Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The air in Winterfell was different, it was colder that than that of the south, but it also carried with it an air of security and comfort that he had missed.
It was the warmth that emanated from every wall, the great battlements that towered overhead, and the courtyards of mud and summer snow that brought back countless memories from his youth. No matter how long he had spent in the Vale, no matter how long he would still spend in the South, the North and Winterfell would always be home in his mind.
The castle was still the same, but the way its people saw him had changed. Most of the guards and servants now treated him with far more respect than he remembered, whispers ofStormscourgenow on their lips. He was no longer their lord's son, no longer the bastard their lady could barely tolerate, but now his own man, grown, with his own renown and deeds to stand on, a young terror on the fields did not compare to a blooded knight, a veteran of battles and duels with men and monsters alike.
Rodrik in contrast, still treated him in the same way, still bore the same boundless pride in his eyes when he looked upon him, as though the old knight had always known what Jon would amount to.I am glad I could prove you right, old friend.
His father— or uncle, though he found it hard to call him such in his mind, also looked upon him differently. And Jon was not sure if it was because there was no more secrecy between them, or if it was because he admired what Jon had accomplished.I would hope it is both…
Even Lady Catelyn did not avoid him as much as she used to, she had even asked after her uncle Brynden once or twice over the dinner table, a man Jon was happy to share stories of, either heartfelt ones of the nights spent in comfortable silence or sillier stories like the time the Gates were 'haunted' by a ghost horse who ended up being some betrothed's scorned lover. There was still some aversion to him, some deep-seeded hatred it seemed she would never shake, but now he saw it for what it was, for what it was rooted in, the insecurities of a wife and a mother, rather than anything to do with the substance of his character.
He had met with the two frequently in his father's solar, they had no end of questions about the south and the capital, some political, some personal, but Jon answered them all with as honestly as he could.
"But it was the imp who warned you against Petyr." Lady Catelyn said, out of all he'd shared, she seemed to take the most issue with his distrust of the man. "The imp is likely lying for his family, Petyr must be working against them."
"I met with Stannis minutes later, and he had similar words for Baelish." Jon said shrugging.
"If two sides have warned him against the man, then there must be some reason for it." Lord Stark argued, though his wife only set her lips in a line, unwilling to believe the man could have any malice in his heart.
His siblings, however, remained his siblings. Even after he knew what he knew of his birth, he could not look at them and them any differently, and over the years, they had changed as much as he did.
Robb was also now a man grown, and Jon was taken aback with the amount of work he did around the castle, all the things he had to organize or resolve or lead. It was all that a Lord of Winterfell had to do, and it far more work than Jon had ever done at the mine, and he was growing increasingly concerned that he would have a similar amount of work waiting for him when he returned to claim his castle in the Vale.
He also had to balance the endless affairs of all the great northern houses. Jon had spent so long in the Vale worrying himself with Corbrays and Redforts that he'd forgotten all about the Boltons and the Glovers and the Karstarks. They had all grown so distant from his mind, yet for Robb, their matters and their loyalties mattered above all else.
"Why don't you stay?" Robb had told him one night, they sat together along the castle walls, legs dangling over the edge into the snowy darkness below. They told stories of where and when, with a wineskin between them and a black canvas specked with stars above them. "You can send Lord Royce a polite rejection, and father can give you land as close or as far from Winterfell as you wish. You can help father, help me rule the North."
"I cannot live in the shadow of the Lord of Winterfell forever, Robb." Jon had responded honestly, his brother turned to him with furrowed eyebrows. "And you and father cast very long shadows. Here, I will always be his son and your brother, but in the Vale, people know me as my own man."
"I…" Robb started then stopped and pursed his lips. A silence hung between them for a time, broken only by distant drunken jeers from the castle or howling from the dark forest. "I can respect that."
Sansa had also grown older, she was near her majority, but not there yet, even if she believed otherwise. She remained the same gentle, courteous lady-to-be he'd always known, but now she had taken much more of an interest in him now than ever before. He was her window to the world beyond the walls of Winterfell, beyond even the snow-covered fields of the North, to valleys and mountains and cities that she could only imagine, that she could only dream of visiting.
