Jon IX
AN: Hello again! For the men and women who had begun reading this story from early on. I have taken time to properly edit some of my earlier chapters and made some polishing. Deleted Jon I and mashed it together with Jon II and Jon III. As well as editing some dialogue from Arya, Eddard, and other early chapters. If you are interested, you can go back and read the changes, though there have been no changes made to the plot. Only some character motivations.
Otherwise, enjoy this chapter. I was, once again, not fully happy with this one, but I feel so with every chapter I write nowadays. I can't really place a finger on what I think is wrong with these new chapters I write either lmao. Happy New Year as well! Hope you are all doing well!
While the man kneeling before them was a pitiful sight, he looked indeed familiar—the unkempt beard, long and matted, the slender frame. Jon had expected something different, something more. He had expected some defiance, for curses flung at the gods or perhaps even at Jon himself. Or mayhaps a bitter and grudging surrender, like the one he had offered the warrior men called 'The Maid of Tarth.' Instead, he saw the man collapsing into himself and going utterly limp. It filled him with anger, and the sight of his sobbing pleas for mercy and forgiveness as his terror increased only served to enlarge the sharp and hot feeling in Jon's chest. You weren't sorry then.
''Is this the man?''
The sound of a voice snapped Jon out of his stony silence. He turned his gaze toward the speaker. Lady Shella Whent had been the one who addressed him, though her sharp gaze remained fixed on the man crumpled before her. She appeared utterly unaffected by the man's display of despair, as though it were beneath her notice. Her face was impassive, yet her eyes coldly roamed over the men before her, dissecting him piece by piece.
Jon had been called to this gathering to identify one of the men that he had fought in the woods. It was one of the smaller halls Harren the Black's old fortress had. Yet calling this hall small would be a lie. It was a lot smaller than Harrenhal's Great Hall, to be sure, yet still about the size of Winterfell's own Great Hall.
Together with Lady Shella were her son and heir, Hoster Whent, Edmure Tully, Lord Lymond Goodbrook, Ser Marq Piper, and Patrek Mallister.
''Aye, my lady.'' Jon answered simply.
''Please, m'lords—''
The bearded man's plea was cut short by a sharp punch from one of Lady Whent's guards. ''You will not speak unless Lady Whent addresses you,'' the guardsman growled.
What followed was a long silence, as Lady Shella tilted her head slightly, with a frown on her face that only deepened as time went on. ''I don't recognise him,'' Lady Shella said at last, her eyes narrowing. ''Ser Leslyn?''
Ser Leslyn Wode was a large man, though not large enough of muscle that a lady or lord of a castle might hope out of someone that is serving as a master-at-arms. Instead, he was large and fat, with a small double chin that he tried to hide with an ageing beard.
''This is no man of Harrenhal; I know all the men serving in this castle.'' The master at arms paused, stroking his beard as the eyes he bore narrowed. ''We could not find any steel on him; weapons are missing, though.''
''Are you certain, ser?'' Shella asked.
''Very much so; I triple-checked the armoury, my lady. It might have been stolen by them, or perhaps some knight or highborn required it for the melee. If you wish, I could begin a search for it and see with the stewards if there are any leftover blades.''
''As I suspected then, Whent steel'' She said solemnly, before a look of iron were upon her face. ''Do it,'' Shella said firmly, and the master-at-arms bowed before leaving the hall.
''Where did you find him?'' Another voice spoke; this one belonged to Tully, with auburn hair and deep blue eyes, much like Robb... and Lady Stark.
This was the first time Jon had been in the presence of the Tully lord, though their eyes had met from afar on occasion. Jon had braced himself for a sneer or some expression of disdain—a mark of resentment for his very existence. Yet, to Jon's surprise, no such response came. Instead, when their gazes first locked, the man had mirrored Jon's own uncertainty, perhaps even a touch of awkwardness.
Around knights, lords, and Jon's own family, Edmure Tully seemed every bit the jovial lord, a man with a ready smile and an easy laugh. But what thoughts stirred beneath that facade, Jon could not say.
He could only wonder what Edmure truly thought—or knew—of him. Lady Stark had surely written long and pointed letters to her brother on the matter. Yet, by some grace known only to the gods, Edmure Tully did not appear to share his sister's bitterness.
''A league west from here, in a tavern. Apparently he had been talking quite loudly about a wolf in the woods.'' Hoster Whent answered.
''There were others with him,'' Jon found himself blurting out, all eyes cast on him, even that of Edmure Tully; it made him a little uncomfortable. ''Five of them, I seem to recall. Two I slayed, while my direwolf got another one.''
