The Damned Bastard

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/22725598.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-
Con, Underage
Category: F/F, F/M, M/M
Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire &
Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Relationship: Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s), Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark,
Wylla Manderly/Robb Stark
Character: Jon Snow, Robb Stark, Original Male Character(s), Original Female
Character(s), House Stark - Character, Northerner(s) (ASoIaF), Catelyn
Tully Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, Ned Stark, a lot of characters -
Character, Braavosi Characters, Benjen Stark
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, Action/Adventure,
Essos, Canon-Typical Violence, Bigotry & Prejudice, R Plus L Equals J,
Dark, Blood and Gore, Slavery, Angst and Tragedy, Kingdom of the
Ifequevron, Stepstones, Long
Stats: Published: 2020-02-14 Updated: 2020-08-02 Chapters: 27/? Words:
145293

The Damned Bastard

by Clearanceclarence

Summary

The Starks attend the wedding of a Manderly, and the tourney gives Jon Snow the chance to
prove himself to both his family and the world.
But what happens when things don't go as any of the Starks planned?

This is a planned long-fic, and will most likely be broken up into different arcs.

Notes

This story idea has been floating around in my head for a little while. It will most likely be a
long story, and I have built a cushion of chapters. Honestly, this is way more for me than
anything else, just a creative outlet.
This is George's world, and I am just playing around in it.
 Chapter 1

Eddard

The horses plodded forward, they were more tired than he was and the slow monotony of travel
was starting to wear down his mind. Getting to Bear Island gave him a purpose and kept his mind
sharp on the journey there. He had pushed those that accompanied him far too hard to get to Bear
Island in time and The Wolf’s Road was a difficult journey even when traveling slow, but moving
quickly through the tenous paths, forced you to focus. That had engaged his mind, allowed him to
stop thinking of other things and allowed a sense of calm to come. That is what he needed, what he
always needed, to focus on a task and to not dwell. Ned shook his head as he didn’t want to think
further as to why. The Wolfswood was starting to clear some and Ned recognized the weirwood
post with the iron wolf’s head. Ten more miles til the hunter’s gate. He was almost home.

Ned went over their journey over in his mind. The rush to Deepwood was hectic and the saddle
sores were only now starting to heal. As he thought of them, Ned fought the urge to itch where it
was still tender. Ned remembered the small harbor five leagues from the Motte, the poor condition
and a small merchant cog, and the two-day journey that ended up taking four days due to poor
weather and rough seas. Their week-long stay with new Lady of Bear Island which was not enough
for Ned to feel steady on his legs. How it only worsened on the return journey.

His head started to ache as he thought about the business on Bear Island, and how much more was
left to do.

Ned distracted himself as he looked around the group he brought and his face softened when he
found a mop of auburn hair. At least the trip wasn’t a complete failure. His son Robb wore a face
that held deeper exhaustion. Traveling to Deepwood Mott in eight days would be difficult for
anyone and at fourteen years old Ned was proud of how Robb carried himself throughout their
journey. The roads, if they could be called that, through Wolf’s wood punished those who went too
fast, but Robb held up reasonably well. As Ned was studying him, his son’s face broke into a
joyous grin, whose energy seemed radiate to the rest of his body. Ned looked forward as well and
he saw in the distance the grey curtain walls that protected the ancient seat of House Stark.
Home.

Ned turned back to his son and said, “We are almost there, Robb.” Robb nodded his head, but Ned
could feel the excitement infect those around him “You did well, very well.” It wasn’t empty
praise as Robb was attentive in all meetings, asked good questions when they were over, and was
courteous to every bannerman they came across. He’ll be fine lord when I am gone . Although
some of Robb’s ideas were far too radical for the North, there was still time to guide him back to
values and standards that allowed Stark’s to rule for millennia. However, Robb had traits that even
Ned envied. Effortlessly courteous and charming in the way Brandon was. In a way, he could
never be.
“Thank you, Father,” Rob said. Ned reached over and patted his firstborn son’s shoulder. Robb
was a dutiful northern heir, however, his mother’s southern influence definitely shone through, not
only in ideas but in looks as well. His son’s deep auburn hair and piercing blue eyes marked him
more Tully than a Stark. Although his face was a little longer than his mother’s, and his stocky
build mirrored Ned’s.

“How are your legs? Do they still hurt?” Ned asked.

Robb tried to hide the grimace, “No, all healed up. I may even race Jon tomorrow, and I may even
win with all the practice I’ve had.”

Ned chuckled at that. “Aye, maybe you will.” He remembered being that young and full of boyish
pride. Ned hoped Robb could hold onto that a little longer.

“Although I may need another horse, Snowshoe here needs a few days off,” Robb said as he patted
the side of his dappled courser where a few grey spots formed what looked like a horseshoe. It was
a gift from the Ryswells for his twelfth name day, and it had served him well.

“Aye, that may be a good idea,” Ned said.

Theon spurred forward then, the boy was proud and loud, but Ned always thought he was a good
lad, but this journey may have changed his mind. “You won’t see me on a horse for at least a
year!” he then groaned loudly as he shuffled in his seat. “My bloody thighs will never heal,” theon
ended with a wince.

Robb gave a chuckle, “Aye you ironborn are quite useless on horses.”

Ned heard the leather gloves clench. “Yea? Not as useless as a wolf on water. I saw you on that
cog, retching all over your own boots, moaning for three straight days. It’s why ironborn can never
be truly defeated at sea.” Theon spat back. The good humor was gone and Ned looked back to see
Robb’s face go red as he hung his head in shame. Ned fought the urge to step in, Robb needed to
learn to hold his own.

“Except they are defeated all the time! Why else would you be here?” Robb said. Damn it .
Ned turned around to see Theon’s face flushed and his nostrils flared. As he opened his mouth Ned
called out, “Theon, go with Alyn and Tom and ride ahead to let Winterfell know of our arrival.

Theon was still angry but mumbled a ‘my lord’ as he pushed his horse forward, Alyn and Tom
right behind him.

“Robb.” Ned said calmly “Come here for a moment.” A few seconds later Robb was at his side,
his head starting to hang low. “Robb...

“I know I shouldn’t have said that,” Rob said staring at hands that were resting on the pommel of
his saddle.

“Robb, always look at a man when you are speaking to him,” Ned said, his tone firm.

Robb’s eyes lifted to meet his. “I know I shouldn’t have done that, Father.”

“Why did you?”

“I was angry.”

“You were,” Ned confirmed.

“But he was being a…”

“It doesn’t matter Robb, you are the Heir to the North, petty insults cannot provoke you,” Ned
said. Robb hunched his shoulders a bit. “Make sure to apologize, he may be my ward but one day
he will rule the Iron Islands. I’d rather you would be friends than enemies.”

“Of course Father,” Robb said.

“You're young Robb and I don’t expect you to be perfect. You still have time, but you do need to
learn.”
“I will,” Robb said.

Ned clapped his shoulder again and smiled, “I know. Come one, we are almost home, let’s go see
everyone.

Robb’s face split into a grin and he pushed his horse into a trot and Ned matched it. They heard the
horns heralding their arrival and soon passed the hunter’s homes on the outside of the gate. Game
was being skinned and butchered and fletchers making arrows. Most stopped what they were doing
and greeted him as he passed by and he politely nodded in return.

As they approached the outer gate, Ned once again marveled at the size of the curtain walls, and
the massive gate with large snarling direwolves facing one another. Ned would never grow used to
the fortress Winterfell was. He had once heard his father say that a hundred men could defend
Winterfell from ten thousand. Winterfell hadn’t been sieged in more than a millennia, but as Ned
passed through the outer gate, over the moat, and through the inner gate, Ned did not doubt it
would hold no matter the force trying to take it.

Ned’s party passed the stables and the kennels and made their way into the inner courtyard and
were soon surrounded by the tall, imposing stone structures that were so familiar to him. When
Ned finally saw his wife and children waiting for them with most of Winterfell’s household, and
Ned felt the last bit of his tension ease out of him.

Cat looked beautiful and elegant standing there holding his youngest son by her side whose auburn
hair was moving as he tried to free himself from his mother’s clutches. To her right was Sansa,
who, at almost ten years old, was starting to look more and more like her mother. Tall for her age,
she would be a true beauty with a shade of red hair that only her mother seemed to have. Ned
wasn’t looking forward to fighting off betrothal offers for her over the next few years, knowing
many lords would give up much for his daughter’s hand.

