Notes:
This story is kind of a spin-off to another of my stories called Valhalla Rising. If you are interested in The North centered fics and want to see Jon and Rurik have an adventure in another life, feel free to read that as well. It is nine chapters deep and starts a few months after Red Wedding.
Jon Snow
Jon Snow left the hall of Winterfell, slipping past the heavy oak doors and into the night. The sounds of the feast trailed after him—boisterous laughter, the clatter of cups, the high-pitched drone of singers. Inside, the fire roared, and the torches burned bright, but out here the air was crisp, sharp with the bite of summer snows. It was a relief, in a way. The cool wind brushed his cheeks, cutting through the warmth of wine that lingered on his skin. He pulled his cloak tight, the fur brushing against his jaw.
The feast had gone on for hours, the hall filled with guests and banners from every corner of the North and beyond. Jon had watched as Robb, seated beside their father, drank and laughed with Theon Greyjoy, his half-brother so at ease in a way Jon never could be. Robb belonged there, at the high table, and he… he did not. No matter how many battles Ned Stark had fought for the realm or how loyal the North remained to its lords, Jon was still only his bastard, always on the edges, the quiet shadow standing just beyond the firelight.
He had tried to lose himself in conversation with Benjen Stark, his uncle from the Night's Watch. The two of them had talked of the Wall, of the far North, and of the frozen forests where wildlings roamed free. But the more they talked, the more Jon had felt the familiar cold settle in his chest.
"I am ready to serve at the Night's Watch. Why don't you ask Father to let me go with you ?" Jon had asked, the wine making him bolder.
Benjen had looked at him sharply, his face lined and thoughtful. "The Wall is no place for a boy, Jon. You're still young. Wait until you've seen a few more winters. You would not want to throw away your life at The Wall before even knowing what you are losing, son."
"I'm not your son!," Jon had said angrily, loud enough for Benjen and several others on the table to hear.
The words had cut through the air like a knife. Benjen had given him a long, hard look before saying, "Come back to me after you've fathered a few bastards of your own, and we'll see how you feel."
The idea of fathering bastards had sent him fleeing from the hall, out into the cold night. He wasn't a Stark, not truly. The name was his father's, not his. He had no right to the wolf sigil, to the land, to anything. His blood was mingled with the unknown, some nameless mother's curse. And as long as that was true, as long as he bore the stain of bastardy, he would always be an outsider, standing in the shadows.
He shook his head, trying to push away the thoughts that gnawed at him like wolves at a carcass. He stepped further into the courtyard, the snow beneath his boots crunching softly as he moved.
The courtyard was quieter than the hall but not empty. Men moved in the shadows, guards at their posts, the occasional servant rushing between buildings. Off to the side, in a small corner near the old stables, a group of men sat huddled around a small fire, their laughter muted but constant. Jon slowed his steps, curious, his eyes catching the glint of something in the firelight.
It was Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf, hunched over with his cloak pulled tight against the cold. His mismatched eyes gleamed as he tossed something—coins—into a pile at the center of the group. The men around him were clad in simple clothing, but one of them, a large, broad-shouldered young man with a neatly trimmed beard and clean tunic, stood out. He wore a gold ring on one hand and a silver armband on his forearm, glinting in the firelight. His cloak, though plain, was clean, and he had an air of command about him as if he didn't quite belong among the common gamblers.
Jon stopped in his tracks, watching as Tyrion tossed a few more coins into the pile and rolled the dice in his hands. The dice tumbled and bounced poorly on the ground before landing. Tyrion cursed under his breath, though the men around him laughed.
"Expensive night, my lord?" one of them asked with a chuckle.
Tyrion's mouth curled into a wry grin. "Getting almost too expensive for my tastes," he said, tossing another gold coin onto the pile. "But fortune favors the foolish, or so they say."
The large man—Rurik, Jon overheard one of the others call him—gathered up the coins, chuckling to himself. "Fortune's a fickle lady, Lord Tyrion," he said. "Best to keep a close eye on her, or she'll rob you blind."
Jon leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, watching as Tyrion played out his hand. The dwarf seemed unfazed by his losses, though it was clear he was paying out more than he was taking in. Jon knew Tyrion had access to more gold than anyone in that ring of people. He was just gambling for fun.
After a few more rolls, Tyrion sighed and stood, dusting off his hands. "I'll leave you sorry lot to your games," he said, his voice tinged with mock defeat. "I've lost enough gold for one night."
Rurik grinned, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. "A wise choice, my lord. It would be a poor way to welcome you into our fine country by emptying your purse. Best to walk away while you still have enough coins to buy a few castles your name."
Tyrion shrugged, casting a glance in Jon's direction before making his way over to him, his steps surprisingly graceful for a man of his stature. He stopped beside Jon, leaning back against the wall with a sigh. "Well, if it isn't the Stark bastard," he said, his tone light but not unkind. "What brings you out here? Grown tired of the feast?"
Jon's jaw tightened at the word "bastard," but he forced himself to stay calm. "The feast isn't for me," he said. "It's for the king, for my father, for the lords. I don't belong there."
