, you gain a slight advantage, some more hope that your family lives rather than dies, would you take it?"
"I…" Jon said, stopping to consider his words, but Brynden continued.
"I only know that I would." Brynden said, crossing his arms and looking out at the High Road. "You should value honor when it's your life on the line, but when it's your family? Your countrymen? There is nary a man who would not forsake himself a hundred times over to protect them."
"Family and duty before honor." Jon said. "Your family's words."
"Aye, an outcast I may be, but they still ring true." He said, then cast his eyes back at Jon's book. "At least you did read what I assigned you, but I did not expect you to resort to the Seven-Pointed Star."
"It's something to pass the time, there isn't much to do in the evenings, most of the knights and men at arms only train in the morning."
"And I don't imagine you've much to learn sparring against squires and greenhorns."
"Half of them are too scared to approach me, the other half are drunk on resentment or envy." Jon said. "I can spend a few hours drilling by my lonesome, but that'll only get me so far."
"I'm glad you're doing something other than swordwork, regardless." Brynden said. "Come to think of it, we hold our meetings in the afternoons, why don't you attend them?"
"All you talk of is grain and taxes and some such." Jon said. "I don't believe much of it is useful for me to learn, it's not like I stand to inherit anything."
"Neither did I, but look at me now," Brynden said. "If you were to ever earn a holdfast, you'll wish you were privy to more discussions on grain and tax."
"I'll consider it." Jon said.
"You'll come."
Zephyr chose that moment to resurface, flying up the length of the castle in seconds to land on his shoulder, he pet it gently, then fished for another slice of dried meat from his pockets, one which the bird eagerly snatched from his grasp.
The blackfish gave the display the same slightly bewildered look he always gave his hawk, he didn't fully trust it, but he couldn't deny what he was seeing with his two eyes.
"I've some letters to write, but you can go look for Donnel." Brynden said, tearing his eyes off the bird. "We just finished up and he said he was going to get his blood pumping."
"Better than this." Jon said, picking up the Light of the Seven in his hand.
"And I expect you at the meeting tomorrow." Brynden said, shouting after him, Jon sighed in response, but relented.
He knew the castle like the back of his hand at this point, his footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he passed walls adorned with banners, ceremonial swords and plate, down winding staircases of stone lit by the setting sun and low torchlight. He came across countless servants and knights alike, all of whom knew him at this point, and gave nods of acknowledgement as he passed or ignored him completely.
The recent attacks from the mountain men had the castle on edge, everywhere he went, men were discussing recent skirmishes and women were asking after husbands and sons, and everyone was worried about kin that lived outside the castle in a hamlet or village. It made Jon very thankful that his family was safe in Winterfell a thousand miles away.
He knocked on the heavy oak doors of the sept before pushing them open, he hoped to find the septa who had lent him the book, one very eager to convert him to the faith no matter what how much she denied it, but he found it bare, home to only seven solemn statues he'd grown used to the sight of.
Most of them could do little for him, he did not need the Mother to grant him fertility nor the Maiden to protect his innocence, he did not need the Father to guide his hand nor the Warrior to guide his blade, and while he could arguably use some wisdom and knowledge from the Crone and Smith, what fascinated him the most was the lightless statue in the corner.
He did forget the ethereal arms that wrapped his neck, as responsible for his survival as Hardyng had been. And yet he would never know if they were the Stranger's or his ancestors' arms or a figment of his imagination all together, but he had still lit many candles to the faceless statue over the last year.
The Seven-Pointed Star had pages and chapters about every other face of the Seven, and yet this one was lucky to receive a vague paragraph every fifty pages. He did not know what the god wished from him, but he had followed the old gods his entire life, and so was used to it, he placed a lonely candle at the statue's feet and left.
Soon he was back in one of the many training yards of the castle, they had a few hours of daylight yet, but the day had wound down to a crawl. A few squires were still sparring, but most were lounging on steps or walls, grouped in two or three talking and laughing, Jon for the most part looked past the faces of indifference for Donnel, slowly worrying he had gone to get his blood pumping some other way.
He had three things working against him ever getting accepted by the rest of the squires, first was his birth, bastards were even less popular in the Andal Vale than in the North, then was his position, being a squire of the Blackfish was perhaps the most prestigious title any of these boys could attain, and it was being taken up by an outsider.
