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Jon Snow
Jon's arse hurt. There was no dignified way to phrase it, no lordly euphemism that made six days in the saddle sound like anything other than what it was—a special kind of torture that Maester Luwin's books had never adequately prepared him for. Every muscle from his lower back to his calves seemed to have developed its own personal grievance against him, and they were all lodging complaints simultaneously.
"You're sitting like you've got a spear up your backside, Snow," Harmond called from beside him, the master-at-arms' weathered face creasing with amusement. "Loosen up or you'll be walking bowlegged for the rest of your life."
"I'm fine," Jon lied, trying to adjust his position without making it obvious. His horse, a steady gray gelding Lord Karstark had assigned him, snorted as if in disagreement.
"Even your horse knows you're full of shit," Benfred added from Jon's other side. The older soldier, who had to be at least fifty with a beard more gray than black, grinned around the pipe clenched between his teeth. "Don't worry, lad. Another week and you'll either get used to it or your arse will go completely numb. Either way, problem solved."
"Encouraging," Jon muttered with a little smile. The Karstark men had been like this since they'd left Winterfell—ribbing him constantly. It was different from the careful distance most of Winterfell's guards maintained, that awkward space they kept between themselves and the Lord's bastard.
"Lake's just ahead," Rickard—a young knight maybe ten years Jon's senior—announced from the front of their column. "Another hour and we'll be making camp."
Another hour. Jon was not sure he could survive that. But then the forest opened up ahead, and suddenly the discomfort didn't matter quite so much.
Long Lake sprawled before them like a sheet of hammered silver, so vast Jon couldn't see the far shore. Pine forests crowded the shoreline, their scent mixing with the clean smell of fresh water. It was beautiful in a way that made Winterfell's godswood pond seem like a puddle by comparison.
"Seven hells," Jon breathed, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to worship the old gods, not the new. "It's enormous."
"That it is," Harmond agreed. "Covers more ground than some kingdoms in the south, or so I'm told. Never been south myself, so I'll take the maesters' word for it."
Jon had seen Long Lake on maps, of course. Maester Luwin had shown him countless times, pointing out how it served as a crucial landmark for travel in the North. But seeing it rendered in ink and parchment was nothing compared to this.
Arya would love this, he thought, and immediately wished he hadn't.
The memory came to him without permission: Arya's face six days ago, streaked with tears and fierce with determination, her small hands fisted in his tunic.
"You can't go," she'd said, and it hadn't been a plea. Arya didn't plead. She demanded, like the world had to bend to her will if she just insisted hard enough. "You just got interesting, Jon! You're good at swords now and you don't let Mother push you around anymore and you're fun. You can't leave now!"
Jon had knelt in the snow of Winterfell's courtyard, aware of everyone watching—his father, Robb, even Sansa. But Arya's face was the only one that mattered in that moment, streaked with tears she was trying desperately to pretend weren't there.
"I'll be back," he'd promised, and gods, he'd hoped it was true. "One year, little wolf. That's all."
"Then take me with you!" And there was the pleading, finally breaking through her fierce exterior. "I can learn whaling! I'm good with boats! Remember when we made that toy raft and placed it in the godswood pond? It didn't sink!"
"It did the second time," Jon had reminded her gently, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek. "And the godswood pond isn't the Shivering Sea."
"I'll get better! I'll practice! Jon, please—" '
"Jon Snow?" Torren's voice yanked Jon back to the present. The younger of two brothers who'd been assigned to Lord Karstark's escort, Torren was eyeing him with concern. "You alright there? Looked like you'd gone somewhere else for a moment."
Jon blinked, realizing they'd been moving while he'd been lost in memory. The lake was closer now, close enough that he could hear the gentle lap of water against the shore. "Fine. Just... thinking."
"About Winterfell?" Rickard asked, and something in his voice made it clear this wasn't mockery. "First time away from home?"
"Yes." Jon saw no point in lying.
Harmond grunted. "Well, you're seeing the North proper now. And if you're feeling maudlin about leaving, I can guarantee two things: one, it won't kill you. And two, Winterfell will still be there when you get back."
"Profound wisdom," Jory—Torren's older brother—said dryly. "Did you read that in a book, Harmond? Or did it come to you in a dream?"