Tyrion's eyes flicked up to meet his, sharp and perceptive. "Ah, yes. The eternal plight of the bastard." He paused, then added, "Do you know what it's like to be a dwarf, Jon Snow?"
Jon frowned, unsure of where Tyrion was going with this. "No," he said cautiously.
"No, you don't," Tyrion said with a small nod. "But you know what it's like to be a bastard. We're not so different, you and I. The difference, though, is that I've learned to live with it." He tapped his chest lightly. "Never forget what you are, Jon Snow. Wear it like armor, and it can never be used to hurt you."
Jon clenched his fists, the words stinging more than they should have. "I don't want to be a bastard," he said loudly.
Tyrion regarded him for a long moment, his mismatched eyes studying Jon's face. "No one wants to be a dwarf either," he said softly. "But I am one, and wishing different won't change that." He glanced back toward the dice game, where Rurik and the others were still rolling and laughing. "Care to try your luck, Snow? A bit of coin might take your mind off things."
Jon hesitated, his hand brushing the small pouch of coins at his waist. A good amount from his name-day gift that he never really touched. He wasn't much for gambling, but the wine was still warm in his blood, and the thought of doing something—anything—to take his mind off the feast, off his conversation with Benjen, was tempting.
"Maybe I will," Jon said after a moment, his voice firmer.
Tyrion gave him a knowing smile and pushed off the wall. "I'll leave you to it, then. But remember what I said, Jon Snow." He gave a small bow and sauntered off into the darkness, leaving Jon alone by the fire.
Jon watched him go before turning back to the dice game. The men were still at it, Rurik laughing as he swept up another handful of coins. Jon stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the snow, and the men turned to look at him.
Rurik's eyes narrowed slightly, but he smiled, his teeth white against the shadow of his beard. "Come to join us, lad?" he asked, his voice deep but friendly. "Got some coin on you?"
Jon nodded, his fingers tightening around the pouch at his waist. "I've got enough."
Rurik grinned wider, the firelight flickering in his eyes. "Good enough for me. We play fair here, or as fair as dice can be. You win, you take the pot. You lose, you pay out. Simple as that."
Jon nodded again and sat down beside the others, the cold ground seeping through his cloak. The fire crackled softly, sending up small sparks into the night sky, and the dice clattered as they were passed from hand to hand.
Rurik's manner was different than Jon had expected. For a man who ran a dice game in the dark corners of Winterfell's courtyard, he was surprisingly well-mannered. His clothes, though simple, were clean, and the gold ring on his finger and the silver armband on his arm caught Jon's eye more than once. He had the look of a man accustomed to better things, though he seemed perfectly at ease among the rougher company.
The first round went quickly. Jon watched as Rurik tossed the dice with an easy flick of his wrist, the small cubes tumbling across the ground before landing in his favor. The men groaned, tossing their coins into the pot as Rurik grinned and swept them up.
When it was Jon's turn, he felt a surge of excitement. He wasn't sure why, but the thrill of the game tugged at something inside him. He rolled the dice, watching as they bounced and landed neatly in his favor. The men muttered their complaints, and Jon felt a small smile tug at his lips as he gathered up his winnings.
The next few rounds followed the same pattern. Jon's luck held, and the pile of coins in front of him grew steadily. He couldn't help but feel a small sense of satisfaction as he rolled the dice, the men around him grumbling as he won yet again.
But as the night wore on, the game took a turn. Jon's luck began to be not so high in his favor, and Rurik's grin grew wider with each roll. The pot grew larger, the stakes higher, and Jon found himself swept up in the thrill of it all.
When the final round came, Jon had a decision to make. He could walk away with the small pile of coppers he had won, or he could risk it all in one last roll. The wine still buzzed in his head, and the firelight flickered in Rurik's eyes as he waited for Jon to decide.
Jon glanced down at the pile of coins in front of him, then back at Rurik. His heart raced in his chest, the thrill of the game tugging at him. He reached for his pouch, fingers brushing the cool metal of the coins.
"All in," he said, his voice steady but quiet.
Rurik's grin widened, and he nodded, tossing the dice with a practiced flick of his wrist. The dice tumbled across the ground, bouncing once, twice, before landing. Jon held his breath, his eyes locked on the small cubes.
The dice rolled against him, and Rurik laughed, sweeping up the pot with a wide grin. The men around them clapped him on the back, their voices rising in celebration. Jon felt a wave of disappointment wash over him, the excitement of the game fading as quickly as it had come.
"Looks like fortune wasn't with you tonight, lad," Rurik said, his grin never fading. He gathered up the coins, his fingers moving quickly, before pausing and looking at Jon. "But you know what? It wouldn't be proper to take a young man's coin like that." He tossed Jon back the amount he started the game with.
Jon frowned, confused. "You won them fair and square."
Rurik chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Did I though? I cheated almost every single time. Baited you in with a few easy wins, then took you for all you had. Let it be a lesson for you in case you find yourself in another game, young man. In dice or cards, it's not cheating until you get caught."