"Ser Garlan sounds very chivalrous." Cassel said, she and Poole's daughters were always attached to his sister's hip, even on the afternoons when Sansa sought him out in the training fields with stars in her eyes.
"I've met every manner of knight. There were men who seemed decent and then turned yellow, knights who were fraudulent until the need arose and they, in turn, rose to meet it, but Garlan… I would consider him the best among them."
"What of the prince?" Sansa eagerly asked. "Did he give you council you before your duel with the Mountain?"
"The prince seems a cruel and a petty boy, by my measure." Jon said honestly, and he saw his sister's eyes dim, and it was Poole who turned indignant. "I witnessed him torment his siblings, and on the day of my trial he looked on with such glee, likely wishing to see Clegane cleave me in half. Any man who looks forward to such slaughter is no good man at all, I fear for the day the crown passes to him."
"He is the prince!" Poole argued, and Jon turned to her with a raised eyebrow.
"And? Aerys was a prince once, did they not tell you what became of him? Aerion Brightflame? Aemond One-eye? Daemon Targaryen? Princes are men, my lady, powerful men, but they remain men, and men can be as cruel or as kind as any other."
His words upset the girls somewhat. They were not grown yet, no matter what they believed, but they were all old enough for the truth.
His younger brothers had grown the most out of all of them, but that was how children that age tended to be. Bran still dreamed of knighthood, and by Jon's estimation on the training yard, he had the talent to someday make it, though his main passion remained climbing the walls of Winterfell. Zephyr had spotted him along them a dozen times, and every time Jon had no clue how he was hanging on.
Rickon remained as energetic as ever, and he was over the moon to see Jon return. He was still so young, even now. He barely came up to Jon's knees, possessed by an energy and carelessness that only children his age were capable of.
Some days, when he had little better to do, he would pretend to be some great monster stalking the snowy North and allow those two to overpower and wrestle him into the snow as their laughter echoed against the trees of the Godswood.
"I am felled." He cried out, laughing and falling over as Rickon attacked his foot in a fit of giggles. "My reign of terror has come to an end!"
Rickon would keel over shortly after, falling victim to an onset of giggles, while Bran tried to act more mature than he was, before finally conceding and breaking out into laughter alongside them.
And finally, there was Arya, some part of him had been worried that his time away would lead to some estrangement between them. That they would still be siblings, that they would still love each other, but that special bond they shared had been eroded by time and distance.
In the end, he had worried himself over nothing, the laughter was never easier, the stories never seemed more interesting, and the light japing the same as ever.
"Why do the ripples look like that?" she asked, looking down at the Valyrian Steel in her hands. It had taken much incessant nagging for him to allow her to hold the blade, and even then, he still stood alert to make sure she didn't cut herself in two. "The ones on Ice are straighter, cleaner."
"They are." Jon said, taking a moment to admire them as well. He still felt some sense of childhood giddy every time he looked upon the sword,hisin all the ways Ice would never be, and in his eyes the blade would forever be unparalleled. "They were similar to those on Ice when I fought the Mountain, but afterwards… It seems as though the lightning branded both the steel and I."
"But Valyrian Steel cannot be altered." She said, though he only shrugged and soon extended his hand take the sword back from her. "I wish I could come with you. I tried to convince father but he says it is too dangerous, maybe if you were to speak to him..."
"He is not wrong, Arya." Jon said after a pause. "It is too soon after the trial in King's Landing, I am too fresh on the minds of too many powerful men, you cannot be near me."
"Then why would you go south? Why not stay here?"
"There are… there are people in the Vale who also need me, people who might be in as much if not more danger than me." He said, hoping that the letter he sent in Gullstown had reached the Gates. "You'll meet them, soon. Soon, I'll come back, I promise. I'll be in far less danger and you'll be near your majority then, I will make an effort to turn father."
She crossed her arms and pouted as she did, but it seemed as though he had swayed her for now.