"Came to me after my fourth cup of ale," Harmond shot back. "All my best wisdom does."
The soldiers laughed with him.
They reached the lakeshore as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Lord Karstark, who'd been riding at the head of the column with his personal guard, raised a hand to signal a halt.
"We camp here tonight," he announced, his voice carrying easily across the group. "Torren, Jory—see to the horses. Rickard, Benfred—get a fire going before it gets too dark to see what we're doing. Harmond—"
"I know, I know. Find something for dinner that isn't salt pork and stale bread." The master-at-arms swung down from his saddle quite easily for a man of his age. "Anyone wants to eat tonight, they can help."
Jon dismounted, his legs nearly buckling when his feet hit the ground. Merciful gods. Every muscle screamed protest as he steadied himself against his horse's flank.
="First real ride will do that to yoweru," Rickard said sympathetically, leading his own mount past. "Give it a few more days Snow#. Either you'll adjust or you'll die. Probably adjust though. You seem sturdy enough."
"Thanks for the confidence," Jon muttered, but he managed a smile. He'd die before admitting how much he appreciated the casual acceptance these men showed him. Not Lord Jon or the bastard or any of the careful titles people used at Winterfell. Just Snow or Jon.
By the time Jon had unsaddled his horse and helped Torren hobble the animals where they could graze, Benfred and Rickard had a respectable fire going. The lake stretched before them, catching the dying light in shades of gold and amber. Further down the shore, Jon could see the ladies' camp being established—Lady Jynessa Karstark overseeing the process while Alys and two other young women from Karhold's household helped arrange bedrolls and supplies.
Jon found his gaze drifting toward Alys, watching how the firelight caught in her dark hair. She'd changed over the past six days—or maybe he was just seeing her differently now, away from Winterfell's formality. There was something freer about how she moved here, less conscious of proper ladylike behavior when her father's attention was occupied elsewhere.
As if sensing his stare, she looked up. Their eyes met across the distance, and she offered a small smile that made something warm bloom in Jon's chest. Then her teacher said something sharp, and Alys's attention snapped back to her tasks, but not before Jon caught the slight roll of her eyes.
"Careful there, Snow," Harmond said quietly, appearing at Jon's elbow with an armful of driftwood. "Lord Karstark might be fostering you, but he's still got four sons and standards about how young ladies should be treated."
Jon felt heat creep up his neck. "I wasn't—"
"Course you weren't," Harmond agreed easily. "Just like I wasn't staring at my wife the same way before her father caught me. Got the bruises to prove how not staring I was." He dumped the wood near the fire. "Word of advice from someone who's survived this long: be respectful, be honest, and for the gods' sake, don't be obvious. Young love's about as subtle as a charging aurochs."
"We're not—" Jon started, then stopped. Were they? He wasn't sure what they were, exactly. Friends seemed insufficient. Courtship seemed presumptuous. Something in between that had no proper name?
"Right," Harmond said with a knowing grin. "Keep telling yourself that. Now come on, we're catching dinner."
Jon followed the master-at-arms toward the water's edge, where the lake lapped gently at smooth stones.
"Promise me," Arya had demanded, her fingers twisted so tightly in Jon's tunic he'd felt the seams strain. "Promise on the old gods, Jon. Swear it. Swear you'll come back."
Jon had looked past her for just a moment, finding his father watching from near the stables. Ned had given the smallest nod, permission and blessing and warning all in one gesture. Then Jon had pulled the small wooden wolf from his pocket—the one he'd been carving in secret for weeks, sanding it smooth until it fit perfectly in a small hand.
"Here," he'd said, pressing it into Arya's palm. "You hold onto this for me. And when I come back, you give it back. That's the promise, little wolf. I can't stay away if you've got something of mine."
Arya had stared at the carving, her tears falling faster now. Then she'd thrown herself at him, nearly knocking him backwards into the snow, and sobbed into his shoulder while he'd held her and tried not to cry himself.
"You look like you're at a funeral, not a fishing lesson," Harmond observed, pulling Jon back to the present once again. The master-at-arms held two long wooden spears, their tips sharpened to wicked points. "Everything alright, lad?"
"Just thinking about my sister," Jon admitted. "The youngest one. She... didn't want me to leave."