''A grim fate,'' Patrek Mallister mused after a short silence.
''A deserved one nonetheless,'' Ser Marq Piper boomed. ''I found smallfolk tied to trees in those very woods, stricken down by crossbow bolts.'' He finished distastefully.
A chill ran down Jon's spine; if Lord Stark had not stopped Arya's cat chasing in the woods...
''That leaves two of them, then. We have not found anyone else,'' Hoster said.
Lady Shella nodded, her gaze shifting towards the man on his knees. ''My steel stolen, Ashmere's people struck down and harassed; what say you, outlaw?''
The man had lost his tongue, it seemed, as he meekly looked at the ground before him.
''Nothing?'' Shella said coldly, ''Very well, throw him in the dungeons. Perhaps a few days there will sober up his memory.''
As the guardsmen of Harrenhall dragged the man out of the hall, Lady Shella shifted her gaze toward Jon.
''You said that they claimed to serve Harrenhal?'' Lady Shella asked.
Jon nodded. ''They told me to hand a girl over they had been chasing in King Robert's name,'' he mused. ''As they fled, they told me that you would hang me.''
Mallister suddenly glanced at Tully, while Piper and Goodbrook were seething. ''What were they wearing? Any particular colours?'' Edmure asked, eyebrows raised.
Jon blinked as his mind strained to piece together the fight, every detail, yet it all slipped through his grasp. He tried to summon the image of their clothing, yet all he could see were blue, ravenous eyes set in the face of a wry man who tried to stab him in the back and steal Longclaw.
"The travelling septon and his companions came upon the outlaws' slain bodies and belongings and took them before our men arrived, Lord Edmure," Hoster interjected. ''They wanted the Stranger's wives to attend to them."
''Why, in the Seven Hells, have you allowed Silent Sisters to tend to them? Such criminals deserve no peace in death!'' Marq Piper hissed.
Hoster Whent frowned at Piper. Yet it was his mother who spoke. ''It was not my son's intent at the start, ser,'' Lady Shella said coolly. ''Yet the travelling septon and the local villagers pressed the matter. And, given that it was Whent steel that brought such grief upon those folk, I deemed it fitting to allow their wishes.''
''The man you captured—what he wore just now, was that the attire he had when you took him?'' Edmure pressed.
''Aye,'' Hoster Whent answered, glancing hotly at Piper.
Mallister looked puzzled. ''I can understand tending to the village's own folk—but even the criminals? The very men who brought such suffering upon them?''
''I did not think it wise to press the matter; I hadn't realised you required sight of the very bodies, my lords. And... well, the villagers were none too pleased with our tardy arrival.'' Shella's eyes then softened a little. ''I failed them, too preoccupied as I was with overseeing this tournament,'' she said solemnly.
''Still, that doesn't explain why the villagers would demand such rites for those bastards.'' Marq Piper countered, still a little ruffled.
''Where are the bodies now?'' Edmure asked, not unkindly.
''They remain in Ashmere, my lord. The travelling septon had companions with him, whom he claimed could perform the rites.'' The Lady of Harrenhal, Shella, answered.
''Lord Edmure, my lady,'' Piper said impatiently. ''Grant me leave, and I'll retrieve the damned bodies—I cannot believe Ashmere's people would permit this if they knew who those men truly were.''
''They did, ser,'' Hoster said, gritting his teeth. ''I already tried; we wanted the bodies—to see their faces and start asking if anyone had seen them before. But the villagers refused, and I chose not to press the matter.''
''Stand down, Piper,'' Edmure said firmly.
Lady Shella's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ''If there is some great mystery you aim to unravel, my lords, you just had a prisoner before you—a man the Lord of Dragonstone claimed to have encountered himself. I was considering sending men to interrogate the prisoner. I must understand how these men came to possess my steel.''
''A kind gesture, my lady. We would be most eager to ask the man a few questions,'' Edmure Tully replied.
Jon remained standing nearby, uncertain of what exactly was expected of him. He had strained his memory, delving deeper than ever before, desperate for even the faintest glimpse of what they had worn or what they might have been seeking. Yet, his mind betrayed him, yielding nothing.
He then suddenly felt the need to straighten his back as he saw Lady Shella shifting her gaze toward him.
''You have both my gratitude and that of Harrenhal and Ashmere, my lord. Without your timely interference, I dare not think about what might have come to pass.''
Jon bowed in respect. ''Of course, my lady.''
''My son Hoster here has informed me that the people of Ashmere speak highly of you and that you were invited to attend a wedding there?''