On Cat’s left was Arya who, despite being in a new dress, had some dirt on her face and was
arguing with Bran waving her hands around while the septa looked on with disapproval. Arya, who
didn’t seem to notice and at eight years old was the spitting image of Ned’s sister. Wild, carefree
and looked more like a boy than the beautiful woman she will grow to be.

Next to her was Bran, a gentle soul, but whose wolf’s blood flared when bested at anything martial,
was doing his best to argue back but after a second, threw his hands down at his side, signaling his
defeat. For now at least.
Ned dismounted and walked towards the gathered group as he searched the courtyard for his last
remaining son. Ned was still looking when he arrived at his lady. Standing in front of her, he
looked deep into Cat’s blue eyes and grabbed her hands, pressing a kiss into them.

“My Lady.”

His Cat stared back, “My Lord,” she said with a smile that stirred him. Ned yearned to take his
wife in his arms but willed himself to greet his children first while Robb embraced his mother.
Sansa bowed and welcomed him, a proper lady , Ned embraced her in a tight hug as little Rickon
hugged his leg and soon Bran and Arya joined as well. They were soon speaking over each other
talking about their adventures and asking about his. Ned felt his exhaustion abate as he smiled
trying to follow the four different conversations. After disentangling himself from his children with
promises of gifts, stories and to see what they learned he looked for Jon. He noticed him standing
next to Ser Rodrik behind his wife and children. Jon had a look of longing that was quickly
replaced by his usually stoic features. Ned approached and placed a hand on his shoulder, gods , he
was getting taller. “Jon,” Ned said, trying to put the same warmth in his tone as he did for the rest
of his children

Jon raised his head and some of the coldness in his grey eyes thawed. “Lord Stark. It’s good to see
you home and safe.” Then Jon moved forward as to hug him but hesitated and stepped back next to
the aged knight. The ice returned and he looked back at Ned then bowed his head. Ned went to
turn to see what he was looking at when he heard his name called.

“Lord Stark.” Ned moved around to see the Luwin walking towards him.

“Maester Luwin, good to see you.” Ned greeted the man when he noticed the nervous smile.
“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing pressing my lord, but there are quite a few matters that need your immediate attention
and too many letters that need a response.” Ned’s felt the ache in his head return and deepen
further.

“Poole, get the men settled and fed, they rode well through less than ideal conditions. Jory, that
includes you, take the evening to rest, I do not want to see you until the morning.” Jory and Poole
nodded their heads and left. “Maester, after I have washed and dined with my family we will go
over the most important matters, the rest can wait until tomorrow.” Luwin nodded and Ned started
to walk towards his home and bedchamber when he felt something brush his arm.

Catelyn took his arm and interlaced her hand in his as they walked towards the keep. “Ned, you
have just returned, surely all of it can wait until at least the morning.” He could see a little
exasperation etched on her features.

“I wish I could my lady but I promise I won’t do too much this evening.” He tried to sound
convincing but Cat saw right through him.

“I understand.” Then Catelyn whispered. “Don’t tire yourself too much, I need to give you a proper
greeting.” Ned tried to remain stoic but some heat went to the back of his neck.

After bathing and eating Ned found himself shut up in his solar with both Luwin and Poole sifting
through the most pressing issues that couldn’t be completed while he had gone to Bear Island.
“Maester has there been any word from the other families about the change of leadership in House
Mormont.” Ned still had a well of anger reserved for Jorah Mormont’s idiocy. Ned liked the man
well enough, counted on him during the past two wars and even had him lead some of Ned’s own
men during the Greyjoy rebellion. Then he married a daughter of a wealthy southron Lord and over
the course of their marriage destroyed his home trying to please the young girl. Ned knew Bear
Island was struggling but to resort to slavery to pay off loans from around the Braavos? Foolish.
Ned initially didn’t have a desire to behead Jorah, but the craven escaped before he could even get
to the Motte. The trip through the wolfswood to Deepwoode Motte had taken longer than
anticipated due to the spring rain and by the time they got to the island, the former Lord Mormont
and his southern Hightower wife were gone.

The journey wasn’t a complete waste as it allowed Maege, the new Lady of Bear Island, to swear
fealty to him directly and allowed him to get a better handle on the financial disaster House
Mormont was in. Ned couldn’t believe the amount of debt they had. Through a few days of
negotiating with the She-Bear herself, Winterfell agreed to shoulder most of the debt for an
increase of taxes throughout this summer and the following summer, as well as shared profits on
their timber trade, meager as it was.

The negotiation had been a bizarre one as Maege wanted to impose taxes that were far too harsh on
herself for her nephew’s recklessness. Ned had to argue so long to lower them just to ensure House
Mormont could one day stand on its own two feet again. It was an unpleasant business, but it
needed to be done.

“Every house has publicly supported the decision but that was expected. Even Lord Karstark and
Lady Dustin can’t find fault in punishing slavery.” Ned felt little relief as he knew some of the
major houses of the North would find him weak for allowing a major house to bankrupt itself under
his watch. He also knew that some of the houses would think him too merciful for his relatively
minor punishment, but he had to focus on the rest of the matters at hand.

So it went on; the tension between the Forresters and the Whitehills was starting to boil over again.
The Glover’s needed some help handling their minor Lords of the Wolfswood. Karstarks were
complaining about taxes, believing that distant relations allow for special considerations. Umbers
and the Night’s Watch were having trouble with wildling raids, the Umbers were especially angry
because they feel as though they are doing the Night’s Watch duty. Ned made a note to write to the
Lord Commander about what they would need now that spring had ended and summer was here.
Hornwood's were wary of Boltons, and the Boltons were wary of everyone else. Both Flint houses
were complaining about various rights at sea and the inability to enforce them. When they finally
reached the last matter that acquired his attention Ned’s patience was thin. Maester Luwin started,
“As you know the wedding of Wendel Manderly to-”

“What of it?” Ned cut across him. The last thing he wanted to think about was a damn wedding,
not when he was this tired. “It can wait until I get some sleep.”

“I understand your grace but a few things about it have changed since you’ve been away.”

Ned was barely paying attention, “What do you mean?” Luwin handed him the letters from
Wyman Manderly. As Ned read through the letter, the dull ache turned to a steady throbbing.
Wendel Manderly was marrying the fourth daughter of House Grafton of Gulltown. Being one of
the few lords of the Vale that sided with the Targaryeans they had lost a lot of favor with the Lords
of the Vale and it was known that the Grafton heir was betrothed a daughter of House Arryn of
Gulltown, who were more merchants than lords. That being said, what House Grafton and the
Arryn’s of Gulltown lacked in standing, they made up for with wealth.

When comparing wealth in Westeros many people looked to Lannisters, Redwynes, and
Hightowers, and while not that wealthy, House Grafton was closer in wealth than most men
realized, with Wyman Manderly being one of those men. As lords of two major ports it is
important to foster good relationships and Ned was glad to help broker the marriage, however,
Wyman was much happier to receive a dowry large enough to renovate Wolf’s Den, make Seal’s
Rock into a real fortress, or even build a new fleet of ships. Joining families without committing
too much of the future of your house was an important part of this alliance. That being said it
wasn’t going to be a major event outside their respective regions.

Or so he thought until he read the letter. It stated that a tournament was going to be held in honor of
the wedding. Again no surprise. Manderly’s followed the seven and is considered the most
southron of the northern houses and as such were prone to frivolous activities. However, since the
tournament had the backing of two wealthier houses the prize for the event winners was a small
fortune. 8,000 gold dragons to the winner of the joust, 4,000 for second and 100 for third. 6,000 for
the winner of the melee, 2,000 for second and 500 for third and the sums were the same for the
archery competition. There were even events for the squires as well that paid some gold to them as
well, both a melee and joust. Shit . Ned knew his sons would want to participate, to test their mettle
and win some coin. All this meant that it would be a crowded affair.
The letter from Wyman stated that he received notice that every major house in the Vale would be
represented, along with a few Riverland houses, House Tully included, and even merchants and
magisters from across the narrow sea. This brought the attention of the crownland houses
especially those with ports and trade interests in both Essos and the Vale.

Unfortunately, it seems this once innocuous wedding between a second son and a fourth daughter
was swelling and would now be one of the most important gatherings for trade talks since the end
of the Greyjoy Rebellion. Which meant the King’s Master of Ships was attending as well.