Harmond's expression softened. "Young ones never do. They don't understand about duty and opportunity and all the things that make adults do stupid things like ride their arses raw for weeks on end." He offered one of the spears to Jon. "Best cure for homesickness I know: learn something new. You ever catch a fish with a spear?"
Jon took the spear, testing its weight. Lighter than he'd expected, balanced for throwing or stabbing. "No. I have hunted with a bow, but never this."
"Good. Then I get to teach you something, which means I can mock you when you're terrible at it." Harmond waded into the shallows, the cold water apparently not bothering him despite the autumn chill. "Come on then. Water won't bite."
Jon followed, gasping when the icy water hit his feet even through his boots. "Are you sure about that?"
"Reasonably sure. Though there are pike in here big enough to take off a finger if you're unlucky." Harmond grinned at Jon's expression. "I'm joking. Mostly. Just don't stick your hand in any dark holes and you'll probably keep all your little fingers."
The lake bottom was smooth stone and sand, the water so clear Jon could see small fish darting between the rocks. They looked fast, almost impossibly so, little flashes of silver that disappeared before he could properly focus on them.
"Those the ones we're catching?" he asked doubtfully.
"Gods, no. Those are minnows. We're after the bigger ones, out where the water's deeper." Harmond pointed toward a section of the lake where the afternoon sun didn't penetrate as well, creating pockets of shadow. "Fish like the deep water this time of day. Cooler, safer. They come into the shallows at dawn and dusk to feed."
"So we should wait until dusk?"
"We could. Or we could go to them." Harmond waded deeper, the water reaching his knees, then his thighs. "Come on, southern boy. Let's see if castle living made you soft."
"I'm from the North," Jon protested, following anyway. The water was cold, leaching warmth from his legs even through thick wool. "Winterfell is northern as anywhere."
"Winterfell's got hot springs running under it," Benfred called from the shore, where he and the others had gathered to watch. "Makes you lot soft. Real northmen bathe in ice water and like it!"
"Real northmen also lose their cocks to frostbite and have to squat to piss," Rickard added helpfully. "Harmond's still got his, so clearly he's been doing something wrong all these years."
"I hate all of you," Harmond announced pleasantly. "Jon, when you catch your first fish, throw it at Rickard's head. Aim for his mouth. That's what I do."
Jon found himself grinning.
"Now then," Harmond said once they'd waded out far enough that the water reached Jon's waist. "First lesson: fish are stupid, but they're not blind. You see one, you've got maybe two seconds before it sees you back. So you need to be still. Patient. Like you're part of the water."
Jon tried to stand still, but the cold made him want to move, to warm his own body. His legs were already going numb.
"Stop fidgeting," Harmond ordered. "You're scaring them off. Look—there."
Jon followed where Harmond pointed and saw it: a larger fish, maybe the length of his forearm, gliding through the water with lazy confidence. Its scales caught the sunlight, flashing silver-green.
"That's a pike," Harmond whispered. "Good eating. When I give the word, you stab straight down. Don't throw—we're too close for that. Just thrust hard and fast. Ready?"
Jon gripped his spear tighter, heart suddenly hammering. The fish was moving toward them, still unaware of the danger.
"Now!"
Jon thrust downward with all his strength. The spear hit the water, creating a splash that seemed unnaturally loud. When the water settled, the fish was gone, and his spear had embedded itself harmlessly in the lake bottom.
From the shore came a chorus of laughter.
"Magnificent!" Jory called. "Really showed that water who's boss, Snow!"
"The fish are terrified now," Torren added. "They're probably already halfway to the other side of the lake!"
Jon pulled his spear free, water dripping from the tip in mocking witness to his failure. "I don't suppose there's a learning curve on this?"
"Oh, there is," Harmond assured him, though he was grinning. "It's just a very steep one, and you're at the bottom. Try again. This time, remember that water bends light. Where you see the fish isn't quite where it is. Aim a bit to the side, bit deeper than you think."
They tried again. And again. Jon missed six more times, each failure earning fresh commentary from the shore.
"My grandmother's faster than that, and she's been dead for ten years!"
"Are you trying to catch the fish or just give them a good story to tell their grandfish?"
"I think the fish are laughing. Do fish laugh? I swear I heard one laughing."
"You're all bastards," Jon called back, which only made them laugh harder.