Jon nodded.
''I'll have my castellan see to a proper wedding gift for the couple—it's the least I can do for Ashmere.'' Shella said, sighing. ''If you could deliver a word from me to the people there, tell them I have not forgotten them. Let them know I intend to aid the villages in rebuilding what they have lost.''
''Very well, my lady.'' Jon replied.
Lady Shella's eyes softened as she appeared to take in his entire face, and a sad smile appeared on her face. Then she, together with her son, left the hall. Jon, sensing that his presence was no longer required here, began to leave the hall as well.
"Stark," a voice called from behind him, though it sounded as if the very word left an odd taste in the speaker's mouth.
As such, Jon was unsurprised when he turned his head to see Lord Edmure approaching, flanked by his companions to his left and right. He got a good look at what Tully was wearing this time; he was clad in a rich red velvet doublet, adorned with an embroidered silvery trout mid-leap. Draped over one shoulder, a deep blue cloak fell down his back.
''Lord Edmure,'' Jon called, betraying no emotion, yet he braced himself for confrontation.
Edmure Tully was a tall man, taller still than Lord Eddard, and a full head or more above Jon himself, with a solid, stocky build. It made Jon feel small, unbearably so. I'm still growing... That's what Arthur always says anyway.
When the Tully lord finally reached him, he paused to take another measured look at Jon. His expression was one of firmness, but then the mouth opened to speak, only for it to snap shut again.
''I know what you're thinking, Edmure. But from everything we know of them, they would never be so foolish as to act so close to us and the realm's lords.'' Mallister said, glancing at Edmure.
Edmure replied, though his ocean-blue eyes—so reminiscent of Robb's—remained fixed on Jon. ''Foolish? Mayhaps Mallister, or mayhaps acting on the orders of another—someone with great wealth to offer. It might simply be the work of random criminals, but my people are suffering from something I think is far greater, and I intend to put an end to it.''
''My lord?'' Jon enquired.
''I would ask a favour of you if it would not be too much trouble.''
Jon thought about it. ''Very well, that would depend on precisely what it is you seek.''
''I overheard that you are to attend a wedding at Ashmere and that its people hold great gratitude toward you. While I understand that Hoster Whent attempted to retrieve the outlaws' bodies, I would greatly appreciate it if we could examine the belongings they had when they met their end. If you could enquire about them, I would need but a brief look, and then they may be returned.''
''Why do you need them?'' Jon found himself asking, his curiosity now thoroughly piqued by what they were trying so hard to uncover.
''Will you do it, or not?'' Piper asked, slightly irritated.
Edmure shot a sharp look at Piper then, a glance that made his companion recoil slightly.
''Come on,'' Patrek Mallister said to Marq Piper and Lymond Goodbrook. ''Let's see if the prisoner has anything of value to tell us.''
Soon, the three men departed the hall, leaving only Edmure and Jon alone in the quiet hall. Their absence eased Jon somewhat, only somewhat.
''Forgive him; this matter we are investigating strikes somewhat close to his heart,'' Edmure said, rubbing his temple. ''For some time now, I have received reports of increased outlaw activity, more so than ever before in my life, all across the eastern side of the Red Fork, from Pinkmaiden all the way to Brookstone itself.''
''You believe the men I encountered were the same ones responsible for raiding Ser Marq's and Lord Lymond's lands?''
''Perhaps. The reports they've received align with what you described. Piper, Goodbrook, and I would greatly appreciate it if we could just get a look at what they carried.''
''What of the man Lady Whent has taken prisoner?'' Jon found himself asking.
''I will interrogate him. However, they change their attire after each raid, concealing their weapons and clothing.''
''Very well, I shall enquire about it.''
''Thank you,'' Edmure said, before his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ''I'm placing a great deal of trust in you—trust my sister would no doubt chastise me for.
Jon nodded, though he did not speak. What was there to say?
''But you did a good thing, saving the smallfolk of Ashmere, and I have heard of your deeds Beyond-the-Wall. The boy I see before me is not the boy I expected. I pray I am not mistaken about you, young Jon.''
Then Edmure left the hall, leaving Jon alone with a peculiar feeling in his stomach. ''I have heard of your deeds Beyond-the-Wall.''
Ever since his arrival at Harrenhal, he had come to loathe the aliases he had earned for his... actions during the battle. They felt unearned, undeserved. Could I even call it a battle? he thought bitterly. It was a slaughter. And I fled from it.