“Others take me.” Ned cursed as he reached for the other letter.

Luwin spoke, “This one arrived last night my Lord.” The seal had the moon and falcon of House
Arryn. Ned broke the seal and started to read.

Lord Stark,

With the number of influential houses descending upon White Harbor the crown needs to be
represented as well. Lord Stannis would be there but as you know, Robert would prefer someone
else to represent the crown and he wanted to go himself to do so. But I am old Ned, I don’t know
how many years I have left and he needs to be King without me for a while.

There is another reason I need to come north, Ned. There is much we need to discuss and much of
it can only be done in person.

It will be good to see you again.

-Lord Jon Arryn,

Hand of the King

Ned re-read the message a few times. Trying to parse the cryptic message. King for a while? What
did that mean? Is Jon sick? Gods. Who would be hand? His thoughts were moving too quickly so
Ned stopped.

He breathed in.
Then out.

Ned tried to corner his thoughts, an old memory he had replayed too many times to count came to
the fore.

“Break the problem down to one action.” Jon Arryn stood in front of him looking at him in the
eyes. “Problems can be overwhelming, break them down until you have one decision or another,
then build them up until you have a solution.”

It took him a couple of minutes before he was ready to speak.

“Maester Luwin, prepare to send missives inviting every Northern House to join us on the journey
to or to meet us at the Manderley wedding. Tell them to prepare to discuss how to best take
advantage of this summer. Poole, I will be taking all my children except Rickon with me so they
can experience more of the north and meet the future lords and ladies that they will one day run the
North with. Since the wedding is in seven weeks, we will need to be prepared to depart in three to
get there early enough to start trade talks before the southern houses arrive.”

The two men agreed at once, and Ned asked, “Maester Luwin, if you could, I need you to create
some figures of what each house can produce in the summer, including ours.”

Maester Luwin nodded but asked, “How long of a summer should I use for the figures.”

Ned thought for a moment, “Could you create numbers based on a 1, 3, and 5-year summer?” The
maester nodded.

Ned got up from his seat and dismissed Luwin and Poole and had a rather large cup of wine to
settle his racing mind. He needed to write Lord Manderly to send some barges up the White Knife,
maybe to Greydam, it could cut a week of travel time. Ned was thinking of the time it would take
to travel and the amount of time he would have to stay in White Harbor. Ned took a breath to steel
himself and thought of his father. What would he do? He would relish in it, Ned knew his father’s
political ambition and what it had caused and Ned had no patience for it.

With that said. The North was struggling, taking young men from the harvest and losing them in
both Robert’s and Greyjoy’s rebellion had made the past three winter’s much worse. This last one
lasted only two years but was especially deadly. Short, but bitterly cold. Winter had come and
winter was coming. The North needed a strong summer.

“My Lord.” Ned turned around not realizing the Luwin was still standing there.

“Maester what is it?”

”I wanted to talk to you about young Jon.”

Ned was too tired. Jon? What would Jon have done? He needed sleep, he’d deal with it in the
morning. “Is it urgent?”

“No my Lord, it can wait.” Luwin departed and Ned soon followed him.

Leaving his solar to walk back to the Lord’s bedroom he struggled to keep his eyes open but knew
he still needed to talk to Cat. Maybe in the morning. No better it did tonight. He opened the door to
see his wife in her nightgown sitting in her chair by the fire reading.

“Cat.” She turned and smiled at him, closed the book and they both knew. She put down the book
and walked over to him as he started to form his apology for how late it was, “I’m sorry, there was
much to be do-” Catelyn had placed her hands on his face and her lips upon his and any thoughts
about weddings and trade dealings disappeared from Ned’s mind.

--
 Chapter 2

Eddard

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was a rich auburn. Ned smiled, blowing the hair
covering his sight and then looked at his wife who was asleep on his chest. Ned rolled her over and
gave her a kiss as she opened her eyes a smile slowly taking over most of her face. Ned smiled
back and got out of bed to get ready for the long day ahead. Ned was just tying the last string of his
jerkin when his wife came and wrapped her hands around his waist, playing with the laces to his
jerkin. It had to wait. “Cat, we need to talk.”

“I know you are leaving for the Manderly wedding,” Cat said with a doleful tone. Ned spun around
and looked at her with suspicious humor. “My brother wrote me saying he was going to attend
since the Hand was going.” Ned nodded and was about to continue but Cat put her hand up. “There
must always be a Stark in Winterfell, I’ll stay here with the children, while you go with Robb.”
Ned gave a small smile then returned to his stony demeanor.

“No, I’ll be taking Sansa, Arya, and Bran as well.” Catelyn’s understanding smile into a scornful
frown.

“ Sansa I understand, but why the younger two? Why do they need to go?” Catelyn responded to
her tone now cold.

“They need to see the North, they need to meet the other Northern highborn children their age.
Sansa will love to see the knights and pageantry. Bran will enjoy the jousting and gods save us
Arya will love the melee more than Robb will.” His attempt at humor seemed to crack the stone
facade and the corner of Catelyn’s mouth twitched. Ned took it as a sign to continue “The north
doesn’t have many tournaments and rarely does it get visitors from outside the north. If it must
occur let at least use it to bring joy to the children.” Catelyn let out a sigh and walked over to her
plush chair and seemed to be enveloped by it.

“What will it be for two months? Maybe three without most of my children?”

Ned tried to give her a sympathetic look, “Six weeks. At most eight. But most likely six. I promise,
no traveling for a year afterward.” She gave him a playful glare. “Well I won’t plan on any more
travel for a year”
Catelyn didn’t speak for a moment, taking it to think, she let out a breath. “Fine, just think of ways
to make it up to me for taking my children.”

“It will be good for them.”

“I know.” Catelyn was then quiet for half a minute, she started to aggressively brush her hair and
Ned know what that meant. “Take the boy with you.”

“I usually would-”

“You will take him Eddard.” He bristled at the use of his name. “I tolerate his presence because I
now know there is no getting rid of him, but I will not have him here when the rest of the children
are not. I won’t put any ideas in his head.” Ned was taken aback by this remark. Ideas? Ned didn’t
want to dwell on it.

Ned relented. “Very well, Jon will join us.” She nodded.

Catelyn stood and started to change. “Who knows, maybe there is a knight that needs a squire?”

“Cat,” Ned said with warning.

“He is a young boy, have him go regain some honor and become a knight and travel the seven
kingdoms.” Cat’s tone turned wistful for a moment. Before Ned could respond she rose and
continued, “Let’s go inform the children.”

They made their way to the great hall and sat at the high table with their children and Theon. Jon
was absent. “Have you seen Jon?” Ned was given shrugs in response, just Arya spoke up looking
dejected. “He doesn’t eat with us anymore.” Ned found that odd, remembering Luwin’s words
from last night. Before he could continue his inquiry. Cat spoke up.

“Your father has an announcement.” Ned looked at her then each of them.

“Yes, maybe you knew, maybe not, but Wendel Manderly, the second son of Wyman Manderly is
getting married to Lord Grafton’s fourth daughter…” Ned struggled to remember the name. “Mary,
Merrell?”

“Mereth.” Piped in Cat.

His children were chuckling at his lapse. Ned cleared his throat. “Mereth. Many houses of the
North will be represented as well as Houses of the Vale, Crownlands, some Riverlands, as will the
Hand of the King will be attending. Even heard some Essosi merchants may come. There will be
quite a large tournament being held and you will all be attending along with me.” All his children
looked shocked and then elated almost an instant later. Robb turned to Theon immediately and
started discussing archery and melee. Ned was glad to see the argument on the road seemed to be
behind them. Sansa was beaming, knowing to show too much excitement would not be proper for a
lady. Bran was jabbering about jousting and knights asking his mother if anyone famous would be
there. Arya, who was joyous then looked a little dour. “Arya, what is wrong? If you don’t want to
go you don’t have to.” She shot him a look of worry and then looked down.

“Is Jon going? If he isn’t going I don’t want to go either, he promised it would be different when
you got back.” Arya muttered.

“No Jon is coming with us.” After he spoke did he hear the last thing she said but Arya was already
beaming. She turned to Bran to jump in on his conversation. Ned was puzzled, this was the third
mention of Jon in the day since he got back.

