Jon Snow, now Jon Frost, Lord of Moat Cailin, rode out from Winterfell with a small retinue of loyal guards. The North, vast and wild, stretched out before him as they journeyed southward. He carried the weight of his new title heavily, but he also carried something else—anticipation. This would be his first journey beyond the Neck, his first venture into the south, and the first time he would see King's Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.
As they rode out from the gates of Winterfell, Jon took a moment to glance back. Winterfell stood tall and proud, its ancient walls thick with history and memories. He felt a pang of longing to remain there, but duty called him south, to the court of King Robert Baratheon. His father, Eddard Stark, had prepared him for this journey, though the preparations were more mental than physical. He'd gifted Jon a incredible sword Dawn, the legendary sword of House Dayne and Jon already had Frostfang, a Valyrian steel sword he got from Ironborn Rebellion.
But Jon had left them both in Winterfell, a decision that still weighed on his mind. He had chosen safety over glory, reason over pride. King's Landing was a place of plots and whispers, a place where men killed for far less than a Valyrian steel sword. Better, he thought, to leave such treasures in the hands of someone he trusted. His father had understood and approved of his decision.
The first few days of travel were easy, the paths well-worn and familiar. The North was Jon's home, and he knew its forests and hills as well as he knew the corridors of Winterfell. They rode past farms where crops were being harvested, through small villages where children stopped their play to watch them pass. Jon nodded to them, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
At Moat Cailin, his seat of power, Jon paused to survey the ruins. The once-mighty fortress was crumbling, its stones dark and weathered by time. The walls, which had once been formidable, were now broken, with gaps wide enough for a man to walk through. The towers leaned precariously, as if the slightest breeze might topple them.
Jon dismounted and walked through the ruins, his boots crunching on loose gravel. His guards followed at a respectful distance, giving him space to think. This was his home now, or it would be once he rebuilt it. But that was not his priority at the moment.
"I won't waste coin on these walls," Jon said aloud, more to himself than to his men. "Not yet. There's more important work to be done."
Ser Rodrik Cassel, who had been assigned to accompany Jon as a guide and advisor, stepped forward. "What will you do, my lord?"
Jon turned to him. "Rice," he said simply. "This land will feed the North. We need to multiply the grain, harvest after harvest, until we have enough to feed every mouth and still have more to trade. The walls can wait."
Rodrik nodded thoughtfully. "A wise plan, my lord. But the walls of Moat Cailin have stood for thousands of years. Rebuilding them may take time, but it will be necessary."
Jon smiled slightly. "One thing at a time, Ser Rodrik. For now, let's focus on the land."
They continued southward, and the landscape began to change as they approached the Neck. The air grew thicker, the trees taller and closer together. The marshes stretched out on either side of the road, a seemingly endless sea of reeds and waterlogged ground. This was the domain of House Reed, the guardians of the Neck, and it was here that Jon met Lord Howland Reed.
Howland Reed was a small man, with sharp eyes and a quick smile. He greeted Jon warmly when they arrived at Greywater Watch, the Reeds' floating fortress.
"Welcome to the Neck, Jon," Howland said, clasping Jon's hand. "Your father speaks highly of you."
Jon inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Lord Reed. It's an honor to finally meet you."
They dined that evening in the great hall of Greywater Watch, a curious structure that seemed to sway gently with the movement of the water beneath it. The hall was filled with the smell of roasted game and fresh bread, and Jon found himself relaxing in the warm, humid air.
"You're heading to King's Landing, then," Howland said over dinner, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
"Yes," Jon replied. "To present myself to King Robert and serve as my father's representative."
Howland nodded. "Be careful in the south, Jon. It's not like the North. Men down there wear masks—sometimes you can't tell friend from foe."
Jon nodded, understanding the veiled warning. "I'll be cautious, my lord."
The next morning, Jon and his men set out again, guided by Howland Reed's men through the treacherous marshes of the Neck. The passage was slow and difficult, but Howland's men knew the way, and they guided Jon's party safely to the southern edge of the Neck, where the land began to rise and the air grew cooler.