Sometimes Jon found himself second-guessing why he hadn't stormed into the Great Hall during one of King Robert's feasts and shouted the truth for all to hear. Both Jeor Mormont and Eddard Stark had warned him to keep the matter to himself. Mormont had done so after they encountered the undead Rykker man at Castle Black. Lord Stark, while he hadn't made Jon swear a solemn vow as Mormont had, had nonetheless been firm. He had told Jon the morning after to not spread wild tales like a madman and to leave the matter in the Warden of the North's hands.
Did Eddard Stark even believe him? He remembered the expression on his face the night he had told him of the Fist, when Jon had taken a few too many cups of wine while still recovering from the haunting dream he had of the men he had left behind.
Ned had looked at him like... well, he could not certainly place it. It was a face he had never seen him make before. It looked stern, but there was something else. A worry, yes. Certainly a worry, but it did not look like it was from the tale he had told, but rather for Jon himself. Like, Eddard Stark did not suddenly see his son, but Mad Aerys or Aerion Brightflame himself.
Jon had hated that face ever since he first glimpsed it; he was not a bloody madman; he was telling the truth. But it was a hard truth to accept, he supposed.
It was for that reason he had not told anyone else. It did not even matter anyway; there were still the Children, hidden deep within the swamps of the Neck. Ned Stark would see it; he would have his bloody proof.
As the Lord of Dragonstone made his own way out of Harrenhal proper and toward his tent, he found himself only grateful that the Tully man had not too big a favour to ask; he was intending to go back to Ashmere anyhow. Yet what Edmure Tully had said gnawed at him, Pinkmaiden and Brookstone; no wonder Piper and Goodbrook were so ruffled. It was their land outlaws had been plundering. But outlaws, criminals, and pirates are not a rare thing in Westeros. What, exactly, did Tully and his friends believe was happening?
He only hoped that he wasn't asking for too much from the villagers, yet he had to agree with Mallister: why would they want a funeral for those people? The same men who apparently had tied people to trees and shot them dead with crossbow bolts.
He sighed; he guessed he would find that out in the evening. Do I have to get them a gift?
A sight by his tent broke his stirring thoughts; a man with a young squire stood talking with Olaf. It took a small moment for Jon to realise who the man was, but once he got a better glimpse of the purple lightning bolt embroidered on his doublet, he knew for sure who it was.
''Lord Dondarrion,'' Jon greeted.
The man turned his head, a jovial smile on his face once he saw who it was. ''Lord Jon,''
''I did not catch sight of you during the fray of the melee; how did you fare?''
''Bested by Ser Arys quite early on, unfortunately. The man's a fine fighter, but the one I truly wished to face was you.''
''Truly?'' Jon asked, eyebrows raised.
Beric laughed. ''Of course, you've been training under the Sword of the Morning. 'Tis not every day one has the chance to test their mettle so, even if you are still young.''
''Speaking of the Sword of the Morning, that is, in fact, the reason for my visit. My squire has expressed a desire to meet you.'' Beric continued.
Jon could notice how the squire in question stiffened at his words, and then the Lord of Blackhaven extended a hand toward the boy, which caused the squire's eyes to lower.
''Very well, come in." Jon said, gesturing for them to follow him inside his tent.
Once they were alone at his tent, he lowered his eyes to meet the boy's, though the lad's gaze remained fixed firmly on the ground.
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, and Jon could see Beric Dondarrion's expression soften looking at the boy. But just as Lord Beric began to open his mouth, intending to speak for his squire, the boy found his voice at last.
"It's good to finally meet you, cousin,'' he said meekly.
Jon's eyes widened in surprise as the boy's dark blue eyes—nay, purple—rose to meet his grey ones.
''I'm Edric Dayne,'' the boy continued. ''Lady Ashara was my aunt, and Ser Arthur is my uncle.''
My cousin? Jon thought, his heart beating faster than expected. Yes, Uncle Arthur had mentioned Edric many a time. Looking at him, his blood froze as memories of Arthur Dayne talking about Starfall and how much he wanted to visit it with Jon flooded his mind. Oh, Uncle, how sweet it would have been to share this with you.
''Cousin,'' Jon said, a genuine smile spreading across his face at the sound of the word. ''It's good to finally see you. Ser Arthur spoke of you often.''
Edric's face flushed a deep red, but a shy smile came across his face. ''I have heard much of you as well,'' Edric said, though he paused, frowning slightly as if at himself. ''Though... not really. My aunt, Allyria—she's of the same age as you. She would've loved to meet you, cousin. She is also Lord Beric's betrothed. She and I wanted to write to you and Uncle Arthur ever since we first heard of you, years ago. But Father... well. After that, we tried asking around, but news from the North was always so sparse. We used to go about Starfall, pressing the servants for any word of you. We wanted to see you. There was this one wet nurse—Wylla was her name...''