Ned finished his meal, and left to the solar to write a few letters but struggled to concentrate on his
task. He left his solar to walk around to calm his mind. While he walked he saw Arya and Sansa
having lessons with Maester Luwin, he greeted his wife and his youngest son with a quick peck on
their foreheads. Soon the clashing of metal drew him towards the training yard. Before the yard
was in view he heard Ser Rodrick’s words carrying through the ancient fortress.

“Jon, watch your footwork!”

Then the sound of clashing and a grunt.

“Jon the arc in the swing is wide and even Bran here could see where you were trying to hit.”

A couple sounds of metal on metal and grunt again. Ned turned the corner seeing Jon disarmed.
Robb and Theon looked a little smug, and Jon with his head down and Rodrik’s face was red.
“What in hells is the matter with you Jon, two days ago you were holding your own against
Derrock and now even Rickon could defeat you with one hand behind his back.” Theon laughed
out loud while Robb smirked. Ned assumed that Rodrik was just trying to help Jon’s nonexistent
confidence. Derrock was a veteran of the siege of Pyke, ahead and a half taller than Jon and fifteen
years older. Though when Jon stood back up, Ned noticed he may have been taller than Robb
now.

“Its been almost a month Rodrik, Jon hasn’t seen how much I’ve improved,” Robb said.

“Not by much young lord.” Rodrik retorted. “Jon, your session is over, your head doesn’t seem in it
and Robb, you are slow and predictable. You only used your strength against Jon, with sloppy
footwork and repetitive strikes. You need to become a well-rounded fighter unless you plan to be
the size of Hodor when you're older.”

“Hodor?” Hodor said near the stables. Robb looked abashed and Jon just stalked off the yard and
into the great keep. Ned felt bad for Jon, he and Robb were good swordsman for their age even
though Robb seemed to be a little bit better than Jon, today, however, Bran very well may have
held his own. Something must have happened, and Ned started to worry that something was
wrong. When Ned reached his solar he asked Jory to get Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik and bring
them to him. They arrived soon after and Ned motioned them in inviting them to sit.

“My Lord.” The gruff old knight greeted him.

“Lord Stark.” The calm, assuring maester did the same.

“Maester Luwin, you said you wanted to talk about Jon, I have a sense from what I’ve heard from
a few others something happened while I was away. Ser Rodrik would I assume that is correct?”

“Yes my lord.” The stern old knight said.

“Maester Luwin, you first.”

The small graying man took a deep breath and began speaking. “It was a couple days after you left.
I was giving Jon his normal lessons, most times he understands the lessons well enough but he
rarely engages. However, while you were gone he asked so many questions, and complicated ones
at that! He followed me around for an hour or so after the lessons were supposed to end. Every day
afterward he would talk and he would ask many things, trying to convince me of his opinions and
asking me to do other things.”
“What kind of things?” Ned said.

“He wanted me to test him on houses, heirs, and histories, he wants me to pretend to be a house and
propose a trade and we would haggle and argue.” Luwin smiled. “He even tried to come up with a
trade agreement and taxes to help with House Mormont. Many were impractical and simplistic but
they were... different.” The old maester’s smile faded as he continued, “However, today he was
disengaged. Even when I prodded him about the final terms of the agreement with House Mormont
he showed no interest,” The maester finished with a shrug.

Ned felt his chest tighten while the tale he told. Ned turned to Ser Rodrik. “What did you see Ser?”

Ser Rodrik was a bit nervous as he began speaking, “Young Jon was always a good swordsman,
quick, good footwork and a decent thrust. Will beat Greyjoy most of the time and maybe three in
every ten he’ll beat Lord Robb.” Ned knew this and nodded for him to continue. “Then the day
after you left I paired him with our youngest guard Mal. Fine sword, better than anyone Jon was
used to sparring with. I thought it would do well to push and test him against someone with a few
more years on him” Ser Rodrik shook his head. “Jon destroyed him, moved so fast and struck so
precisely that poor Mal struggled with his duties only after ten minutes of sparring with young Jon.
Then I had him pair up with Old Tomard. An experienced soldier, slow but strong as an aurochs
and more importantly, disciplined. Jon struggled but after a few days, he was holding his own and
then a few days later beating Tom regularly as well. Throughout the four weeks or so my Lord he
worked his way up to Derrock. While Derrock isn’t the best fighter Winterfell has, he is still a
better than most with sword.”

“He beat Mal, Tom, and Derrock?” Ned said, unable to hide the shock.

Ser Rodrick moved his head contemplating something, “Jon beat him a few times, held his own
every time though. The day before you arrived I’d say they were close to even.”

“You jest,” Ned said without thinking.

Ser Rodrik’s face held no humor, “No my Lord, Jon is a natural talent, far better than I ever
supposed. He was quicker than I’d ever seen ‘im and fierce as well, but more importantly, he
adapted. Even when he went against me, I won every time but the boy scored a few minor hits and
if I may be so bold that’s no small feat.” Ned was impressed, “That was why I got so angry this
morning. He hasn’t fought that poor in years.”
Ned got up and paced around, a knot started to form in his stomach and he wasn’t sure why. “Why
would he pretend?” Ser Rodrik shook his head but maester Luwin looked away. “Maester you have
an idea?”

“I would rather not say my lord in case I am wrong.”

“Speak truth to me Maester.”

“Very well.” he steadied himself. “Young Jon is a bastard and he knows what, uh, some people,
say about him.” Anger coiled around the knot within Ned and maester Luwin continued with
unease. “I think, young Jon believes if he exceeds above what is expected, he fears he will no
longer be welcomed here.” Ned had to look away to control his anger, and not lash out against his
friend.

“That would never happen, I would never let that happen.” Ned’s tone was harsh and louder than
he intended.

“I know my Lord” the maester muttered, “But does young Jon?”

The knot uncoiled so quickly that air in his chest left with it. “Of course,” He said, but he wasn’t
sure. Promise me, Ned . Ned moved so quickly the other two jumped.

“Jory! Where is Jon?” Ned was shouting now.

“Not sure my Lord, I can have someone check.”

“Do it now.”

--

Ned found himself half an hour later riding to winter town. The first homes were fifteen hundred
paces away so it took Ned some time to reach the heart of the town. Most of the homes were
already abandoned for the summer and Ned was curious as to what Jon was up to. He approached
the run-down building when he saw dark brown hair in a brown jerkin with a small dire wolf
emblem. The young man was carrying two children no older than two years old while chasing a
dozen younger children around, roaring like a monster from one of Bran’s favorite stories. Some of
the older children played along pretending to fight him off. After half a minute he was wrestled to
the ground and Ned saw Jon smiling, then laughing loudly. The knot returned as he realized he
hadn’t witnessed Jon laugh like this since…... Ned couldn’t remember. An older woman gave a
startled gasp when she saw Ned.

“Milord Stark!” she curtseyed with unease while shouting to the children to do the same.

Jon was on the ground and turned his head and his face lost color as he jumped to his feet.
“Father!” Jon’s yelled dripped with panic. “I..uh..what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” Jon’s eyes widened. “Nothing bad I just needed to speak with you.” Jon’s face
returned to normal although he still seemed to be missing his coloring. “Let's head back to
godswood so we can speak alone.”

They left and made their way to the godswood in silence. It took nearly half an hour and once in
front of the heart tree, Ned sat down, though Jon continued to stand. Ned was staring at Jon and
Jon was alternating between staring at the ground and the carved face of the weirwood. After a few
uncomfortable minutes, Ned asked, “What were you doing at the orphanage?”

“Helping out,” Jon whispered.

“Why?”

“They have only Sera” he looked up to Ned “She runs the place and she is getting up there in age.
So I help when I can.” Ned smiled.

“Ly-.” Ned stopped and took a breath. “My sister used to do that a long time ago.”

“Sera remembers her,” Jon said. “She says she was a good person.” Ned felt a prickle at the corner
of his eyes. You can’t Ned.

“She was wild and fierce,” Ned wrung his hands together, “and she had a good heart,” Ned said. “If
she was still here she would have joined you down there.”
“I wish I could have met her.” Jon said, “It would be nice to have an aunt.” Ned had to look away
as he ran a hand across his eyes quickly. “Sorry, father! I didn’t mean-

Ned put a hand up to stop him. “Its okay Jon, she would have loved you.” Jon sat back down and
there were another few minutes of silence.