Jon blinked, taken aback. "But you took Lannister's coin well enough?"
"Of course I did," Rurik said, his voice casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Lannister had more coins than he can probably count. I only helped him out by lessening his burden."
Jon's hand tightened on the pouch of coins Rurik had tossed back to him. His earlier excitement drained away, replaced by a sharp irritation at himself. He had walked right into the trap, like some green boy with no sense at all. Of course, the man had cheated. He should have known better than to trust anyone running a game of dice in a shadowed corner of the courtyard. A fool's mistake, Jon thought bitterly.
He opened his mouth to say something—perhaps to thank Rurik for his "lesson," though the taste of it felt sour on his tongue—when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. The sound was soft at first, like a low rumble on the wind, but it grew quickly into a series of light, rapid footfalls.
Ghost emerged from the shadows, his white fur glowing eerily under the flickering torchlight. His crimson eyes gleamed as they locked onto Jon, and in a few long strides, the direwolf was at his side. The men around the fire froze, their laughter dying in their throats. Rurik's companions—Dolen and Brewer, as Jon would later come to know them—stared wide-eyed at the beast.
"Well, well," Rurik said slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Now, that's a sight."
The others were less composed. Dolen, a lanky man with a shock of auburn hair, leaned back, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his knife. Brewer, shorter and stockier, muttered something Jon couldn't quite hear, his eyes wide as plates.
Jon rested a hand on Ghost's head, the direwolf's fur soft and warm beneath his fingers. "Don't worry. He's mine," Jon said simply. "Ghost."
Rurik whistled low, shaking his head in amazement. "A direwolf, is it? The talk around the feast was true, then. They said the Starks found some direwolf pups near the Wolfswood. But I didn't expect to see one up close." He chuckled. "And here I thought we were just rolling dice with a squire."
Dolen, finally finding his voice, muttered, "Why would anyone want to raise direwolves inside a castle? The guards said they were just pups."
"They grow quickly," Jon said, his tone flat. Ghost nudged his side, sensing his mood. As always, the sight of the direwolf brought a measure of calm to Jon. At least Ghost understood him, even if no one else did.
Rurik crossed his arms, studying Jon more closely now. His sharp eyes swept over Jon's features, lingering on the cut of his cloak, the Stark sigil embroidered on his tunic. He narrowed his gaze. "You're not with the other Stark children, are you?" he asked, curiosity in his voice. "I saw the young lord and his siblings at the feast, but I don't recall seeing you with them."
Jon hesitated. He could feel the familiar tightening in his chest, the weight of what he was, always there, lurking just behind his name. But there was no point in hiding it, not now.
"I'm Jon Snow," he said, his voice steady. "Bastard of Eddard Stark."
There was a brief, pregnant silence as the words hung in the air. Jon was used to the reaction by now—the surprise, the awkward glances, the faint discomfort that followed whenever he introduced himself. He braced himself for it, waiting for the shift in their expressions.
But to his surprise, Rurik's face softened into a broad grin. "Jon Snow," he repeated as if rolling the name around in his mouth. Then, with a laugh, he clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Well, I'll be damned. A son of Eddard Stark among us. You should have mentioned that earlier."
Dolen and Brewer exchanged glances, both of them visibly relaxing now that the tension had passed. Brewer gave a small, sheepish grin, his eyes flicking back to Ghost every now and then.
Rurik continued, still smiling. "I didn't think I'd be gambling with the son of Eddard Stark tonight, bastard or no. My grandfather fought for your father, you know, twice in fact—once during Robert's Rebellion and again when the Greyjoys rose up. He talks about it almost once every week."
Jon blinked, taken aback by the sudden warmth and appreciation in Rurik's tone. "Your grandfather fought for my father? Which House are you from?"
"Aye," Rurik said proudly. "House Hornwood may not be as large as some of the other houses in the North, but we've always been first in line. My grandfather was a houseguard, fought at the Trident alongside your father. He'd have given his life for him, and he damn near did during the Greyjoy Rebellion." He paused, then gave a slight bow of his head. "It's an honor to meet you, my lord."
The title made Jon flinch, though he knew Rurik meant no harm by it. He was no lord, bastard or otherwise. But something in the way Rurik said it—respectful, without a hint of mockery—eased the sting.
"I'm no lord," Jon said quietly. "Just a bastard."
Rurik shrugged as if the distinction meant little to him. "Bastard or no, you've got Stark blood. That's enough for us."
Dolen, the taller of the two, nodded in agreement.
Jon found himself relaxing despite the earlier tension. There was something disarming about Rurik, something easy and genuine in his manner that reminded Jon of his uncle in a way—confident, quick to laugh, but not unkind.
"Well," Rurik said, turning to his companions, "now that we've cleared that up, how about another round? We've got some ale left after trading here, and I've been saving this special brew for an occasion like this." He rummaged through a small satchel at his feet, pulling out a dark, heavy bottle that gleamed in the firelight. "Len brewed it himself actually. Best ale you'll find north of the Neck."