Robb would love this, he thought suddenly. His brother had always been better at fitting in with soldiers and guards. Jon had always felt slightly apart, watching from the edges.
But here, waist-deep in freezing water and failing spectacularly at fishing, Jon felt... included. Like his failures were entertaining rather than shameful, his presence welcome rather than tolerated.
"You have to come back," Robb had said six days ago, his voice rough with emotion he was trying to hide. They'd been in the stables, away from the chaos of departure. "I know Father says this is good for you, and I know Karhold is... well, it's an opportunity. But damn it, Jon, you're my brother. Winterfell won't be the same without you."
Jon had wanted to say so many things. That Robb would be fine, would barely notice his absence in a few weeks. That Winterfell had never truly been Jon's anyway, not in the way it was Robb's. But looking at his brother's face he'd only managed: "I'll write. Every week if I can."
"You'd better. And if Lord Karstark gives you any trouble, any at all, you write to Father immediately. He might be fostering you, but you're still a Stark." Robb had pulled him into a fierce embrace. "Half our blood or all of it—you're still my brother. Don't forget that when you're off building trading empires or whatever mad scheme you've got planned."
"There!" Harmond's shout jerked Jon's attention back to the present. "Right there, see it?"
Jon saw it—another pike, this one even larger than the first, swimming lazily between two rocks. He adjusted his stance, remembering Harmond's advice about light and water. The fish moved closer. Jon held perfectly still, ignoring the cold, the ache in his arms, the distant laughter from shore.
The pike swam directly beneath him.
Jon struck.
This time the spear hit something solid. The fish thrashed, water churning white, and for a terrifying moment Jon thought he'd lose it. But then Harmond was beside him, his own spear driving down to pin the pike against the lake bottom.
"Now lift!" Harmond commanded. "Together—now!"
They raised their spears together, and there it was: a pike the size of Jon's forearm, impaled and still twitching, water streaming from its silver scales.
From the shore came a very different sound than before: genuine cheering.
"There's the castle boy!" Benfred shouted. "Knew you had it in you!"
Jon felt something warm bloom in his chest, ridiculous as he knew it was to be proud of catching one fish.
"Not bad, Snow," Harmond said as they waded back to shore, their prize held high. "Not bad at all for a first timer. Another week and you might actually be useful."
"Don't fill his head with praise," Rickard called. "He'll get cocky, and then we'll never hear the end of it."
"Oh, I don't know," Jory said thoughtfully. "I think we've got at least another hour of mocking stored up. Remember when he stabbed the lake bottom? That was beautiful."
"I was aiming for a fish," Jon protested, but he was grinning.
"Were you though?" Torren asked seriously. "Because from where I was standing, it really looked like you wanted to murder that particular patch of sand."
As they reached the shore, Benfred took the pike and began the practiced work of cleaning it. "This is decent eating," Jon observed. "Good fat. How'd you know where to find the big ones, Harmond?"
"Because I've been fishing this lake since before your father was born, you cheeky shit." Harmond accepted a waterskin from Rickard, drinking deep. "Also, I got lucky. But we'll let the boy think it was all skill."
"I appreciate that," Jon said dryly.
As the fire grew and the sun sank lower, turning the lake's surface to molten copper, the men gathered around to prepare their evening meal. Jon found himself seated between Harmond and Rickard, listening as they discussed the route ahead.
"Last Hearth by tomorrow evening if we make good time," Rickard was saying, using a stick to draw a rough map in the dirt. "Then a day or two with the Umbers—Lord Jon will want to show off his hospitality, and Lord Karstark won't refuse without insult. After that, nine days to Karhold if the weather holds."
"Why didn't we go through the Dreadfort?" Jon asked, thinking of the maps he'd studied. "It's shorter, isn't it?"
A brief silence fell. The men exchanged glances, and Jon realized he'd stumbled onto something.
"It is shorter," Harmond finally said. "By about a week."
"But Lord Karstark and Lord Bolton don't exactly see eye to eye," Benfred added with a serious voice. "Haven't for years. Goes back to some dispute about... what was it, Harmond?"
"Taxes, I think. Or maybe timber rights. Could've been a border disagreement." Harmond shrugged. "With Bolton, it hardly matters. The man would find a reason to take offense at a sunny day. Better to go the long way and keep the peace."