It was there, at the edge of the Neck, that Jon encountered the first true challenge of his journey: the Twins, and Lord Walder Frey.
The Twins were an impressive sight—two massive towers rising on either side of the Green Fork, connected by a sturdy stone bridge. The river flowed swiftly beneath, and Jon could see boats moving up and down the water, carrying goods and people to and from the Freys' lands.
As they approached the gates of the castle, Jon couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The Freys were known for their cunning and ambition, and Lord Walder Frey himself was infamous for his many children and his slippery loyalties.
When they were admitted into the castle, Jon was greeted by Walder Frey himself, an old man with watery eyes and a thin, reedy voice. He sat slumped in a high-backed chair, surrounded by his many sons and grandsons.
"Ah, the bastard of Winterfell," Walder Frey said with a sneer as Jon entered the hall. "Or should I say, Lord Frost now, eh? Come to pay your respects, have you?"
Jon clenched his jaw but kept his voice calm. "I come as a representative of House Stark, Lord Frey. My father sends his regards."
"Does he now?" Walder Frey chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "And what does the Warden of the North want with the likes of me?"
"We seek safe passage, nothing more," Jon replied. "We are on our way to King's Landing to meet with King Robert."
"Safe passage, is it?" Walder Frey leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what do I get in return for granting you this... courtesy?"
Jon resisted the urge to draw his sword. "You will have the thanks of House Stark, and our continued friendship."
Walder Frey laughed again, but there was no warmth in it. "Friendship? Bah. Friendship doesn't put food on the table or gold in the coffers. But very well, you may pass. For now."
Jon inclined his head. "Thank you, Lord Frey."
As they left the Twins and continued south, Jon couldn't shake the feeling of disgust that clung to him after his encounter with Walder Frey. The man was slimy, treacherous, and more than willing to sell out anyone for the right price. Jon made a silent vow that if he ever had the power to do so, he would make sure Walder Frey paid for his dishonor.
"I'll travel by ship next time," Jon muttered to Ser Rodrik as they rode away from the Twins. "The next time that old man insults me, I'll take his head."
Rodrik chuckled. "Aye, my lord, but until then, we'll make sure we pass through his lands as quickly as possible."
The journey continued, and the farther south they traveled, the more the landscape changed. The air grew warmer, the trees more varied and lush. Jon saw forests filled with tall oaks and elms, fields of green pastures that seemed to stretch on forever, and rivers that sparkled in the sunlight.
For Jon, who had spent most of his life in the harsh and rugged North, the south was almost alien in its beauty. The sights were new, the smells unfamiliar, and even the sounds were different. He found himself constantly looking around, taking it all in.
But as they neared King's Landing, the beauty of the southern lands began to give way to something else—filth.
The first sign was the smell. It hit them long before they saw the city itself. A stench of rot and decay, of waste and filth, filled the air, and Jon had to fight the urge to gag.
"Gods," one of his guards muttered, covering his nose with a cloth. "What is that smell?"
"That," Jon said grimly, "is King's Landing."
The city appeared on the horizon shortly after, a sprawling mass of buildings and walls that seemed to stretch out endlessly. The walls of the Red Keep loomed over everything, a dark and imposing structure that cast a long shadow over the rest of the city.
As they rode through the gates and into the city proper, Jon's disgust only grew. The streets were narrow and crowded, filled with people of all sorts—merchants hawking their wares,beggars pleading for coin, and children running through the muck with bare feet. The smell grew worse the deeper they went into the city, a foul mix of sewage, rotting food, and unwashed bodies. The cobblestones beneath their horses' hooves were slick with grime, and Jon could see rats scurrying along the edges of the streets.
The noise was overwhelming as well. Voices shouted from all directions, and the clamor of carts and horses added to the cacophony. It was a far cry from the quiet, peaceful halls of Winterfell.