Outside of time spent with his family, his stay in Winterfell had been uneventful, he had little to do most days. He would have sparred and practiced in the yards, but Luwin had recommended resting his arm completely for some time. The old maester had been amazed to see him still alive after inspecting it, even more so when he saw that Jon could still move and clench his fingers.
His hand did make for a rather frightening sight, streaks of dark, burnt flesh travelled from his fingertips and along his hand and forearm, while the skin between looked desiccated and dry.
"Bend your wrist again." Luwin ordered, looking down intensely at where Jon laid his arm across the table.
"Must we do this every day?"
"I must ensure its condition does not worsen." The old man retorted, then lightly touched his palm. "Can you feel this?"
"Aye." Jon said. "But what do you mean worsen? I've been feeling it grow better for a month, is there a chance that changes?"
"I do not know." The maester said, finally looking away from his arm and sighing. "From my understanding of anatomy, this is impossible. Everything about this is far beyond my understanding, all I can do is monitor and test."
Jon looked down at it again and clenched his fingers.
Another thing that occupied his mind was the man he had captured on his way north; the one Jon had caught on one of the nights when they had drawn close to White Harbor.
He had seen the door to his room open with Zephyrs eyes and quickly jolted awake in his body. He laid then in anticipation, still pretending to sleep, expecting the man to try and steal his blade, to perhaps even try to slit his throat. Instead, he moved towards the barrel of drinking water Jon kept in his roomand slipped something inside.
The man then turned to make his escape but found the figure of Jon sat up in his bed, the moonlight pouring through the window illuminating the wroth in his eyes.
The man had survived that night, and he had barely been beaten before he started swearing up and down that it was the Lannisters who sent him, that it was a redcloak who slipped the gold and poison into his hands and ordered he slip it into Jon's water. Some tropical venom, he said, one that would make it seem like he died of stomach problems.
Jon believed him and was happy to kill him right then and there, but the captain interfered. The old man was sure that the assassin had not been aboard their ship when they left King's Landing, no one else had seen him board at Gullstown, and yet the captain was certain, and so Jon stayed his hand at the time. When they finally docked in White Harbor, he borrowed a cage carriage from the Manderlys to chain and gag the man in until he arrived at Winterfell.
In his father's dungeons, the man squeaked again, this time confessing that he had boarded the ship at Gullstown, though still insisting it was the Lannisters who sent him. Apparently, he had been hired by a man-at-arms of a merchant who hailed from the Westerlands, a merchant who still conducted most of his trade with Lannisport. Gylus was the man-at-arms' name, and Hugh Kennan the name of his master.
"Why would he lie the first time?" Jon wondered as they left the dungeons of Winterfell behind them. The North was cold place, but the air of the dungeons always seemed colder, bleaker than anywhere else.
"The man who hired him likely instructed him to, to protect his master." Lord Stark had told him. "If we believed that he came from King's Landing, then we don't look at Gullstown nor any of its merchants, and Hugh Kennan avoids suspicion."
"Then I will investigate this man when I am back in the Vale." Jon said. "Report him to Lord Grafton in Gullstown, send a report of the whole matter to Arryn in King's Landing."
"You will need evidence." Lord Stark had told him. "Or it will be your word against his, not even your word, but the word of a lowborn catspaw. Evidence like that is difficult, if not impossible to procure."
"What would you suggest I do then?" Jon asked, then saw his uncle hesitate.
"If it were I…" He started then stopped. "I would investigate the matter, but do be careful, Jon. The Lannisters are too powerful, I trust Lord Royce to dull their influence, but you must still be cautious above all."
Caution…No word that could worse describe how he had lived his life so far, yet now, he was beholden to it.All for Tywin Lannister's pride. That man is a cancer unto the realm.
Later that night, with Ice in hand, his father executed the Lannister catspaw in the courtyards of Winterfell.
Soon after that, his time in Winterfell would end, Robb was heading a caravan for White Harbor, and Jon had resolved to join it and from there make his way to the Vale, where Mya and the Veridian Falls awaited him.