Jon hesitated to have more drink but Rurik's easy grin and the camaraderie in the air were difficult to resist. The cold, the darkness, even his earlier frustration—it all seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth of the fire and the sound of laughter. He found himself nodding, and Rurik passed him a cup, the amber liquid sloshing inside.
"To our fathers and forefathers," Rurik toasted, raising his own cup with a grin. "They have lived with honor and fought bravely in their wars. As their legacy, may we have the fortune to do the same."
Jon felt a flicker of something in his chest—pride, maybe, or relief. He clinked his cup against Rurik's, and they drank. The ale was strong, bitter at first, but with a smooth, lingering warmth that settled in his bones.
The fire crackled beside them, casting long shadows across the courtyard as the night deepened. Ghost had settled at Jon's feet, his large head resting on his paws, his crimson eyes half-closed but still watchful.
"So, my lord," Rurik said after a moment, his tone more casual now. "What brings you out here? I thought the feast would be the place to be tonight—plenty of food, wine, singers… even the king himself." He gave a chuckle. "Most men would kill for a seat at that table. Not me, mind you. I'm no highborn. I had to slip out as soon as I had my fill of roast beef, pies, and wine. Too many people on too few tables."
Jon stared down into his cup, the earlier bitterness rising again in his throat. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to explain why he had left the feast, why the sight of Robb laughing with Theon Greyjoy or the king's sons sitting so easily at their father's table had made something tighten painfully in his chest. But he found himself speaking anyway.
"I don't belong there," he said quietly, almost to himself. "It's not my place."
Rurik frowned, clearly not understanding. "What do you mean? You're Eddard Stark's son, aren't you? Bastard or not, you've got more right to be there than half the men in that hall."
Jon shook his head, his fingers tightening around the cup. The drink made his words flow freely which normally he would keep sealed up inside. "You don't understand. I'm not a Stark," he said, the words heavy in his mouth. "Not like my siblings. I'm just the bastard."
Rurik studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed, before letting out a low sigh. "Aren't you a little too young to be depressed about things like that?" he asked, shaking his head slowly. "Well answer me this then," He paused, taking a slow sip of his ale. "What is better? There was a man here a while ago with all the gold in the world he could spend. But he's bitter about being a dwarf. Here's you; wealthy as well, tall but baseborn. You too, are depressed. Then there's us; trueborn sons, healthy men in their prime, but our blood is not nowhere near noble and we're poor as hell. Men who must spend their days working from dawn to dusk."
He looked Jon in the eye. "Think long and hard, my lord. Who is in the better position in a world of ever hardship?"
Even in his less-than-sober state, Jon knew there was not really a perfect answer to this would never hold the position a whole man would have despite owning Lannister wealth. Rurik and his friends would probably always toil hard to earn their days worth. And he himself must always carry the scorn of bastardy on spoke aloud after some time. "What are you trying to say exactly?"
Rurik spread out his legs to get a more comfortable position while filling up another round of ale. "What I'm trying to say to you young man is: Life is full of these little ironies. Everyone thinks the grass is greener on the other side of the shore but no one looks at the other people in a sorrier state on his own side and they are not even sure about what really is on that other shore. So, all you can do is, bite down on your jaw and go on with your life."
Jon had to agree that was actually a piece of good advice. Better than anything he received from his father about his future anyway. He nodded and hung back his head on a column with a long sigh while everyone around him fell into a comfortable silence.
Dolan looked at Jon and then at Rurik, back and forth a few times before he stood up, incredulous. "You sorry lot don't really have anything better to do than moan and cry tonight? While everyone else is having a grand old time? I am going back to the town. All these big talks are giving me headaches."
Len Brewer got up to follow his suit. Picking up their satchels and coins. Rurik watched them for a while, preparing to leave then he got up as well.
He slapped Jon on the back, in a less-than-formal way. "Come on, my young friend," he said with a grin. "Let's leave this cold courtyard behind. My friends and I are staying down in Watertown tonight, and there's plenty more fun to be had there. No lords, kings, matters of inheritance or manners to bother a jolly good fellow. What do you say?"
Jon hesitated, glancing down at Ghost, who had risen to his feet, alert once more. A part of him wanted to say no, to return to his chambers and shut the door on the world for a while. But another part of him—the part that had been stung by the feast, by his own feelings of inadequacy—wanted to go. This was a chance he wouldn't get often to wander out on his own without his father's guards to watch over him tonight.
"All right," he said finally, standing. "Let's go."
Rurik's grin widened, and he clapped Jon on the shoulder again. "That's the spirit, my lord. Come on, then. Let's see what fun we can dig out in Wintertown."
The night in Wintertown was alive with sounds and smells that stirred something strange in Jon's chest, something foreign and yet familiar. He walked beside Rurik, Dolen, and Len, his friends for the evening, through streets that bustled with excitement and warmth, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the North. The sky above them was a deep, endless black, the stars scattered across it like diamonds on dark velvet. The fair had drawn many from both the castle and the town, and the air was rich with the smells of roasting meat, spiced ale, and woodsmoke.