Ned swallowed as he started the difficult part of the conversation. “I spoke to Maester Luwin and
Ser Rodrik, '' Jon's pale face became so white he matched the weirwood tree behind him, and his
son decided the ground was far more interesting than him. “Luwin says you started to show a real
interest in trade and history.” Ned raised his hand to forestall Jon as he pressed on, “and Ser Rodrik
says you became a wonder with the sword, beating men many years your senior and moving as
quickly as a Shadowcat.” Jon traced the dirt around a rock with his boot, still refusing to meet
Ned’s eye.

Ned felt like he allowed enough time before he pushed on, “Why Jon? Why did you pretend to be
less than you are?”

Jon was silent for a minute. “I’m a bastard.”

Ned was nonplussed, “What does the-”?

“Father.” Ned stared at him. It was a tone Jon had never used before. “I know what people say
about me. I love Robb, father, and Arya and Rickon and Bran and even Sansa. I would never want
to hurt them or be used to hurt them. I don’t want to be accused of usurping Robb. I would never.
Ever. Do that.” Ned noticed tears in Jon’s eyes and Ned started to understand but Jon continued. “I
know if I am worse than Robb nobody would ever want me to lead, or take his place or say that I
am doing what bastards do. He would be safe.” Jon’s voice wavered and he took a few breaths to
compose himself. “this is how I can protect him, protect all of them. I only….I just….I just want to
be part of the Starks.” Jon’s voice cracked as he said Stark and Jon was blinking away any tears
that showed on his Stark-like face. Ned felt his eyes water. “But I will never be one, I am a Snow, I
am a threat, so when I can, I will join the Night’s Watch. It's the least I can do. The only thing I can
do and still have some honor.” Jon finished as he wiped his face and looked resolute. Ned was
speechless, he sat there for a few minutes, failing to form the right response. What have I done? My
son feels he needs to leave because he isn’t welcome. He takes humiliation to protect his brother.
No.

“No.” Jon looked up “Jon, you are my son. Nothing will ever change that and I swear to you as
long as I draw breath, you will be welcome here at Winterfell and treated like my family.” Jon’s
tear-stained face was struggling to compose into a stoic face that mirrored Ned’s own. “If you want
to join the Night’s Watch that is an honorable thing to do, but do not throw away your life so young
unless you know what else can be offered.”

Jon’s face hardened and spoke with a hint of anger, “Where can a bastard find honor if not the
Wall? If I am here people will think I am biding my time and nothing I do will change he-, their
mind.” Ned noticed the mistake.

Ned asked Jon quietly, “Who do you refer to Jon?” Jon shook his head. “Jon?” Jon remained silent.
Ned simply stated. “Lady Catelyn?” Jon fought to keep his eyes still but failed as they widened.
That was all the confirmation Ned needed.

“She, I mean Lady Stark is kind enough to let me stay,” Jon said flatly.

“Jon, if you want to join the Watch you may.” Jon lifted his face. “But not until you reach eighteen
years old.” Ned saw Jon’s face slip into disappointment. “I want to make sure you know there is
more for you in the North Jon. More for you in the world, but it will be your choice.” Ned’s voice
became warmer and softer, “I want you to know, Jon looks at me, I want you to know that your life
was not an accident, and your life should be filled with joy.” Ned felt like some foolish poet, but
continued, “If not joy, then at least true purpose, I promised this to your mother.” Jon’s head
snapped up. “She loved you, Jon. Know that.” Jon looked away. The part of him wanting to be a
man and the other part still a child warring within him. Ned remembered what that was like. Ned
walked over and put his hand on his shoulder, “You are a fine young man, she would have been
proud of you.” Jon’s facade broke and he hugged Ned tight. Ned wrapped his arms around his boy.

Other lords would scoff at showing this much affection to their children, more so for a bastard, but
Ned didn’t care, not at that moment.

Jon eventually regained his composure but his eyes were a little red and puffy.

Ned then said, “There are still a few more things we need to talk about.” Jon nodded. “Jon, you
said you would do anything to protect Robb.” Jon nodded again. “I am sorry to say you have failed
in your brotherly duties.” Jon looked bewildered. “Jon, right now Robb believes he is a far better
warrior than he is and that will get him killed. I know how competitive he is and he could be much
better if you pushed him to be better. Aside from the sword, you need to push each other's wits.
Robb makes you a better at strategy, don’t deny it, he is gifted in that sense but you can make him
a better ruler, and holding back in anything will make it worse.”

Jon looked down. “What if-

“I’ll take care of it,” Ned said. Nothing else needed to be said.

“I’m sorry Father.”

Ned gave a small smile, “Don’t hold back Jon, but I need to warn you, you have broken Robb’s
trust. ” Jon scrunched his features together.

“What do you mean?” Jon’s voice wavered.

“You didn’t entrust Robb with who you really are, what you can really do. You lied to him, Jon.”
Ned said, his voice even. He needed to make sure Jon understood.

“But I never said-” Ned raised his hand to stop Jon.

“People can lie by their actions far more than their words.” A pang of guilt shot through Ned as he
finished saying this and Ned could tell Jon was not doing any better. Ned let out a larger sigh,
“However I must take the blame for your actions this time though...we must both be better.” Jon
seemed confused by that last statement but Ned knew his explanation was not for Jon’s ears. “Jon,
I do not know how Robb will handle this broken trust, but I know, and so do you that this is for the
best. Now run along.” His son nodded once, solemn as ever, and turned to leave.

Jon started to walk away when Ned remembered, “Oh Jon!” Jon turned around. “You are coming
with us to White Harbor.” Jon’s eyebrows raised a little and the corners of his mouth twitched,
betraying his solemn demeanor. Jon thanked his father and left the godswood.

However, Ned stayed until he was sure he was alone. He then knelt in front of the heart tree and
prayed for forgiveness.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Robb

Robb had always loved his brother Jon, he had been there with him as long as he could remember.
From his earliest memories, they had been constant companions, competitors, and confidants.

That’s why Robb had never hated his half-brother Jon more. Jon who currently held his hand out
to Robb while he was sprawled in the dirt of the training yard.

It started two weeks ago, two days after Robb and his father arrived home from Bear Island. Jon
and Robb were going to the training yard and Theon was taunting Jon, “Hey Snow, I saw Arya
running around here, want me to get her? You might actually hit something today.” Theon laughed
loudly at his own joke and even Robb chuckled but Jon was silent and grim as if he didn’t even
hear Theon’s jest. It was as if Jon wasn’t even there with them.

Robb decided to change the subject, “Jon, what did you and father talk about in the godswood
yesterday? You were in there for quite some time.” Jon’s cheeks flushed and he looked away.
Theon pounced.

“Finally tell you how to bed a woman? Maybe now you can father a bastard of your own” Theon
started to laugh but Robb remained silent and knew this territory was a sore subject with Jon. Jon’s
face hardened, and he shifted his jaw and Robb noticed his fists clenched at his side, but Jon
remained silent and walked forward. Just like Father would .

A pain of envy flowed through him as he remembered his inability to handle Theon’s barbed japes,
and most were far less cruel. Jon reminded Robb of Father more than he liked to admit to anyone.
Robb was always jealous that Jon looked like a Stark.

That being said, Jon didn’t get father’s burly muscular build which Robb was starting to grow into.
Jon was slender and agile.

Robb tried to continue the conversation, “So what was it Jon?”

Jon was quiet for half a minute, “He told me that I am joining you when you go to White Harbor.”
Robb smiled, he was excited to spend time with Jon watching tourneys and meeting real knights,
maybe even a girl to make Jon smile for once. Robb was nervous about the squire’s melee, and the
southern girls that would watch him compete and hopefully not make a fool of himself. Jon broke
him from his quick reverie. “He also said that I need to be myself so that I can help the House
Stark however I am able.” Robb looked at him trying to puzzle out what that meant. Robb loved
Jon and he would be a good soldier for Robb like they always talked about. Maybe he should find
him a small holdfast, some land, and a girl to marry. Something close so he could still visit often.

Robb appreciated the devotion Jon showed and returned with just as much fervor. Theon, on the
other hand, held no such feelings for Jon.

“Yea?” Greyjoy chuckled. “What would a thin weakling bastard help with?”

Again, Jon shifted his jaw but kept still kept his cool but Robb had no such control, “More use than
a squid on dry land.” Robb knew that he had hit his mark, because Theon’s face contorted into
something ugly, opening his mouth but was interrupted by the gruff master-at-arms.