The goodbyes over dinner were no less sorrowful the second time, even Sansa was unhappy to see him leave and the young ones were hard to consul. He expected Arya to also be the most heartbroken of all, but she seemed to be much more stoic than she was the last time she left. He did not know if it was because she'd grown more mature, or if it was the promise he made her, but he appreciated all the same, it made him feel less guilty about his departure.
Maybe I should stay…He pondered, but it was only a passing dream, they all had to leave eventually.
The next morning, at the break of dawn, he found Robb waiting for him at the stables with a wide grin on his face, and a good fifty men alongside him, as well as an order for Lord Manderly to supply them a ship to the Gullstown.
Most were not meant for the caravan but were young third or fourth or fifth sons of guardsmen and men-at-arms that his father wished to send along with him, men who would be sworn to his household once they reached the Vale. It would be much harder for any Lannister gold to sway them, and Jon could be sure that out of everyone in his castle they at least would be trusted.
They set out then to into vast barren tundras and thick forests of the North. The early morning breeze so cool it bite into their skin, though not unpleasantly so. In truth he rather liked the cold, and he would surely miss it once he was south of the neck.
During the day they would ride for hours along the road to White Harbor. At night they would camp in tents under starlight, and above great pits of fire they would roast root vegetables, rabbit, and boar, and they would sing songs of merriment, laughter and cheer until they woke up the next day to do it all over again.
It was on the third day of their journey when a most queer expression caught Robb's face, and Jon turned to him confused.
"What?"
"Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Whining, mewing."
Jon strained his ears, but still he heard only the clopping of horses, the chatter of men behind them, and the rustling of pine needles and tall grass as a cold breeze blew through.
"No."
"Follow me." Robb said, he signalled for the men to stop in their tracks and jumped off his steed then wondered off the trail into the woodland.
"It's just some squirrel or fawn." Jon argued, but his brother seemed intent on finding the source of the sound.
Soon Jon too would hear it, and soon he too would grow unconvinced that it was any small woodland beast and he too would grow curious what the true source of the sound was.
"It's a litter." Robb said, kneeling down besides the body of a large wolf and the litter young pups beneath it.
"And their dead mother." Jon said, looking down on it. There were five small pups, far too young to survive on their own. "It's a rather large for wolf is it not?"
"This is no ordinary wolf." Robb said, a conclusion Jon found hard to argue against. "It's a direwolf."
"How did it cross the Wall?" Jon wondered. "What killed it?"
"No wounds…" Robb said, moving to examine it. "What do we do with the pups?"
They looked down the small furry mutts as suckled on dead teats that produced no milk. Without a mother, they were easy pray for any number of beasts.
"The kind thing to do would be to cull them." Jon said, though Robb looked uneasy with the idea. "We cannot find them a home or another mother, and they've not yet been weaned. If we leave, they starve, a cruel fate."
"We need not leave them or cull them." Robb said, picking one up by the scruff of the neck. "I reckon I can convince father to let us keep them."
"As pets? Can you imagine…" Jon started, then stopped. "Actually, I can imagine Rickon and Arya with them, even Bran, though the image of Sansa with one is harder to conjure."
"The one seems even-tempered, it's a girl as well." Robb said, picking a white one by the scruff of the neck, it had been shyly trying to reach her mother's dead teats, though her more aggressive siblings were pushing her off.
"Five direwolves for five Starks, two girls and three boys, a gift from the old gods." Jon said, nodding his head. Dome might roll their eyes at the idea, but Jon had too many run-ins with the Divine to be among them.
"But then there's none left for you."
"I was never a Stark." Jon said, waving him off.
"You always were."
"I wish it were so." Jon said.The truth more complicated and dangerous than you can imagine.For a moment, Jon pursed his lips and considered telling him the truth. The others were too young and immature to handle it. But Robb? He was his brother, his equal or superior in everything except for swordplay. In some ways, he deserved to know the truth.
But he hesitated long enough for another soft barking to emerge from a bush, and they turned in time to see a small white wolf with blood colored eyes jump from the grass.
"There you go." Robb said, smiling and picking him up by the scruff of the neck. "A reminder of your home, Snow."
Notes:
should be two more chapters in the coming days
updates will be faster when the semester ends and im not spending all my nights doing integrals