The King's arrival at Winterfell had brought southerners in droves, and they mixed with the local townsfolk like oil and water, awkward but forced together by the pull of the festivities. Jon had never been one for fairs or feasts, always feeling more comfortable in the solitude of his thoughts, training with a sword, or spending time with Ghost. Yet tonight, here he was, walking alongside men he barely knew.
Rurik, tall and broad-shouldered, had taken to Jon quickly. His boisterous nature and easy laughter were a welcome distraction from the constant swirl of depressing thoughts that haunted Jon. Rurik led the way through the throngs of people, his larger frame parting the crowd effortlessly. Dolen and Len, smaller and quicker, darted around him, nudging each other and laughing as they eyed the girls that passed.
They were heading toward the heart of the fair, where music and laughter filled the air, mingling with the distant clanging of blacksmiths still working late into the night. The fair stretched out across the square, lanterns hanging from posts and stalls, casting warm, flickering light over the scene. The sound of wood pipes, leather hand drums, and the twang of sinew harps filled the night, the melody carried on the crisp breeze. Mummers performed tricks and acrobatics for wide-eyed children, while their parents stood nearby, laughing at the antics of the performers.
Rurik motioned to a small stage where a mime stood, his face painted in pale white with darkened eyes, silently moving through an exaggerated routine. Jon found himself watching the mime's movements, how he seemed to convey whole conversations and emotions with nothing more than a gesture or a look. Around them, the crowd was thick, but there was a strange quiet that settled as they watched as if even the loudest among them were momentarily captivated by the silent performance.
Jon shifted, leaning slightly against a wooden post, watching the mime as he mimicked the actions of a proud knight confronting a great beast. The way his body moved, precise and deliberate, told the story without a single word. The mime squared his shoulders, thrusting out an imaginary sword, stepping forward to slay the invisible dragon. The crowd laughed when the mime's exaggerated swing missed its mark, and the mime tumbled backward as if struck by the beast's tail.
Next to Jon, Rurik chuckled, taking a long swig from his mug. "Look at him," Rurik muttered with a grin, nodding toward the mime. "Fighting a dragon with a sword like that. Probably got more courage than half the men out here."
Jon half-smiled, watching as the mime's expression turned to mock despair, his eyes wide and his body crumpling as though he had been vanquished. There was something in the performance that reminded Jon of the mummers who had come through Winterfell once when he was younger. It had been one of the few times he had felt carefree like tonight, laughing at their antics without the weight of his name hanging over him like a shadow.
Beside the mime, another mummer—a woman dressed in bright colors and jingling with bells—began to dance. She spun in circles, her arms outstretched, her movements graceful and fluid, drawing the eye of every man nearby. Her skirt flared as she twirled, revealing glimpses of her long legs and the shimmer of golden bracelets on her ankles. She moved with a practiced grace, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music as the crowd clapped in time.
Jon watched her, feeling a mix of admiration and unease as he felt his member stiffen. He was no stranger to desire, but the customs of Winterfell were stern. Honor and duty had been drilled into him from a young age, and the specter of his bastard blood always kept him in check. He didn't have the freedom to pursue fleeting pleasures like some of the men here. His thoughts returned to the fear that always lurked in the back of his mind—the fear of fathering a bastard, of repeating the mistakes that had marked his life since birth.
The crowd erupted in applause as the mummers took a bow, and the woman blew a playful kiss to the audience. Jon saw Rurik watching her with open appreciation, his eyes lingering on the curve of her body as she disappeared behind the stage. Dolen and Len were still laughing, caught up in the excitement of the night.
Rurik slapped Jon on the back, his laughter loud and hearty. "Come on, my lord. You look like someone pissed in your ale. It's a fair—enjoy yourself."
Jon shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. "I'm fine," he muttered.
But Rurik wasn't having any of it. He led them further into the square, where a group of musicians had gathered, playing a lively tune. Pipes, old harps, and drums filled the air with a rhythm that seemed to make the very ground beneath them vibrate. Jon could see the excitement in Rurik's eyes, the energy of the night feeding his natural exuberance.
In the center of the square, girls from the town were dancing, their skirts and gowns swirling as they moved to the beat of the music. They laughed and spun, their feet light on the ground, their faces flushed with the cold and the thrill of the dance. Jon felt his breath catch as his eyes fell on one girl in particular—a young girl with bright red hair that gleamed like fire in the light of the torches. Her laughter was infectious, her movements graceful as she spun and twirled with the other girls, her hair flying about her like a crimson banner.
Rurik grinned when he saw the direction of Jon's gaze. "Well, well," he said, elbowing Jon lightly in the ribs. "You've got an eye for her, eh? Redheads are a fiery bunch. Full of passion."
Jon felt his cheeks flush, but he said nothing. He couldn't deny the pull he felt toward the girl, but the same old fear rose up inside him, gnawing at his resolve. What if he got too close? What if he made a mistake? He couldn't afford to father a child, not when his own life had been shaped by the consequences of a fleeting moment.