Jon's men, accustomed to the clean air and open spaces of the North, looked equally dismayed by the conditions of the city. Ser Rodrik, ever composed, wore a grim expression as he guided them through the winding streets. The inn they chose to stay at wasn't in the best part of the city, but it was clean enough and far enough from the main thoroughfares that the noise was bearable.
As they stabled their horses and entered the inn, Jon gave a sigh of relief. The common room was quiet, with only a few patrons hunched over their meals. The smell of stew wafted from the kitchen, and for a moment, Jon could almost forget the stench of the city outside.
They took a table near the fire, and Jon ordered food for his men. As they waited, Ser Rodrik leaned across the table.
"Tomorrow, we'll present ourselves to the King," he said. "It's important to make a good impression, Jon. King Robert is a man of strong opinions. Once he's made up his mind about someone, it's difficult to change it."
Jon nodded, though inwardly he felt a flicker of anxiety. He'd heard stories of Robert Baratheon—once a great warrior, now a king more interested in drinking and feasting than ruling. Still, Jon knew that he would need the King's favor if he was to secure his place in the south and ensure the future of Moat Cailin.
"I understand, Ser Rodrik," Jon replied. "I'll be on my best behavior."
Rodrik smiled faintly. "Good. And remember, there will be others at court who are just as important to impress. The Queen, for one. And her family—the Lannisters."
Jon felt his unease grow. He had little love for the Lannisters. His father had spoken of them with caution, especially Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, and the Queen's father. The Lannisters were wealthy, powerful, and ruthless—a dangerous combination.
"Do you think they'll be there?" Jon asked.
"Undoubtedly," Rodrik said. "The court is filled with those who seek power and influence. The Lannisters are among the most dangerous. Be wary of them, Jon. They play a long game."
Jon nodded, filing the advice away for tomorrow. Tonight, though, he needed rest. He finished his meal in silence, his mind already turning to the next day's challenges.
The Red Keep towered over the city, a fortress of red stone that seemed to stretch endlessly into the sky. Its walls were thick and imposing, with countless battlements and towers that watched over the sprawling expanse of King's Landing below. From the courtyard, Jon Snow could see the glint of sunlight reflecting off the distant waters of Blackwater Bay, and the bustling streets that wound their way through the city like veins.
Jon and Ser Rodrik Cassel had left most of their guard at the inn, trusting the men to watch over their possessions. As they approached the Red Keep, Jon couldn't help but notice the wary, calculating eyes of the guards at the gate. These were not men who served their king out of loyalty—they were mercenaries in all but name, more interested in lining their pockets than upholding their oaths.
One guard, a burly man with a crooked nose and a greasy smile, stepped forward, barring their way. "Entry's not free, Northern boy," he sneered, his hand subtly outstretched.
Jon's eyes narrowed. "I'm here on business with the king. Stand aside, or I'll make sure you never see another coin in your life."
The guard hesitated, glancing around at his fellow men-at-arms, who were now watching with interest. After a tense moment, the man begrudgingly stepped aside. "Fine. But don't expect anyone inside to be any more welcoming."
Jon ignored the remark and strode past the gate, Ser Rodrik following closely behind. Inside the Red Keep, the air was thick with tension and the weight of history. The walls were lined with banners of the crowned stag of House Baratheon, but beneath the symbols of royal power, Jon could sense the underlying cracks in the foundation of this great city.
After some explanation and waiting, Jon was informed that King Robert Baratheon was occupied in his chambers and would soon attend a small council meeting. Jon was told he could meet the king in two hours.
With time to spare, Jon decided to explore the Red Keep, staying within the areas permitted to him. He wandered through the courtyard, where soldiers sparred in the practice yard, their swords clanging against each other with forceful blows. Jon watched for a moment, impressed by their skill but also aware of the underlying ruthlessness in their training.
Next, he made his way to the gardens, where he encountered the true heart of King's Landing—the nobles and courtiers who drifted about as if they owned the place. They moved with an air of entitlement, speaking in hushed tones and casting suspicious glances at anyone who dared to approach them.