"The Dreadfort lives up to its name," Jory said quietly. "I've been there once, when I was younger. The place is like...full of ghosts, ghosts of the people who died while they were being skinned alive...people there say their voices can still be heard even after so many years."
"That's just superstition," Rickard protested.
"Maybe. But I'll take the long road around superstition any day." Jory spat into the fire. "Last Hearth might be smaller, but at least Lord Umber knows how to laugh. Can't imagine Bolton laughing at anything except maybe someone else's misery."
Jon made sure to remember that, adding it to his growing knowledge of the North's political landscape. Lord Bolton—one of his father's bannermen, but clearly not a friend. House Karstark avoiding Dreadfort routes.
Father never spoke about Bolton much, Jon realized.
"Here," Benfred said, interrupting his thoughts by offering a chunk of the pike they'd caught, now roasted over the fire. "First catch means first taste. Don't say we never gave you anything."
Jon took the fish, blowing on it to cool it. The meat was white and flaky, tasting of the lake and woodsmoke. Simple, but after six days of salt pork and hard cheese, it might as well have been a feast.
"Good?" Harmond asked.
"Very good," Jon confirmed.
"Should be. You murdered the water for it, after all."
The men laughed, and Jon found himself laughing too. Around them, the evening settled in with the comfortable sounds of a traveling camp—horses nickering softly, the crackle of the fire, distant murmurs from the ladies' camp further down the shore.
"Tell us about Winterfell," Torren said suddenly. "We were there only for a week, but I'm sure we didn't see all of it. What's it like having seven towers and hot springs and all that?"
"Big," he said simply. "Sometimes it feels like you could get lost in your own castle. There are whole sections I've never explored properly—old storage rooms, forgotten passages. When I was younger, I used to imagine I'd discover some great secret hidden in the walls."
"Did you?" Jory asked, leaning forward with interest.
"No. Mostly just found dust and old furniture and one very angry cat who'd apparently been living in an abandoned tower for years." Jon smiled at the memory. "Robb and I named her Lady Claws. She bit me twice before we gave up trying to befriend her."
"Wise cat," Rickard observed. "Probably figured out early that Stark boys meant trouble."
"My sister Arya caught a bat once," Jon continued, the memory surfacing unbidden. "Brought it to dinner in her pocket. Lady Catelyn nearly fainted when it flew out over the soup."
The men roared with laughter at this, and Jon felt his eyes burn at the thought of home. Arya with her wild ways and fierce heart. Robb with his easy nobility. Even Sansa, who'd surprised him at the last moment.
"Safe travels, half-brother," she'd said formally, offering a proper curtsey in the courtyard. But then she'd stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear: "I will miss you, Jon."
It wasn't much. It wasn't "brother" without the "half." But from Sansa, who'd spent the past year carefully maintaining the proper distance between trueborn daughter and bastard sibling, it had meant something.
"Your sister sounds like a terror," Benfred said with approval. "The sort who'd fit right in at Karhold. Lord Rickard's daughter used to put fish in her brothers' beds when they annoyed her."
"Lady Alys?" Jon asked, then wished he hadn't when several of the men exchanged knowing looks.
"The very same," Harmond confirmed. "Sweet as honey now, but she gave her brothers seven kinds of hell growing up. Still does, when she thinks she can get away with it." He gave Jon a pointed look. "Fair warning—she's clever, that one. And stubborn as stone when she sets her mind to something."
"I've noticed," Jon admitted.
"I bet you have," Rickard said with a grin. "Funny how you kept noticing her every time we stopped to water the horses, or make camp, or basically any time there was an excuse to look her direction."
Jon felt his face heat. "Can we talk about something else?"
"We could," Torren said thoughtfully. "But why would we, when watching you turn red is so entertaining?"
"Because I know exactly seven ways to poison someone without leaving a trace?" Jon suggested. "Maester Luwin was very thorough."
"He's bluffing," Harmond decided. "Castle boys don't know about poison."
"Want to test that theory?"
More laughter was heard around the camp.
As darkness fell properly and the stars emerged overhead—so many more than he ever saw from Winterfell's walls—Jon found his thoughts drifting back to the godswood one last time.