Rurik, however, had no such reservations. With a nudge to Dolen and Len, he barreled into the crowd, shoving people aside with a broad grin and a few hearty laughs. "Make way, make way!" he called out, his booming voice cutting through the music. "We need a good spot to watch the girls, eh?"
Jon found himself being dragged along in Rurik's wake, the people around them parting like the sea before a ship. Before he knew it, they were standing near the edge of the dancing circle, close enough that Jon could feel the heat from the fire and hear the laughter of the girls as they spun and twirled.
Rurik wasted no time. He strode up to a young, plump girl with golden hair and grabbed her hand with a grin. "Come on, lass. Dance with me."
The girl giggled, her cheeks turning pink as she allowed herself to be pulled into the circle. Dolen and Len weren't far behind, each finding a partner of their own and joining the dance with wide grins. Jon watched, his heart beating faster as he caught another glimpse of the red-haired girl. She was dancing with another girl now, laughing as they twirled each other around, their skirts flaring in the firelight.
He wanted to join them. He wanted to ask her to dance, to feel her hand in his, to lose himself in the rhythm of the music and the warmth of the night. But his feet felt rooted to the ground, his mind a whirlwind of doubt. What if she rejected him? What if he embarrassed himself? Or worse, what if he liked it too much?
Rurik returned after a few moments, his arm slung around the shoulder of the golden-haired girl, very close to her breast. She was laughing, leaning into him as if the rest of the world had disappeared. Rurik clapped Jon on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "What in the seven hells are you doing, Jon?" he asked, his grin wide. "Just standing there like a bloody statue? You're a lord's son—you should be out there with the best of them."
Jon shrugged, trying to hide the turmoil churning in his chest. "I'm fine," he muttered. "I don't need—"
"Fine, my arse," Rurik scoffed, his voice loud and jovial. "Look at you, all dressed up like the Lord's son you are, and you're just standing here? You could have the best partner here, Snow."
Jon sighed, taking a long swig from his mug of ale. The warmth of the drink spread through his chest, but it did little to ease the knot in his stomach. "I just… I don't want to make a mistake."
Rurik stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter so loud and hearty that several people nearby turned to look. It took him a long time to stop, and when he finally did, he wiped tears from his eyes, still chuckling. "A mistake?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Gods, Snow, you think any of these girls are looking for a husband tonight? The best you'll get is a kiss and maybe a good bit of rubbing in a dark corner."
Jon felt his face grow hot, but Rurik only grinned, clapping him on the back once more. "Trust me, my lord. No farmer's daughter is going to let you poke her with your pointy end and father a bastard tonight. But you could at least enjoy yourself for once."
Jon opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Rurik's hand shot out, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him toward the circle. "Look, there she is again. The redhead. She's looking at you."
Jon's heart skipped a beat as he saw her glance in his direction, her green eyes catching the firelight. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.
"I am doing you a favor. Go on," Rurik whispered, and before Jon could react, Rurik gave him a hard shove, sending him stumbling forward into the circle.
The red-haired girl turned just in time to catch him, her laughter bubbling up as Jon nearly tripped over his own feet. He managed to catch himself, his face burning with embarrassment. The crowd around them clapped and cheered, and Rurik's booming voice cut through the noise. "That's Jon Snow!" he called out. "Lord Eddard Stark's son!"
A murmur of approval swept through the crowd, and Jon felt a wave of warmth wash over him, though whether it was from the drink or the sudden attention, he couldn't be sure. The red-haired girl smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling. "Well, m'lord," she said, her voice soft but teasing, "are you going to dance with me or just stand there?"
Jon swallowed again, nodding as he took her hand. The music swelled around them, and they began to move, her hand warm in his, her body close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her. The world around him seemed to blur, the sounds and sights fading as he focused on the girl before him. She moved with a grace and ease that Jon envied, her body swaying to the rhythm of the music as if she were born to it.
Jon, on the other hand, was stiff and awkward at first, his movements jerky and uncertain. But as the song played on, and as the girl's laughter rang in his ears, he began to relax, letting the music guide him. Her name was Amber, he learned, and she was as fiery as her hair. She teased him gently, but there was warmth in her eyes, and Jon found himself smiling more than he had in days.
As the song ended, Amber pulled Jon toward the tavern, her eyes twinkling to find such a handsome partner. "Come on," she said, "They serve good drinks inside. ."
Jon followed, his heart racing, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. Inside the tavern, the warmth was even more intense, and the noise of laughter and clinking mugs filled the air. Jon bought Amber a mug, and as they stood by the fire, he noticed a small stall selling trinkets, bronze jewelry, and carved figurines. On impulse, he purchased a bone comb with intricate patterns for a few coppers and handed it to her. Amber's eyes widened in surprise, and she smiled like she'd been offered a priceless treasure.
They found a quiet corner, away from the noise and the crowd, and as they talked, Jon felt the tension in his body ease. Amber leaned closer, her voice soft, her breath warm against his cheek. Before he knew it, her lips were on his, and for a brief moment, the world fell away. Jon pulled her closer to his chest to get access to her lips better. There was no Winterfell, no bastardy, no weight of duty. There was only her, and the warmth of the fire, and the feeling of her body pressed against his.