“Oi, you three are almost late! Get your gear on and pair off.” They had finally arrived at the
training yard, a few men at arms were there sparring already. Alyn and Harwin were switching off
with Jory, attacking each other. They were the best swords in the guard and it was mesmerizing to
watch them move. Robb knew he would get there one day, he was already far superior to both Jon
and Theon, he could even hold his own against Mel and sometimes hit Fat Tom.

After getting practice armor and tourney swords Ser Rodrik paired him up with Jon. Jon looked
solemn with something like sorrow in his eyes. He looked around and saw that Father, Mother, and
little Rickon with his wooden sword were watching and Robb gave them a small wave. Father
nodded back to him, his mother smiled at him and Bran was waving getting his equipment on to
fight with Rickon.

Robb turned to Jon and prepared for the bout. Jon had a look in the eye that Robb had never seen
before. His dark gray eyes looked like a storm cloud was brewing and Robb felt a little
apprehension as he moved into his normal fighting stance. “Alright boys,” Rodrik started,
“Remember what we talked about yesterday and improve on it.”

“That’s a long list for Snow,” Theon chimed in.

Rodrik didn’t look pleased with that comment, but bit his tongue and turned back to the two sons of
Ned Stark.
“Begin.”

Jon moved then. Robb had less than a moment to process what was happening before Jon was on
him and Robb struggled to even get his blade near Jon’s. Robb had barely deflected it and next
thing he knew he was flat on his back, Jon’s sword was pointing at his throat. Jon still had that
solemn face that betrayed no emotion.

Robb was a little embarrassed, just yesterday the positions were switched. Jon held out his hand
and Robb grabbed it and got to his feet. Robb swung the sword in his hand and said, “Surprised
me, Jon.” Jon just nodded and Theon kept being an ass.

“Oi, little Jon’s got some luck this morning.” chuckling at his wit. Not a moment after his partner
Mikal, Mikken’s third son, brought his sword against Theon’s wrist, “Ah, damn you that hurt!”

“Aye Theon, if you don’t pay attention it will happen again.” Ser Rodrick barked out. “Jon good
work, Robb, get your blade up! Again!”

Jon and Robb got into position again. This time Robb needed to show Jon that it was just luck.
Robb moved first and pressed his advantage but he couldn’t get near Jon, as he kept escaping and
countering Robb with ease. It went on for what seemed to be forever but was maybe half a minute.
Robb closed the gap, but Jon moved so quickly that Robb’s legs were in the air and Jon’s sword at
his throat in a heartbeat. Robb was shocked and got back up on his own. Ser Rodrik started
coaching.

“Jon good move to use Robb’s strength against him but sharpen up your parry. Robb, watch the
footwork, you are reaching with your front leg too much. Again!”

Robb got ready again and waited for Jon, this time it took a quarter of a minute and Jon had
disarmed Robb. “What’s gotten into you?” Robb said.

“Trying to be myself,” was all that Jon said.

“Again!” Ser Rodrick yelled out.

Robb and Jon continued to spar for the next hour. Time and time again Robb was flattened,
disarmed, covered in bruises and breathing hard. Every time Rodrick would yell out ‘Again!’

Jon was sweating and breathing a little harder than normal but still had that solemn face and fierce
look in his eyes. Robb looked and saw Father nod with approval, but his mother was glaring at Jon
and while Bran and Rickon looked at Jon with awe. Robb’s anger started to get the better of him
and the last match he was swinging with wild abandon and Jon didn’t even raise his sword and just
dodged each swing. Thrust, after swing, after cut, and his sword found nothing but air. Robb was
so tired he fell to a knee. Ser Rodrik spoke again.

“Robb, you need to work on stamina and know when to strike and not tire yourself out. Jon, well
done. Theon, come and spar Jon, Robb rest for the next little while and study Jon’s movements.”
The old knight’s attention was then focused on Theon and Jon. Robb grateful for the break, but
embarrassed with his performance, left the ring in frustration. He watched from the side as Jon
dismantled Theon’s attack and dispatched him even quicker. Theon was spitting insult after insult
trying to make Jon angry, but Theon fared even worse than Robb. It ended when Jon brought his
sword down and Theon yelled in pain. Jon stopped immediately and stepped forward.

“Don’t touch me! You broke my fuckin’ wrist!” Ser Rodrick grabbed Theon and handed him to
Mikal.

“Take Greyjoy to Luwin, maybe this will teach him that he needs to learn to swing a sword before
spewing horseshit from his mouth.” Ser Rodrik turned to Jon again, “How are you feeling Jon? Up
to face Derrock today?” Derrock? He can’t face Derrock he would get killed!

“Aye, maybe for a bit,” Jon replied.

Ser Rodrick nodded, “Good lad. Derrock! Get your sorry ass over here!”

“Aye, Ser,” Derrock responded as he made his way over.

“Let's see if Snow here can get you good.” Ser Rodrick said.

“Not likely.” Derrock said, then he smiled, “No offense milord.”

Jon looked at Robb and the other Stark’s present with wide-eyes. Jon turned back to Derrock, “I’m
not a Lord, Derrock just a Snow.”

Then Ser Rodrick clapped his hands together and they fought, Derrock was taller, stronger and
experienced. But Jon was quick, calculating and precise. Robb didn’t know what he was seeing,
didn’t know who this was and where the stumbling brother from yesterday had gone.

Bran came up to him and said with that stupid awe-struck look, “Jon’s amazing Robb, look how
fast he can move! You should have seen him spar with Harwin! Even scored a few hits on him,
Robb! Harwin!” Robb just nodded but he was seething, could Jon always do this? He looked at his
father and saw the small smile grow and his mother’s glare deepened and Robb felt anger well up
within him that he had never felt before. Over the next two weeks, it didn’t go away.

Robb wasn’t just getting beat in the training yard every day, but in lessons as well. Jon was first to
answer about acreage, supplies, and population and it drove Robb mad. Maester Luwin even asked
Jon for help with some of the arithmetic for the predictions his father asked about, even though
Robb was better with numbers!

What made it worse was Jon did not gloat but excelled in quiet. Even worse, Jon would try and
help explain the work he and the Maester were doing. Robb would ignore this help and glare in his
direction, hindering his ability to concentrate on what was being taught. Robb was so frustrated
that when Robb would place a lance better, dominate in mock battle scenarios, hit the smaller
target with the bow or answer questions about roads, supply lines and geography he mocked Jon
with a viciousness that Theon would admire.

What didn’t help was Theon egging him on. “What a tricky bastard, lulls you in false security and
pounces like that.”

“Using underhanded tricks to win stupid sparring matches just to seem like he is better than us.
Better than you!”

“Seems like he is trying to impress Lord Stark and win his favor.” This fuelled Robb’s ire, and his
sour mood was close to boiling over.

After a full fortnight of this and only a week before the Noble Houses that were traveling with the
Starks to White Harbor arrived. Robb was no longer able to contain his rage.

So here they were, Robb and Jon, nearing the end of their training. Robb was faring better than the
bout only a couple of weeks ago and was able to get a small hit on Jon’s shoulder plate. Before
Robb could relish, Jon’s blow came back more powerful on his arm and he kicked out Robb’s legs.
Robb felt his sword fall as the ground came up to meet him. Jon’s damn blade was at Robb’s throat
once again. Rodrik told them to finish up and admonished Robb’s footwork as always. Jon reached
his arm down and said, “Well done Robb, knicked my shoulder good on that last one.” Robb had
never hated his bastard half-brother more.

He slapped his arm away and Jon’s eyes had hurt in them but hurt disappeared and his grey eyes
returned to normal. Jon turned around and Robb felt something snap. His bastard brother, beating
him again and again, and doesn’t even care if I hurt his feelings? He doesn’t even care? Robb
bounced up with newfound energy mixed with rage and ran full speed at Jon. “Ah, Robb what
the-” Robb lowered his shoulder and tackled Jon. Before Jon could respond Robb threw a fist into
Jon’s face. Then another one and another one, while Jon just tried to block but didn’t fight back.
Robb raised a fist again but someone caught it and as he was pulled off Jon.

“What in the seven hells has gotten into you!?” Ser Rodrik roared as Fat Tom and Hallis helped Jon
up to his feet and was now sporting a broken lip, swollen cheek, and his left eye was watering.
“Take him to Maester Luwin, Robb what were you doing? I dismiss you and your swinging at your
brother?”