''Easy, lad.'' Beric laughed, making Edric Dayne stiffen and lower his gaze once more.
Jon, meanwhile, doubted that even the Others themselves could have stopped his smile from fading. They wanted to see me?
Arthur had petitioned Stark many a time for a voyage down to Starfall for him and Jon, but Lord Eddard had always refused. Jon had asked his lord father why, to which he always answered that it would not be safe for him.
A particular fear had been in Jon's mind as he grew up because of it, refusing to leave him until this very moment. A fear he had never dared voice to Arthur. This same fear that made Jon hesitate at the very idea of visiting Starfall.
He feared his family there hated him. Hated him for being the reason for Lady Ashara Dayne's death and for the shame Jon had brought to House Dayne. He was, after all, Lord Eddard's shame. Why wouldn't the Daynes think any differently of him in connection to Lady Ashara?
Now, when Jon had found out the truth of it. Nothing had ever felt so sweeter.
''We have much to discuss, it seems,'' Jon said, a hint of amusement in his tone. ''How about you and I share dinner together on the morrow? You as well, ser.''
Edric lifted his gaze once more, now grinning.
''Unfortunately, I have other matters to attend to tomorrow evening in preparation for the final tilt in a few days. However, if it's not too much trouble, I could entrust him to your care.''
''Very well,'' Jon said, eagerly. ''On the morrow it is then.''
''Are you certain, ser?'' Edric asked.
Beric smiled. ''Yes, lad. I have little need of my squire then anyhow.''
Jon then thanked Edric and Beric for their visit and promised that he would pick up Edric on the morrow towards the evening. He wondered if it was a sound idea to ask his lord father if he wanted to attend, though he quickly shook that aside. Had he not told Jon that Arthur bringing him to Starfall would be dangerous? No, that moment would be only for him to enjoy.
As the day passed, he had bought his wedding gift for Chett and his wife, Myranda, and picked up Lady Shella's gift. Or rather, they had given it to him just before he had chosen to leave for Ashmere, as it had to be dragged by a cart.
Together with Jon's gift, it made quite a sight for the commoners when he had arrived at Ashmere. High-quality pots, pans, and knives. Woven blankets and bed linens, as well as a sheep, a goat, and a cask of dry red from the Arbor.
He had arrived a little late, but it had not deterred Becca, Gared, their mother, or any of the people in Ashmere; they had not forgotten him, it seemed.
''Look at that, the pretty knight come to bless Chett's weddin' with gifts! The septon speaks true—the Seven ain't turned their backs on us after all.'' A peasant man said as he got off his horse.
''Big savior o' Ashmere, ain't ye now!'' Another laughed.
Most people in Ashmere had taken Lady Shella Whent's gift with gratitude, yet others had taken it with uncertainty, and yet fewer still did not want to take it at all.
''Ye heard the holy man, didn't ye? Widows be full o' trickery, that widow o' Harrenhal? She's got naught but lies an' false words fer us!'' A man said as Jon presented Shella's gift and said the words she told him to say.
''Oh, stuff it, Lymon! Yer brain's duller than Betha the Pig's trough! What lies could there be in plain things like these, eh?''
Gared and Becca had preferred Jon's own gift, it seemed. Jon had bought lemon cakes, kidney pie, and winter peaches for the feast. All wonders that Jon had enjoyed in Winterfell and doubted that they had ever tasted.
The ceremony had been... simple. Not what he had imagined a southern wedding to be like, noble or not. It took place under the stars that could already be spotted in the dark bluish sky. Jon could not say that Chett's wife-to-be, Myranda, looked particularly happy, at least not as happy as he thought she should be.
Becca and Gared's mother had explained that Myranda's father owned a piece of farmland half a league from Ashmere, and that he needed workers for the coming harvest. As such, he had asked for this marriage in order to gain Chett, as well as his friends, as workers.
''But I reckon that cursed old man's hopin' both bits o' land'll end up wi' his grandbrats someday. Chett's already sittin' on what was my father's land. Anyroad, we're off to Myranda and her da's farm in a few days' time.''
''So, it's a marriage of convenience, then?''
''Course it is.'' A man next to Becca's mother said, ''Wot, ye think ye highborn lot're the only ones wot do such things?''