But the moment was ended when Amber's father appeared, his face dark with anger. For a moment, Jon thought he was about to be dragged out of the tavern and beaten. But shaking off his thoughts, he stood up proudly. Then the man's eyes fell on Jon's clothes—and on Ghost, who sat at Jon's feet, his red eyes gleaming in the dim light.
Recognition dawned on the man's face, and he took a sharp step back, his anger cooling. "My apologies, m'lord," he muttered, bowing his head slightly.
Jon nodded, his heart still racing as he turned back to Amber. "Goodnight," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the noise of the tavern. She smiled, her hand lingering on his for just a moment before her father led her away.
Rurik appeared from the shadows, a satisfied smirk on his face. "You handled that well, my lord. I thought I would have to step in. Maybe you're not as green as I thought."
Jon didn't answer. He felt different, changed somehow, but he couldn't quite place it. The weight of the world had returned to his shoulders, but for a brief, fleeting moment, he had been free.
And that, he realized, maybe was enough.
Jon was stumbling slightly as he and Rurik made their way through the dimly lit streets of Wintertown, the faint glow of lanterns flickering in the cold night air. Len and Dolen were elsewhere, finding places with their lady of the night. The ground beneath his feet felt quite uneven, covered in a thin layer of frost that crunched with each slippery step. His breath misted in front of him, the sharp chill of the North seeping through his cloak and biting at his skin. He had drunk more than he was used to, and though he wasn't swaying like some of the others they had passed, he felt the weight of the night pulling at him, dragging his limbs down like lead.
Rurik, for his part, seemed unaffected. The man strode with the easy grace of someone who had weathered many nights like this before, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the cold. He glanced back at Jon every so often, his eyes gleaming in the dark with a mix of amusement and concern.
"Come on, Jon. You're walking like you've got two left feet," Rurik called, his voice filled with humor. "Not every day a lad like you drinks with the likes of us."
Jon grunted, focusing on keeping his footing. His head buzzed from the ale, the warmth of it still lingering in his belly. He had never drunk so much before, not at Winterfell, not under his father's watch. But tonight had been different—he had allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the fair, the music, the mummers, and for a few brief hours, he had let go of the burden that always seemed to weigh him down.
"I'm fine," Jon muttered, though his slurred words betrayed him. "Just a bit of ale."
"A bit?" Rurik chuckled, shaking his head. "More like a barrel's worth. I've seen men twice your size laid out flat with less."
They passed a few small houses, their windows dark, the town settling down after the evening's festivities. Most of the townsfolk had long since returned to their homes, seeking warmth and comfort in their hearths. Jon could see his breath forming in the cold, each exhale a soft cloud of mist in the air. Winter was creeping in, and even in the lowlands of Winterfell, the bite of the season was undeniable.
They were nearing the house Rurik had been staying in—a modest building made of thick stones with a thatched roof that sagged in places. The door was old and weather-beaten, its hinges rusted from years of exposure to the harsh northern elements. Rurik had mentioned he was staying there temporarily, while he and his companions traded goods in the area. The small house was tucked away from the main square, almost hidden among the other structures, and as they approached, the faint smell of smoke from the hearth inside reached Jon's nose.
"Why don't you come in for a bit, my lord?" Rurik suggested as they reached the door. He placed a firm hand on Jon's shoulder, steadying him. "You're in no state to walk back to the castle yet. My mother used to make a tea when my grandfather drank too much—clears the head, sharpens the senses. I'll brew you some."
Jon hesitated, glancing back toward the towering silhouette of Winterfell in the distance, but his feet felt heavy, and his head was still spinning slightly from the ale. The thought of a warm hearth and something to settle his stomach was tempting. Besides, Rurik had been good company throughout the evening, and Jon wasn't ready to face the cold of his chambers just yet.
"All right," Jon agreed with a nod. "But just for a bit."
Rurik pushed open the door, and they stepped inside. The interior of the house was small, the ceiling low enough that even Jon, who was not overly tall, had to duck slightly as he entered. A hearth blazed at the far end of the room, casting a flickering orange glow over the space. Bedrolls were scattered about, along with various trade goods—barrels, sacks of grain, a few wooden crates filled with furs and pelts. The air was warm, though tinged with the earthy scent of damp wood and smoke. It felt cozy in a rough sort of way.
"Sit, sit," Rurik gestured to a spot near the hearth, where a bedroll lay half-unfurled. He moved over to a small table near the fire, gathering a few ingredients for the tea. Jon sank down onto the bedroll, stretching his legs out in front of him as the warmth from the fire began to seep into his bones.
As Rurik worked, Jon let his gaze wander around the room. It was sparsely furnished, little more than the bare necessities for travelers passing through. The walls were lined with wooden shelves, holding various trinkets and tools—fishing gear, old leather-bound books, and a few pieces of mismatched crockery. A large sack of grain lay slumped in the corner, next to a barrel of dried fish. It was clear that Rurik and his companions were traders, living simply and making do with what they had.