As Jon turned a corner, he noticed a small blonde boy chasing after a cat, his laughter echoing through the garden. The boy was fast, but the cat was faster, darting just out of reach. Just as the cat was about to dash past Jon, he swiftly reached down and scooped it up in one smooth motion, holding it gently but firmly.
The boy, panting from the chase, ran up to Jon. "You caught him!" he exclaimed with wide eyes.
Jon smiled and handed the cat over. "Here you go, my prince."
The boy beamed up at him. "Thank you, ser!" he said, cradling the cat in his arms. A guard rushed over, out of breath and calling, "Prince Tommen! Don't run off like that!"
Jon nodded at the guard, who gave him a quick, grateful look before ushering the young prince away. As Tommen disappeared into the crowd, Jon couldn't help but wonder about the lives these children led, born into power and privilege but also bound by the expectations and dangers that came with their bloodlines.
Finally, the time arrived for Jon's meeting with the king. He made his way to the council chamber, where the small council was already assembled. As he entered the room, all eyes turned to him—some curious, some wary, and a few outright hostile.
King Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the table, his massive frame slouched in the chair as he nursed a goblet of wine. He looked up as Jon approached, his brows furrowing in confusion.
"Who are you, boy?" Robert asked, his voice rough but commanding.
Jon inclined his head respectfully. "I am Jon Frost, your grace."
"Frost?" Robert echoed, puzzled. "What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?"
Before Jon could answer, Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, spoke up. "Your grace, I was the one who summoned Jon Snow."
Jon turned to the older man, who was watching him with an appraising gaze. "If you wish to address me, you may call me Jon Frost, or Lord Frost, Lord Arryn," Jon said evenly.
A murmur of surprise rippled through the room. The small council had expected a nervous boy, not someone who would challenge the Hand of the King so openly. Jon Arryn's expression tightened, but he nodded. "Very well, Lord Frost."
The tension in the room was palpable as Jon continued. "You summoned me, Lord Arryn. What do you require of me?"
"I wanted to see the boy who burned down a sept in Winterfell," Jon Arryn replied, his tone sharp.
Jon met his gaze unflinchingly. "Winterfell is the home of the old gods. The sept had no place there."
"And why can't both the old gods and the new exist in Winterfell?" Jon Arryn asked, leaning forward.
Jon smiled faintly. "Do you have a heart tree in your castle, Lord Arryn?"
The question silenced the room, and Jon Arryn's face tightened. Tywin Lannister, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke up. "Aren't you going to swear your oath to the king, Lord Frost?"
"No, my lord," Jon replied calmly, his gaze steady.
A ripple of shock went through the council. Petyr Baelish, the master of coin, smirked. "A treasonous statement, that."
Jon shook his head. "Not treason, My Lord. I have sworn my loyalty to Lord Stark, and Lord Stark swore his loyalty to the crown. There is no conflict."
"Then why won't you swear directly to the king?" Jon Arryn pressed.
Jon's eyes narrowed slightly. "Because I don't know what Lord Stark will do. If there were ever a conflict between my liege lord and the crown, I would be bound to fight against his grace. An oath now would mean nothing."
"Are you saying you would support rebellion against the crown?" Jon Arryn asked in a dangerous voice.
"If that is Lord Stark's will, then yes," Jon replied evenly. "Loyalty is a sword with two edges, Lord Arryn. You've seen it yourself—when you rebelled against the crown and took lands from House Grafton. And when his grace took lands from House Cunningham for choosing the crown over their liege lord."
The room fell into a tense silence, but then Robert Baratheon suddenly slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing through the chamber. "I like you, boy!" he bellowed, a wide grin spreading across his face. "You've got balls of steel! Reminds me of myself when I was your age. Ned should've named you Robert instead of his heir!"
The tension in the room broke, and the king's laughter filled the air. "Come on, let's talk," Robert said, rising from his seat and clapping Jon on the back.
With that, the council meeting was abruptly ended, and King Robert led Jon out of the chamber, leaving the rest of the small council to exchange uneasy glances as they watched the two men depart.