''Poor lass, stuck wi' my brother like that. Bein' made to wed someone ye don't want? I wouldn't wish that on meself. I was right lucky there, me and Tyland—that were true love, plain an' simple.'' The mother said.
After that, Jon found himself frowning as he observed the travelling septon officiating the wedding ceremony. His gaze lingered on Chett's face, and he could not help but imagine himself standing in those very shoes. Was that why King Robert had betrothed me to Lady Margaery? For some faint hope that Starks might someday inherit Highgarden? To secure the Reach's spears for some coming conflict with the Triarchy?
The wedding feast was now in full swing; men were dancing by fires, while Jon's wedding gifts were being devoured by all of Ashmere. He had shown off Longclaw to Becca, Gared, Myranda's boy, and some other children.
A drunken man had wanted to throw dice for the sword, though that was not something Jon dared do. Instead, they decided to throw dice for his cloak. Jon did not think it peculiar that he wanted such a thing; all of these men, women, and children wore simple, rough-spun garments.
''Ye're gonna lose, fancy knight saviour. I'm the best dice thrower in all o' Ashmere, mark me words!'' The man drunkenly boasted.
''Go on then.'' Jon dared.
The dice got longer than Jon thought, and he could not help but get caught in the middle of it as men roared and booed depending on which one the little crowd wanted to win.
Then, sometime, somehow, to his suppressed anger, he had managed to lose.
The drunken man boomed in victory as men cheered. ''Go on, then! Hand o'er the bloody cloak—reckon it'll make a fine gift fer the merchant, it will!'' He laughed.
Jon merely grunted before taking off his cloak and handing it over to the man.
Once the crowd started to disperse somewhat, Jon and the drunken man noticed a thin, simply dressed woman looking at both of them in disapproval.
''Gambling, eh, Walder? And you, ser? Ain't a knight meant to hold 'imself to better ways than that?''
Jon frowned at the woman, while the drunken man—Walder—looked at her like she had grown a second head. ''Have ye gone soft in the head, Lis? This here's the man wot saved us!''
''Don't matter none—a good deed don't scrub away the bad, it don't. So the septon says!''
''A good deed don't scrub away the bad, eh? Seven bloody hells, why don't ye trot off and join that roamin' septon an' his bleedin' Sparrows if yer so keen on kissin' his cock!''
The woman's expression darkened, and her cheeks turned a deep red before she turned and walked away stiffly.
''The travelling septon has birds with him?'' Jon found himself asking Walder.
''No, m'lord knight. That's wot the septon here fer the weddin' calls his lot. He goes from village to village all over the Riverlands, tendin' to folk, an' he's picked up a few from each place what wanna be like 'im. Don't care much fer the man meself, but he blessed Chett's weddin', so I s'pose he ain't all bad.''
Jon frowned. ''Why?''
''Why, eh? Come on, pretty knight. Half the villages in the Riverlands are gettin' raided by the King's men these days, they are. Ours near got wiped clean too, if not fer you. The septon gives his blessings, sure, but there's folk who've suffered worse, an' they're wantin' more—Mother's mercy, Father's justice, Warrior's protection, Crone's wisdom. Can ye blame 'em, eh?''
''It's not the King's men who are raiding and looting your villages.'' Jon said firmly.
''Aye? An' who is it then?'' Walder roared hotly. ''They're carryin' all them shiny highborn spears an' swords, ain't they? Shoutin' at us to stop or hand over our goods—or folk—in King Robert's or some lord's name!''
''Why did your people insist on giving those men burials, then? Lady Whent's son requested the criminals' bodies, and Ashmere refused him.''
''Most of us don't give a bloody fig 'bout those damned criminals—they can rot in all Seven Hells for all I care. It's the septon an' his lot wot wanted the funeral for 'em, an' his word carries weight here in Ashmere, seein' as all he's done for us.''
Jon said nothing, simply turning his gaze away, lost in thought. Walder stared daggers at him for a moment before his expression seemed to soften, and he calmed himself. The septon must know where those bodies are then, or rather, their clothing and belongings.
''Do you know where the septon might be?''
Walder blinked. ''I dunno, probably at the western edge o' Ashmere, I reckon. He wanted to pray while the rest of us were feastin'. But seein' as Lis' back here already givin' us a right tongue-lashin', I'd say he's done with it.''
Jon thanked Walder for the help and for the party of dice before walking away toward the western edge of Ashmere. All the while, thinking of a way to convince this septon to have him give over their possessions. While Edmure Tully had only received reports of raids near Pinkmaiden and Brookstone, the scope of the raiding appeared far greater than he realised. Or mayhaps he already knows and simply chose not to mention it to me.