His father had met him there the morning of his departure, away from the chaos of the courtyard. Just the two of them beneath the heart tree, steam rising from Ned's breath in the cold air.
"Your mother wanted you to reach high," Ned had said without preamble. "She believed you were capable of great things, Jon. I want you to remember that at Karhold. You're not there to serve—you're there to learn, to build something. To prove that a man's worth isn't determined by his last name."
"Did she really believe that?" Jon had asked. "Or is that what you want me to believe?"
"Both, perhaps." Ned had reached into his cloak and pulled out something small, wrapped in cloth. "She left this for you. Told me to give it to you when you were old enough to understand its meaning."
Jon had unwrapped it to find a ring—simple silver, no stones, just an elegantly worked pattern that might have been waves or wind. It had fit perfectly on his smallest finger.
"It's beautiful," Jon had breathed.
"It was hers. One of the few things she kept from home." Ned's voice had gone rough. "Wear it and remember—you carry her blood, her legacy. Never let anyone, not even yourself, diminish that."
Jon had stared at the ring, his throat tight. She threw herself from a tower, he'd wanted to say. Weeks after I was born.
Why did she leave me? Why did she do it? Did I do something? Jon had wanted to ask.
Instead he'd whispered: "Did she... did she hold me? Even once?"
"Yes." Ned's hand had gripped his shoulder hard enough to hurt. "She held you. She loved you. What happened after—that wasn't because of you, Jon. That was grief and loss and things beyond a babe's control. Never think otherwise."
Now, sitting beside a northern lake with the ring cool against his finger, Jon turned it slowly. In the firelight, the silver seemed to glow.
"That's fine work," Harmond observed, noticing. "Family piece?"
"My mother's," Jon said simply.
The master-at-arms nodded, asking nothing more. Around them, the other men had begun settling in for the night, rolling out bedrolls and banking the fire. Across the camp, Jon could see the ladies' fire burning lower, shapes moving in the darkness as they too prepared for sleep.
One shape detached from the others, moving toward the water's edge. Even in silhouette, Jon knew it was Alys. She stood at the lake's edge for a long moment, looking out over the dark water. Then she turned, and though Jon couldn't see her face at this distance, he knew she was looking toward their camp.
Toward him.
"Go on then," Harmond said quietly, surprising Jon. "Just a walk by the water. Proper distance, where we can see you. And for the love of the old gods, remember her father's forty feet away and has three more spears."
Jon stood, his heart suddenly hammering in a way that had nothing to do with fear. "I—"
"Go," Harmond repeated. "Youth's wasted on the young if you don't do something stupid with it now and then. Just not too stupid. There's a line."
Jon walked toward the water's edge, aware of eyes on his back but trying not to let it affect his stride. Alys watched him approach, her expression unreadable in the darkness.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked when he reached her, maintaining a respectful distance that still felt too far.
"Couldn't stop thinking," she corrected. "About Winterfell. About what comes next. About how strange it is that a month ago I'd never properly talked to you, and now..." She trailed off, gesturing vaguely between them.
"Now we're both riding to Karhold with your father's men making comments about everything we do?"
"Exactly that." She smiled, and even in the dim light Jon could see how it transformed her face. "They're terrible, aren't they? But in a good way."
"The best way," Jon agreed. He paused, then: "Your brothers. What are they like?"
"Oh, you'll love them. Harrion is terribly serious about everything—he's Father's heir, so he has to be. Eddard is friendlier. Eric has his nose in books constantly. And Jasyn.." She laughed. "Jasyn once put three fish in my bed because I beat him at cyvasse. So I put six in his bed and a frog in each of his boots."
"Remind me never to play cyvasse with you," Jon said, delighted.
"Oh, I'd destroy you." She said it matter-of-factly.
They stood in comfortable silence, watching the dark water. Far out on the lake, something splashed—a fish jumping, perhaps, or some creature Jon didn't know the name for.
"Your sister," Alys said suddenly. "The young one. She didn't want you to leave?"
"No." Jon's throat felt tight. "She... she tried everything. Arguing, bargaining, finally just begging. I've never seen Arya beg for anything before."
"That must have been hard."
"It was." Jon turned the ring on his finger. "She made me promise to come back. Made me swear it on the old gods. As if I'd—" His voice cracked slightly. "As if I'd just leave forever."