“Bastard-brother.” Jon turned around at hearing those words. Instead of seeing a look of anger he
instead saw nothing but dejection and Jon’s eyes were starting to water from the punch Robb
threw, or so he hoped. Jon lowered his head and allowed himself to be escorted to Luwin’s tower.

Robb’s anger started to be replaced by something else as the yard quieted around him. Ser Rodrik
gave him a disapproving look, as did a few of the other soldiers. None of them would say anything
to him, as they can’t speak out against the heir of Winterfell. Robb’s anger was gone now, and it
wasn’t when he saw Arya standing there is her little fists clenched and face snarled that the shame
came. It was when he saw Bran and Rickon’s staring in shock at his words.

Robb escaped the grasp of Ser Rodrik and started to move to follow Jon when he saw Father,
Mother, and Sansa, who all had been drawn out by the commotion. His father went to Ser Rodrik.
“Rodrik what’s going on here?”

“Jon had put Lord Robb on his back and I dismissed them for the evening. I went to train the other
guards and I hear Jon yell something and I turn around and Robb is on top of Jon hitting him over
and over again.”

His mother spoke first, anger in her eyes and she turned to Robb, “What did the boy do? What did
he say to you? Did he provoke you? Threaten you?” Robb was about to speak up, admit his fault
but his mother continued, “Ned if he threatened my children I want him gone!”
Father tensed and turned his cold grey eyes upon Robb’s mother. He had seen Father stare down
high lords into silence and now that look was used to silence his wife. However, Lady Stark didn’t
flinch from her Lord husband's glare like so many other Lords had and this brought a chill to
Robb’s blood that mixed with the shame blooming in his chest. “No more Catelyn.” His father’s
voice had an edge Robb had never heard before. His Father turned to Robb, “Go to your room,
change and wait until I send someone to get you.” Robb nodded quickly and trotted off the training
yard and Theon came next to him and grinned.

“Nice swing you got, taught that cheating bastard a lesson, maybe you messed up that pretty face.
Also, it seems the bastard’s time is running out here” Robb’s shame abated some as fear replaced it
when he thought about Theon’s words. Robb just wanted to beat Jon in a fight, not permanently
change him, not get rid of him. I called him a bastard . I called my brother a bastard. It was the
thing that would hurt him the most, something that only someone you trust completely could say to
you and Robb just said it? And for what?

Robb took a lesson from Jon and kept his mouth shut, his anxiety about his outburst costing him a
brother robbed him of any other thought.

After bathing and changing, Robb sat in his room waiting for his father to come to get him. His
door flew open and little Arya marched in looking angry, “Arya what are you doing in here-Ow!
Ah! Geroff!” Arya started punching him as soon as she could and Robb struggled to catch her
arms. “Arya, what the hells is wrong with you?”

“I saw what you did, you hit Jon while he wasn’t looking and hit him while he didn’t fight back!
You called him... You stupid coward! Mother says he will have to leave! I hate you!” She tried
kicking and struggling when someone knocked and Sansa walked in.

“Robb Father wants you to go to his-oh Arya!” Robb saw Sansa notice, Arya, trying to beat him
when Arya stopped the assault and got down. She glared and Robb and gave him one last kick in
the shin and ran out. Sansa was stunned and followed her out and told her about how rude she was
being and to say sorry.

Robb headed to the solar, rubbing what was sure to become more bruises and saw Jon waiting
outside, his eye was starting to swell and his mouth had some sort of paste on it. He had a cut of
beef in his hand and then Jon pressed it to his eye. Jon looked at him with the same hurt look he
had before and turned away from his brother. Robb’s shame returned tenfold and Robb couldn't
stand it anymore. Before he could say anything the solar door opened and Father said nothing and
motioned for them both to come in. Once they were inside, Father pointed to the two chairs, “Sit
down.” Once seated, Father asked, “What happened?”
Robb started, “Father this is-”

Jon cut in, “I started it, Father.” Robb looked at him nonplussed. Jon continued, “Robb was able to
hit my shoulder and I continued to attack him anyway until he was on the ground. Anyone would
have reacted to that with anger.”

His Father studied Jon for a minute, before turning to Robb, “Is this why you attacked Jon?” Robb
looked to Jon’s lone grey eye, trying to understand. He turned to his father and saw two of those
grey eyes staring back at him. Unable to hold the gaze he bowed his head as his own found the
floor. “Robb?” his father inquired.

Robb took a deep breath, “No.”

“Then tell me why you attacked Jon?” his Father questioned.

“I…... I was so…..angry. Jealous. Frustrated. Jon had never beaten me in anything really, then all
of a sudden he moves like the warrior reborn and is smart enough to help Maester Luwin!” Robb
was too worked up to stop. “Jon...he...you...were able to answer questions I could not even think to
ask! It’s not enough that he looks like you Father, but it seems he’s as smart and strong as you as
well, he’s a better Stark than me and I was jealous because I am scared everyone else will see it too
and if I’m not your heir father than what am I? What do I do then? How do I live? Where will I
go?” Robb was rambling, he knew it and was terrified to see the disappointment from his Father
and he did not know what he would see in Jon’s. He didn’t even know what he wanted to see there.
“I want to be a great Lord like you Father! But what if I’m not good enough? What if I fail in every
decision? What if the North fails with me? What if-”

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked up to meet his Father’s gaze and to see him give a
sorrowful smile. Robb looked at Jon and all he could see was a concern. At that moment he knew.
He knew he was the worst person in the entire world. He turned back to his father who was sitting
at the edge of his desk, who was now looking....well Robb had no idea what that look was.

His father took a deep breath, “I found out Jon was purposefully trying to be worse at a few things
he could do better than you.” Robb looked at Jon who wouldn’t look anywhere but the floor. “He
told me that he knew what he was.” At Robb’s confusion, “A bastard.” Robb flinched at his father
using the same word he had used not even an hour ago. “Jon was so worried that if he excelled at
anything he would be called a usurper and would be banished from this family. He said if he was
worse he could protect you.” Robb looked back at Jon and Robb realized what a total arse he was.
“I told him to push you, Robb, make you better than you already are. I told Jon the best way he can
protect you is to push you where he is strongest and I want you to do the same for him.” Robb
nodded, trying to replace the shame that was still there with adoration for his brother. “You may
have been so angry these past two weeks so I doubt you have noticed the progress you have already
 made. Luwin says you are spending more time studying scrolls and figures and Ser Rodrik is
impressed with the dedication you have shown in continuing to practice no matter how many times
you fall.”

Robb had to think back to his lessons and training. He began to remember them for what they
were. Jon was attacking in a way that forced him to be lighter on his feet. In lessons Jon was just
trying to improve Robb’s understanding, asking questions Robb had yet to form in his mind. Doing
all of this, while trying not to belittle him, unlike how Robb handled his victories.

Jon spoke for the first time, “I’m sorry Robb.” Robb’s sudden turn of his neck was so violent, for a
moment he felt he injured himself.

Robb's voice was almost a whisper, “Wh-what?”

“I lied to you and then I embarrassed you and I wasn’t trying I promise!” Jon's voice was desperate.
“I...Robb...I just…. I like sparring but you are a far better lance and that is much more important in
a real battle! And battles! You see things I cannot even fathom and are much better than me and I
learn so much just by watching you think. I only know a few meaningless facts and figures. But
you….you can talk to people easily, you are friends with every person you meet. I...I can’t..do
that.” Jon was blushing so deeply he looked like an apple.

Robb didn’t dare say anything, afraid emotions would overtake him.

Robb’s father spoke again, “Robb those feelings you have...they are the same ones I have had since
the day I heard about my own father’s and brother’s end. They never really go away, but you can
use them. Use them to push yourself to be better. Even more, Robb, you have someone strong
where you are weak, who is also weak where you are strong. You have the potential to be the best
Stark the North has ever seen and I want you to have every advantage possible so you can reach
that potential.”

Their Father then turned to Jon, “Jon, your brother will need you. The responsibility of the North is
too much for one man alone. Robb will need those he can trust, and who is better than you?” Robb
felt the truth of this strike him, Theon was a good friend, easy to laugh with, someone, who would
lift your spirits. But Robb knew Jon would do anything for him, even things he didn’t want but Jon
would know what he needed, no matter what it cost to himself. “You both know the saying about
the pack. One day the white winds will blow, and this pack,” Ned grabbed both of their shoulders,
“needs to be together.”