Lastly was his skill, everyone knew of his placing during the tourney, of his duel with Corbray, and if they didn't, they need only see him on the field. Being outshone and given more attention day in and day out was sure to grind down anyone's nerves, especially when some of them were pushing into their twenties and still training with the squires while he sparred and bested knights every day.
It made him miss the North somewhat, where his peers were kinder and his siblings were at his side, but then he would have never met Mya, or Myranda or Hardyng, he would have never known the countless forms and teachings Brynden, Roland and Samwell had imparted on him, he would still only be known by his birth rather than his deeds, and he would still be training with men he knew inside and out.
Stagnation is the true death. He thought. In going south, I've avoided it.
But he had little to do, he could borrow another book from Baldrick or drill for a few hours or go for an early dinner. But he settled on the other thing he was working on, he went and found Grey in his stall, then rode the horse through the castle gate.
He rode away until he stopped seeing any patrolling knights traveling the cobblestone roads, then he took a familiar muddy road up into the mountains to a creak he liked to bath in sometimes, it was nestled between a small grove of trees and allowed for a view of the Vale stretching away to the east and the Mountains of the Moon colored red by the setting sun to the west.
In the middle of the grove, sprouting from the black mud was a sapling of white bark and red leaves, small and delicate but growing more and more by the day. He had written to his father about it, and a couple of months later a traveling merchant arrived at the Gates with a pot containing the nascent weirwood.
A vestige of the North in the south. He thought, kneeling down beside it, he took a flask of water and poured it on its base. Much like me, I hope to see it flourish.
Sometime later, he heard a soft crunching behind him, his hand traveled to the hilt of his blade and his head swirled around. It was not a clansman as he had feared, rather a man near his age, he was tall but still looked young, almost boyish, his hair was dark and his skin pale, Jon was sure he'd never seen him before, else he would have recognized the northern look to him.
"Peace." The boy said, raising his arms. "The weirwood sapling merely caught my curiosity."
"You'll not find another in the Vale I would think." Jon said, rising to his feet and dusting his knees, before extending an arm towards the other man, which he did shake. "Jon Snow."
"Lord Stark's natural born son?" the other boy asked, then smiled as Jon nodded. "Our families share a long and bloody history; of which we would be the newest chapter."
"Which history is that?" Jon asked, over eight millennia the Starks had both warred and broken bread with every house on the continent. And yet a Stark I am not.
"The story of the Kings of Winter and the Red Kings of the Dreadfort." The boy said, Jon's eyes widened.
He's a Bolton. He realized, racking his head for the names of all the North's heirs, he'd crossed paths with some of them in feasts, others in visits with Rodrick. He remembered the Karstarks pulling a prank on him and Robb, he remembered Dacey Mormont sparring in the yard, he remembered Hornwood being shy around his father. This would his first time meeting the heir of the Dreadfort, but despite this, he knew his name well enough.
"Domeric Bolton." Jon said, and the boy nodded his head. "What're you doing in the Vale?"
"Same as you I would imagine." Domeric said, resting his hand on his hilt and turning back to look at the valley and the mountains. "I'm to squire for Lord Redfort."
"Lord Redfort?" Jon asked, unable to control the curling of his nose nor the sneer on his lips, though Domeric only looked back towards him curiously.
"You've a dislike of the man?" he asked.
"He... stood against me once and tried to get me exiled." Jon said, crossing his arms. "I'm sure he had his reasons, however spineless and venal they may be, but a northerner I am, I do not forgive, nor do I forget."
"You've the Stark severity to you, bastard or not." Domeric said mirthlessly after a pause. "This is the first I've heard of this."
"Ask around the Gates before you leave for the Redfort if you wish." Jon said, then pointed to Gates of the Moon in the far distance. "That is where it happened."
"That will not be for a while yet." Domeric said, waving his hand. "We were attacked on the High Road, no one was killed, but many were left injured, my escort thought it best we stay here until everyone is back to health and the roads have grown safe."
"I imagine I'll be seeing on the courtyards then." Jon said.
"Perhaps… but we could also partake a contest now." Domeric said.