Alys's hand found his, just for a moment, then released before anyone watching could object. "You will come back. And you'll have stories to tell her. Adventures. Maybe even a few fish to your name."
"One fish," Jon corrected. "And I almost stabbed Harmond trying to catch it."
"It's a start." She turned to head back to her camp, then paused. "Jon? I'm glad you're coming to Karhold. I know it's for the fostering and the whaling and all of Father's plans. But I'm still glad it's you."
She was gone before Jon could respond, melting back into the shadows toward the ladies' camp. Jon stood at the water's edge a moment longer, his hand still warm where hers had touched it.
When he returned to the fire, the men were all conspicuously not looking at him, which meant they'd watched every moment of his brief conversation with Alys.
"Nice night for a walk," Benfred observed to no one in particular.
"Very nice," Jory agreed. "Good visibility. Could see all the way across the camp, in fact."
"Shut up," Jon muttered, but he was smiling as he settled into his bedroll.
"Did she threaten you with fish?" Torren asked with mock seriousness. "Because that's important information. We need to know if we should check your bedding."
"No fish were mentioned."
"Yet," Harmond added ominously. "It's always the yet that gets you."
Jon pulled his blanket up, staring at the stars overhead. They seemed closer here than at Winterfell, like he could reach up and touch them if he just stretched far enough. The conversation around the fire faded to murmurs, then to the gentle sounds of men settling into sleep—soft snores, the shift of bodies finding comfortable positions, the pop and crackle of the dying fire.
Bran hadn't understood at all.
The memory surfaced gently this time, not sharp like the others. His youngest brother, just past his fifth nameday, standing in the courtyard with tears streaming down his chubby face.
"Jon go?" he'd asked, his little voice wobbling. "Jon come back?"
"I'll come back," Jon had promised, kneeling in the snow again. Gods, he'd spent half that morning on his knees making promises. "I'll come back and teach you to climb, just like I promised. Remember? The broken tower?"
But Bran had only cried harder, not understanding time or distance or any of the reasons Jon had to leave. He'd just known his brother was going away, and in his small world, that was enough for grief.
Lady Catelyn hadn't come to see him off. Jon had looked for her—he couldn't help it, some part of him hoping for... what? A kind word? A softening of that cold distance? Even just acknowledgment that he existed?
But the window where she sometimes stood had been empty. The courtyard had been full of people—servants and guards, his siblings, his father, even Septa Mordane offering a stiff blessing—but the Lady of Winterfell had been conspicuously absent.
She probably celebrated after we left, Jon thought, then immediately felt guilty for the bitterness. But it was hard not to feel it when even the servants had noticed her absence.
"Can't sleep?" Rickard's voice was quiet, meant not to wake the others.
Jon turned his head slightly. The young knight was on watch, sitting with his back against a log, sword across his knees. "Just thinking."
"About home?"
"About a lot of things." Jon paused, then: "Do you have siblings?"
"Three sisters, all younger. Drive me mad when I'm home, but I miss them when I'm not." Rickard smiled. "The youngest is about your sister Arya's age. Wild as a winter storm and twice as stubborn."
"That sounds like Arya."
"Lord Karstark says you'll be teaching his men about whaling," Rickard said. "That true?"
"If I can figure it out myself first," Jon admitted. "I've read about it, studied the maps and trade routes. But reading about hunting white whales and actually doing it are probably very different things."
"Probably terrifying things," Rickard agreed cheerfully. "Those beasts are supposed to be enormous. Bigger than houses, some say."
"Some say a lot of things that aren't true."
"Fair enough. But even if they're only half as big as the stories, that's still big enough to kill you." Rickard adjusted his sword. "You worried?"
"About the whales? A little." Jon turned the ring on his finger again. "More worried about failing. Lord Karstark is taking a risk fostering me. If my ideas about the port and the trade routes don't work..."
"Then you'll try something else," Rickard said simply. "That's what men do—they try, they fail, they try again. Only cowards give up after one failure." He paused. "Though between you and me, I think Lord Karstark sees something in you. He doesn't foster just anyone. Last boy he fostered was his nephew, and that was ten years back."
"Why me then?"