Rurik hummed a low tune as he crushed ginger and ginseng roots together, dropping them into a small iron pot of water hanging over the fire. The sound of the bubbling water filled the silence, and Jon leaned back, feeling the heat from the flames on his face.
"You said you're here for trade?" Jon asked, more out of politeness than curiosity.
"Aye," Rurik replied, stirring the pot. "We come from Hornwood for occasions like this. Mostly ale, pelts, and furs this time of year."
Jon nodded, though he wasn't entirely paying attention. His gaze had wandered to the far corner of the room, where something had caught his eye. Among the scattered trade goods and supplies, there was a small wooden tube, the kind used to hold scrolls or maps. It was plain and unadorned, lying slightly askew on top of a stack of furs. Something about it seemed out of place, though Jon couldn't quite say why.
Perhaps it was the ale still clouding his judgment, or perhaps it was simple curiosity, but without thinking, Jon found himself rising from the bedroll and moving toward the tube. His steps were slow, almost hesitant, as though he were drawn to it without fully understanding why.
"What's this?" Jon muttered to himself, picking up the wooden tube.
Rurik's back was turned as he tended to the tea, and Jon's fingers moved on their own, unscrewing the cap of the tube and sliding out the rolled parchment inside. The paper felt rough beneath his fingertips, old and worn from years of handling. As he unrolled it, he realized it was a map, though not like any map he had seen before.
The ink was faded, but the lines were clear enough to make out the shapes of mountains, rivers, and forests. At the top of the map, there was a rough outline of the Wall, and beyond it, the Frostfangs loomed in jagged strokes of black ink. There was something else too—a small cross marked on the map, near the Frostfangs, accompanied by a series of strange runic symbols that Jon couldn't read. He frowned, trying to make sense of it, but the markings were unfamiliar, and his head was still clouded from the drink.
"That was private," Rurik's voice cut through the quiet.
Jon's heart lurched in his chest, and he quickly rolled the map back up, sliding it into the tube as though he hadn't just been rifling through Rurik's belongings. He turned to see Rurik watching him, his eyes narrowed in a way that Jon had never seen before. The easy smile was gone, replaced by something rougher, more guarded.
"I—" Jon began, but the words died in his throat.
Rurik's gaze lingered on the map in Jon's hand, and for a moment, the tension in the room was palpable. Jon could feel the weight of Rurik's stare, the unspoken warning in his eyes. He had stumbled upon something he wasn't meant to see, and both of them knew it.
Rurik moved slowly, deliberately, crossing the room with a measured step. He reached out, taking the map from Jon's hand without a word. There was no anger in his expression, but there was a guarding expression, as though he were assessing Jon in a way he hadn't before.
"You shouldn't go poking around in other men's things," Rurik said, his voice low and steady.
Jon felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks, and he looked away, his hands clenching at his sides. "I didn't mean to… I was just…"
Rurik waved a hand, cutting him off. "Forget it. It's nothing much anyway." He placed the map back where it had been, carefully setting the wooden tube down on the stack of furs. The tension lingered for a moment longer, and then Rurik turned back to the fire, his shoulders relaxing as he stirred the tea again. "Drink this. It'll clear your head."
Jon sat back down, feeling the weight of the unspoken moment hanging between them. He took the cup Rurik offered, the heat of it warming his cold fingers. The tea smelled strong—ginger, ginseng, and something else he couldn't quite place. He sipped it cautiously, feeling the warmth spread through him as the sharp taste of the herbs filled his mouth.
The room was silent for a long time after that, the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft bubbling of the kettle. Jon stared into the flames, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The map was still fresh in his mind—the Wall, the Frostfangs, the strange did it mean? Why did Rurik have it? And why had he reacted so strangely when Jon had found it?
Jon finished his tea in silence, feeling the warmth settle in his chest and the fog in his head begin to lift. Rurik said nothing more about the map, and Jon knew better than to ask. Some things, he realized, were better left unsaid.
After a while, Rurik stood, his usual smile returning, though there was still a hint of secrecy in his eyes. "I'll see you back to the castle," he said. "It's late, and the roads are slick. Wouldn't want you falling on your face before you even make it to the gates."
Jon nodded, rising to his feet and pulling his cloak tighter around him. As they stepped outside into the cold night air, the wind bit at Jon's face, sharp and unforgiving. He felt more clear-headed now, the effects of the ale mostly worn off, but the weight of the evening still hung heavy on him.
Rurik walked beside him in silence as they made their way through Wintertown, the night growing darker with each passing minute. When they reached the gates of Winterfell, Rurik stopped, turning to face Jon with a small nod.
"Goodnight, my lord," he said, his voice calm, though there was something in his tone that Jon couldn't quite place.
"Goodnight," Jon replied, glancing back at the house they had left behind. The map still lingered in his thoughts, but he knew better than to pry further. Rurik had been kind to him, but there was more to the man than met the eye, and Jon wasn't sure he wanted to know what lay beneath the surface.