"You wish to spar?" Jon said eagerly, his hand traveling once again to his hilt, before his shoulders deflated when the Bolton waved him off.
"I was more thinking we could race back to the castle." Domeric said, looking back at Gray with admiration in his eyes.
"Very well." Jon said. "What are we racing for?"
"Racing for?" Domeric asked.
"You know, what does the winner get from the loser." Jon said. "Whenever Robb and I raced, we always put something on the line."
Robb would always win the races and I always the spars. He thought, smiling as the memory of Winterfell came back to him as it often did, memories of his brother always left a mix of joy and longing in his heart, memories Arya's boisterousness and chicanery were even more bittersweet.
"Hmm, very well, I've not done this before but let us put… My horse against your sword, whoever wins gets to keep them both for a day." Domeric proposed, looking rather proud of himself, but Jon only looked back at him with narrowed eyes, raised arms and a tilted, shaking head.
"That's a terrible wager, there's basically nothing on the line." Jon said, and the other boy had the decency to look embarrassed.
He's never had siblings to do this with, Lord Bolton has no other children. He realized, feeling a pang of sympathy for the boy, he could not imagine growing up without Robb or Arya even if it meant being his father's heir.
"Let's do this instead." Jon said, his hand going to his belt. "I've this dagger that's served me well for a few years, I'll put up against something of similar worth."
"My aunt gave me a cloak of red silk before I departed Barrowton." Domeric said.
His aunt is Lady Dustin. Jon realized, I will send the cloak to the inn couple when I win, one last gift from their old liege.
"Very well." Jon said, moving to mount Grey. "Where's your horse?"
"In the trees." He said. "Meet you on the road back to the castle?"
And meet again on that road they did, descending the muddy paths until it was wide enough for them to ride side by side.
Jon had never been the best horseman, or even a good horseman, always preferring to practice his swordwork over his riding. And yet, he had one advantage over the Bolton regardless of how good his opponent could be, one which became clear when prodded Gray's mind and the horse neighed back at him.
"Ready, Snow?" Domeric asked.
"On your mark, Bolton." Jon said, and the other boy nodded.
"Three, two, one—"
And they were off, a year ago Jon would have struggled to maintain a gallop, each random bend or rock enough to throw him about and force him to slow down, but a year ago he had also been struggling to make any progress into the equine's mind. Now he could run his steed at full speed while comfortably maintaining his balance even as the horse bounced and shook under him, both rider and mount wordlessly united in intent and will.
They raced down the mountain and were soon flying across the meadows near the Gates, hoofs of speed devoured the cobblestone roads beneath them and the manes of grey and black rippled like banners in the wind as the great horses surged forward, their muscles swelling and contracting every stride they took.
Jon had established a lead on the other boy early on, and fought hard to maintain it, wordlessly pushing the horse forwards every time he saw the Bolton riding into his field of view, soon the castle they were racing towards grew bigger as they drew closer, and he almost let out a sigh of relief, believing the win to be secured.
What is this power over beasts that I have? He wondered.
But then, inexplicably, the black stallion riding next to him rallied forward, empowered by some second wind or other, one which Jon's mount did not possess, for however much he tried to push the horse forward, however much the horse wished to gallop faster, it was simply too exhausted to match the Domeric's final rally.
And so, when the two rode through the Gates, it was the black steed who crossed into the castle first, a second or two behind it was Jon who arrived to see the Bolton hop off his mount with a satisfied smile on his face.
"You're a phenomenal rider." Jon said, it was always a bitter thing to lose, but to lose in riding did not eat away at him near as much as to lose a duel did.
"Thank you." Domeric said, offering a small bow. "You're not to slow either, but you could better temper yourself, you exhausted your horse in the first minute."
"Perhaps, but patience and caution have never been in my nature." Jon said, jumping off the horse, they were in the courtyard of the Bloody Gates, surrounded by a dozen small buildings and men and women coming and going. Jon took the dagger and sheath from his belt and extended it to the other boy. "You earned it; may it serve you well."
"I am sure it will." Domeric said, looking down at it and unsheathing it to look at the steel. "Well raced."
"Well raced." Jon said. "I'll be seeing you around."