"Because you talked about white whales like they were already caught and sold. Because you looked at a bare stretch of shore and saw a port. Because when Lady Stark tried to put you in your place, you didn't stay there." Rickard's grin was visible even in the darkness. "Also because Lady Alys asked him to, though I'm not supposed to mention that part."
Jon's eyes widened like dinner plates. "She what?"
"Asked him to foster you. Said you had ideas worth hearing and shouldn't be wasted sitting in Winterfell being reminded you're a bastard." Rickard shrugged. "Course, Lord Karstark was already considering it after that feast. But Lady Alys can be very persuasive when she wants to be. Gets that from her mother."
"I didn't know that."
"She probably didn't want you to know. Makes it seem less like your own achievement if someone helped arrange it." Rickard stood, stretching. "Get some sleep, Snow. Tomorrow we reach Last Hearth, and Lord Umber will want to test your mettle. He tests everyone's mettle. It's basically his favorite hobby after drinking and fighting, and sometimes he combines all three."
Jon closed his eyes, but sleep felt distant. His mind was too full—of memories and possibilities, of goodbyes and new beginnings, of a girl's hand briefly touching his and the casual acceptance of men who saw him as Jon rather than bastard.
She asked her father to foster me.
The thought warmed him more than his blankets. Alys, who could have had her pick of fostering prospects for purely political reasons, had specifically asked for him. Had seen something in a bastard boy with purple eyes and too many ideas about whaling economics.
Above him, the stars wheeled slowly across the sky, the same stars that shone over Winterfell. Were his siblings looking up at them too? Was Arya clutching the wooden wolf he'd given her, counting the days until his return? Was Robb sitting in his window, wondering if Jon was safe?
Was his father standing in the godswood, praying to the old gods for the son he'd sent away?
I'll make you proud, Jon thought, directing the prayer to both his father and the mother he'd never known—the beautiful woman with violet eyes who had loved him for a handful of weeks before grief swallowed her whole. I'll prove that I was worth it.
The thought caught in his throat.
I'll prove that I am worth it.
Because that was the question that haunted him in the dark hours. The one he never spoke aloud but that echoed in every cold look from Lady Catelyn, every whispered "bastard" from visiting lords, every reminder that his very existence was a stain on his father's honor.
His mother had held him, his father said. Had loved him. But she'd also climbed those tower stairs at Starfall and stepped off into nothing, and Jon was left to wonder if she'd thought of him in that final moment. If she'd weighed his small life against her great sorrow and found him wanting.
I was worth staying alive for, he told himself fiercely, the words a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once. I am worth something beyond the circumstances of my birth. I will be.
The ring pressed against his finger, solid and real. She'd worn this once. Had looked at it the way Jon looked at it now, maybe, turning it in the light and thinking about... what? Home? Family? The future she'd hoped for before war stole it away?
I carry your blood, Jon thought toward the mother who'd never know him, who'd chosen the stones over watching him grow. Your eyes. Maybe your mind, if Father's right. I'll make something of them. I'll reach as high as you wanted me to—higher, maybe. I'll prove that the world was wrong to think a bastard couldn't matter.
I'll prove you should have stayed.
The last thought made his eyes burn like fire. Because that wasn't fair, was it? Whatever demons his mother had faced, whatever grief had driven her to that tower—Jon couldn't know them, couldn't judge them. He could only live with the aftermath, with the questions that had no answers and the love that had existed too briefly to leave more than a ghost's impression.
But gods, sometimes he was so angry at her. Angry that she'd left him to navigate the world alone, to face Lady Catelyn's cold rejection and the whispers about his birth without the armor of a mother's love. Angry that all he had were scraps—purple eyes, a silver ring, his father's words about beauty and cleverness and reaching high.
It should have been enough. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
But I'll make it enough, he decided, exhaustion finally pulling him toward sleep. I'll take these scraps and build something. I'll be the son you didn't stay to see. I'll be worth the pain of your absence.
The fire burned low, casting dancing shadows across sleeping forms. And Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell and foster son of Karhold, slept beneath unfamiliar stars and dreamed not of whales but of a beautiful woman with his eyes, standing at the top of a tower, turning a silver ring on her finger as she looked down at stones that promised an end to sorrow.
In the dream, he called out to her. In the dream, she turned.
In the dream, for just a moment before he woke, she smiled and called him her son.
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