Anyhow, Jon made a mental note to inform the Tully lord of it. Yet, the phenomenon struck Jon as most strange—bands of men armed with castle-forged steel, impersonating the King's men or those loyal to lords and ladies, pillaging villages and terrorising the lands of the Rivermen.
''Excuse me? Might any of you be the septon, perhaps?'' Jon asked eight men and women who were all standing quietly by the edge of Ashmere.
''You interrupt his prayers. Begone, and come back later.'' A woman—septa, mayhaps—said. She looked a bit like Septa Mordane.
''He disturbs nothing, dear Septa; all is well. I have but finished my prayers. Might you now lead these fresh seekers of the faith to the place where they may unburden themselves of their earthly goods?''
The septa gave a curt nod before ushering the rest of the men and women away, leaving the two of them alone in the ever-darkening evening.
''You are the septon, then, I take it?''
''I am, at least here in Ashmere.'' The septon said, he was a small man clad in a threadbare septon's robe, a crystal hanging from a simple thong around his neck. ''But there are many of us scattered across the Seven Kingdoms. What name do you bear, child?''
"Jon Stark," he replied, the name still feeling strange on his tongue.
The septon remained expressionless. ''You do not follow the Seven?''
''I do not,'' he replied flatly.
The septon was left pondering at that. ''I judge you not, for judgement is the Father's. And he has judged you good and true, for he helped you save these souls from certain peril.''
Jon could not say that he felt the Father's judgement or the Warrior's blessing when he had faced those outlaws. It was the Old Gods who had answered his prayer, for it was Ghost who had saved him, and Ghost was of the North.
''Now tell me, what is it that you seek of me, child?''
I'm not a child. Jon breathed in sharply and chose his words carefully. ''The outlaws I slew—you decided to grant them burials?''
''I did,'' the septon said. ''For even the lowest of the Mother's children deserves guidance to the other world.''
Jon blinked, but he managed to nod stiffly. ''The belongings they carried at their deaths—the swords and clothing—Edmure of House Tully wishes to examine them.''
A hard look appeared in the septon's brown eyes. ''I have little need for swords or blades; Maegor the Cruel tore the swords from the hands of the Faith. But tunics could keep many of the poorest warm. That is why the Seven gave us sheep and wool.''
''I'm sure you are already aware, but Ashmere is not alone in its suffering. Edmure Tully is determined to put an end to it, and he requires the outlaws' belongings to learn more about them.''
''A most pleasing claim for the Father to hear, yet he sent you to gather them. A child of the North. Why is this so?''
Yes, why? Jon found himself despairing. I should have brought Septa Mordane for this task, or Baelor the Blessed himself. ''Hoster Whent, the heir to Harrenhal, had attempted to retrieve the items but was refused. I suppose they thought I might have a better chance of securing them, given that I saved Becca from those criminals.''
The septon looked at Jon for a long time. ''Hoster Whent asked for the bodies of the departed, but such a request can neither I nor any septon abide. However men may have lived—be they saints or sinners—in death, they belong to the Seven.''
The septon did not stop this time. ''Living men bow to their lords, and lords to their kings, so kings and queens—''
''—must bow before the Seven Who Are One.'' Jon finished for him; he remembered that line well; it was one of the first lines that appeared in that book; besides, he was getting a little bit tired of this.
It was the septon's turn to blink now. ''You have read The Seven-Pointed Star?''
Jon nodded.
''The Crone is wise,'' the septon mused. ''Hoster Whent sought after the departed; he did not mention their belongings. I shall grant this request for the sake of the child who saved Ashmere from further harm.''
Jon exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Thank the Old Gods and the New for Lord Guncer Sunglass and Ser Bonifer Hasty. ''I thank you, septon.''
''Thanks be to the Seven, for I am but a humble servant.''
Jon was eventually led to the belongings of the outlaws: castle-forged blades and axes, sturdy leather jerkins covered in old blood, chainmail, and quilted tunics of light beige. There were leather belts, simple trousers, and well-worn boots. He took it all and hoped it was enough for Tully.
It was sad to know that Becca and Gared leave for their uncle's wife's land. Both were mayhaps a bit too blunt, even for northern standards. But sweet children nonetheless. Hopefully, it is safer for them further North.
The ride back to Harrenhal had been, as always, uneventful. The Whent men who had escorted Jon with the cart full of gifts had offered—nay, insisted—on carrying the belongings the septon had handed over, no doubt seeking to curry favour with the Tully Paramount or the Lady of Harrenhal. But Jon had refused their offer, a decision he had come to regret as he rode ahead of them. The sack containing the clothing had a large hole, and its contents kept spilling out along the way.
Once Jon had arrived back at camp and climbed off his horse, he made a pit stop by Olaf first in order to gain his help to carry the criminals steel while Jon carried the bag of clothing.
''You had a few visitors askin' after you while you were away, m'lord.'' Olaf said dutifully, while a familiar raven had flown out from his tent and decided to rest on Jon's shoulder.
''Corn!'' The raven croaked.
''Who?'' Jon asked.
Olaf stroked his beard. ''Well, your lord father, for one. He had some raven scrolls with him—left them inside your tent and said he'd return later. Then there was young Bar Emmon and Massey.''
''What did Bar Emmon and Massey want?''
''Gods know; they would not tell me.''
Jon nodded slowly. ''Anyone else?''
''Little Arya and Bran—they wanted to show you something they'd found in Harrenhal's godswood before they headed there themselves. And before yah ask, yes, they had guards escorting them, though I wish those poor souls luck in keeping up with them. Oh, and your betrothed stopped by as well.''
''Lady Margaery?'' Jon asked, eyebrows raised.
Olaf nodded, a tiny smirk on his face.
''Corn! Corn!'' The raven croaked once more.
''Aye, aye!'' Jon said, ruffled from Olaf's smirk and the raven's pickering. ''You'll get your bloody corn.''
As Jon and Olaf travelled through the sea of tents, one could fully see that the night was in full swing, with men huddling around small fires just about everywhere, smells of pork sausage, sounds of flutes, roaring, and singing. He even glimpsed a puppet show displaying some tale about the Tourney at Ashford Meadow.
A boot had managed to fall out of the sack, to which Jon sighed.
''We could switch if you'd like,'' Olaf said, amused.
''I'm fine; let's reach Lord Edmure before another fall from a boot slows us down.''
''Fall!'' The raven croaked. ''Fall! Dead!''
Jon and Olaf glanced at the raven wearily but were soon moving toward Tully once more.
He had impeccable timing, it seemed, as when he had arrived at Edmure's tent and the guards allowed him lone entry. Edmure sat in heated conversation with Piper, Goodbrook, and Mallister, but also a Bracken knight and Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.
''My lords, lord Hand,'' Jon said simply.
The men turned to gaze at him, and while Edmure's face was expressionless when their eyes met at first, he turned into every bit the jovial lord when he glimpsed the blades and sack Jon was carrying.
''Well done, lad,'' Edmure said.
''Well, let's see it then.'' The Bracken knight murmured.
Jon laid the blades on the ground to his left while emptying the sack to his right. It did not take a long examination from Piper before he spoke.
''Yellow and brown, Whent colours, a bad mummery of it too—I told you, Mallister. These are the same men, the same lot of trouble.''
Jon frowned; he thought the colour beige at best.
''The castle-forged steel as well, not a scratch on it—someone armed them. Lady Whent has already discovered her missing blades.'' The Bracken said.
''Lannister...'' Edmure hissed lowly through clenched teeth with such venom that Jon thought incapable of him.
''Let us not jump to harsh conclusions; the steel could still very well have been stolen.'' Jon Arryn said firmly.
''Say what you will, Lord Hand. You've seen my people slain, heard my petition, and now seen the proof. I've seen enough—it is high time for the Tullys of Riverrun to act.''
''Aye, soon enough it'll be noble blood these lot are kidnapping all along the River Road.'' Piper agreed.
''Raising men to strike at the outlaws I've got no objection to. But I see no proof tying Tywin Lannister to this.'' Jon Arryn said with narrowed eyes.
''My Lord Hand, do you not find it curious that these raids began on the eastern side of the Red Fork and not the western?'' Goodbrook asked incredulously. ''That they now spread solely through the Riverlands and no other kingdom?''
Suddenly, a commotion stirred outside the tent. The noise began low, almost distant, but it quickly grew, the panicked voices swelling loud enough to draw every man's attention toward the tent flaps.
An old, stocky man with a bald head suddenly burst through the tent flaps, his breath heavy. His face was red with exhaustion.
''Ser Robin?'' Edmure asked, distressed, rising from his seat.
''My lord,'' the man said, while gasping out of breath. ''A fall!''
''What are you on about, Ryger?'' Piper said impatiently.
''A fall, my lord!'' The knight gasped. ''Someone has fallen from Harrenhal's towers!''