Chapter End Notes

This story has teenagers, fragile ego's and insecurities.
They'll learn.
Probably.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon

For what seemed to be the hundredth time in two weeks, Jon was once again standing in the
Winterfell courtyard. They were all waiting for the last few Houses before the massive party left
for the wedding in White Harbor. The past two days have been a constant stream of greetings and
pleasantries.

The morning after his long talk with Robb and Father, the first house to arrive was the Cerwyn’s.
Lord Cerwyn was accompanied by his two children and a half a dozen men on horseback. Jon had
met Lord Medger many times due to Castle Cerwyn being half a day's ride to Winterfell. He was
tall and thin with a trimmed black beard and a soft-spoken manner. Jonelle Cerwyn was twenty,
thick around the waist and homely. Still, she was very kind and took after her father in that manner.
Cley Cerwyn was of an age with Robb and himself. Cley was tall and thin like his father with what
Jon assumed was an attempt at a beard growing on his face, but was only a few hairs under his
nose. Cley Cerwyn was friendly with Robb and indifferent towards Jon. A win, really, in Jon’s
mind as it allowed him to escape the boredom of the boy’s company. With them came Lyra
Condon, the daughter of Cley Cerwyn’s master-at-arms Kyle Condon.

Then came the Tallharts of Torhen’s Square. Lord Helman arrived with his two children and his
brother, his brother’s wife, and their two children with nearly twenty soldiers and a couple of
landed lords. Ser Helman Tallhart was a large man, with dirty blonde hair and a blunt manner, his
son Benfred was a year younger than Jon but half a head taller and the spitting image of his father.
At the same time, Eddara was a year younger than Bran, wide-eyed, plump with the same hair as
her brother and father. Ser Leobald Talhart was as tall as his brother but more fit, dirty blond hair
and pale blue eyes. He was quieter of the two, but he seemed to see everything. His son Brandon
was a couple of years younger than Jon and had the dark hair and brown eyes of his mother, and
his little brother Beren was his miniature at eight years old. Berena, Leobald’s wife, was a little
thick at the waist but still had a pleasant face and seemed to smile with ease. Jon enjoyed the
Tallhart’s blunt manner of speaking, and Leobald would tell him stories of war.

A couple of days later, the Mormonts and Glovers had arrived with two minor lords as well. The
infamously feuding Whitehills, south of Long Lake and Forresters of the Northern Wolfswood,
along with 10 of their men each. Lord Galbert Glover came with his brother Robett. They were
both of average height and average look, neither of them handsome nor ugly. With Galbert was his
ward, the bastard of Hornwood, who at eleven years old had dark brown hair, with bright amber
eyes and a good friend of Jon’s. They had met at a couple of feasts, and their bastardy forged a fast
friendship. He was short for twelve years, but there was an excited look in his eyes when he saw
Jon.
 The Lady Maege was a squat woman who brought her four eldest daughters. Dacey was nearly
twenty and was tall and thin with a rugged beauty about her. Her sister Alysanne at nineteen and
Jon imagined Maege looked the same when they were the same age, Jon had only met her once,
but Jon could tell she was more powerful than she looked. Lyra at seventeen had the look of her
mother as well, except she had bright red hair. Jorelle at twelve, had the look of her eldest sister,
although her hair was a light brown compared to Dacey’s nearly black hair. Jon had never met the
last two, but he assumed each was formidable. Each of the women was wearing mail and were
armored with at least two different weapons, creating quite the spectacle to those not used to the
warrior women of Bear Island. Arya was shaking with excitement to meet them.

That spectacle paled in comparison to the tension that was brought in by the Whitehills and
Forresters. Lord Gregor Forrester was nearing forty but had the posture of a man twenty years
younger. He had a shaved head with a trim beard and a rugged face. He was solemn natured and
had always shown Jon respect, and Jon thought it was because he had two bastards of his own. His
eldest son Rodrik was twenty himself and looked like the younger brother of his father instead of
his son. His second born was Asher, who was sixteen, and a rumor was that he was a formidable
fighter already. With long light brown hair and a beard longer than his brother’s. Jon noticed him
glancing at the daughter of Lord Whitehill. Gwyn, if Jon’s memory served. Jon didn’t especially
like Asher as he reminded Jon too much of Theon. Next was Lord Gregor’s daughter Mira who at
thirteen was small and thin with a comely face and long brown hair who could do nothing but stare
at Robb. Jon smirked, many a Lord’s daughters looked at Robb that way.

The Whitehills followed closely behind the Forresters, and it seemed they were not too happy
about it. Ludd Whitehill was a surly looking lord who was short and squat, but he had heard stories
of his strength. His eldest son died a year before, and his second was at the citadel. His daughter
Gwyn had a striking beauty at seventeen, and Theon wouldn’t shut up about how that is how a
woman should look. Jon did notice that she was always glancing at Asher, and avoiding catching
the eye of her younger brother Gryff. Gryff Whitehill, a third son, and unsuspecting heir had the
surly look of his father, but at fifteen was a couple of inches above six feet with a sturdy build. Jon
never liked the Whitehills, as one of the few Northern Houses that followed the seven, they had
never really treated Jon with anything but disdain for his birth.

A day later, Jon was again standing in the courtyard when Laurence tapped his arm and nodded to
the gateway. The Umbers had arrived with some of the roughest men Jon had ever seen. Mountain
Clansmen. He saw the banners (if you could call them that) of Liddles, Knotts, Norreys, Walls, and
Burleys. Jon could not see much of a difference between them. They were all heavily clad in fur,
hairy, and the only distinguishing mark was the heraldry, faded though it was. There were nearly
thirty of them. The single, distinctive mark was the grey streaks in a few of their beards. The
Umbers, however, we're easy to see.

The Greatjon was still the largest man Jon had ever seen, nearly seven feet tall with short brown
hair and beard with a large, broad nose and a face with laughing marks etched into it. His son
Smalljon had much of the same look, and at only nineteen, was a few inches shorter than his father
with long brown hair and short beard who seemed as loud and jovial as his father. Greatjon’s
younger son Harmond was half a head shorter, however, seemed a bit more serious.

The arriving lords gave their pleasantries to Jon’s father, although the mountain clans referred to
him as the Stark, which Jon knew was. Before the group could break apart, the horn blew once
again, and a rider said that the flayed man of House Bolton was approaching. The Lords of the
North gathered again to give a proper greeting. A party of fifteen arrived, headed by Lord Bolton.
Roose Bolton was pale, and his blue eyes were much the same. He always spoke so softly that Jon
could never really hear him. Jon was never comfortable around him. However, his Father said that
despite their past, he was as loyal as any of his bannermen.

Those last few days before they were supposed to depart were so busy for his family that Jon, and
being the bastard Lady Catelyn made sure he was not seen. He didn’t mind too much as it allowed
him to do what he wanted. Whether Jon escaped down to the orphanage more often than usual, or
spar with Derrock and Harwin when they weren’t on duty, or spend some time alone in the
godswood. Jon had even brought Larence with him, enjoying the company of someone who
understood what it was like, still though, Larence was a little naive.

However, two days before their large party was supposed to depart, the last house to travel with
them arrived. Jon once again found himself standing next to Larence, who was visibly shaking with
excitement to see his family again. Jon was feeling quite nervous, as well.

The last time house Hornwood had come to Winterfell was nearly three years ago to mark the end
of Autumn. It was during the feast when he first met Ella Hornwood. She had asked him to dance,
which Jon thought was strange because he was a bastard, and most girls at eleven were starting to
understand what that meant. At ten years old himself, Jon didn’t think about girls that much, but
Ella was different. Jon liked her face, and her hair was a beautiful color. Still, Jon remembered her
because she talked to Jon when they danced, and Jon didn’t feel as shy and awkward around her as
he usually did. Jon even made a joke that made Ella laugh, and Jon still remembered how that
made him feel all these years later. L, which snapped Jon out of his reverie.

The bull moose of Hornwood on its orange backdrop entered into the central courtyard, and the
Lord of Hornwood was the first to dismount. Halys Hornwood was nearing fifty and seemed to
begin to gather some thickness around his waist. His wife, who, Jon remembered was Wyman
Manderly’s cousin, dismounted with her husband's help. Donella Hornwood was only a year or two
older than her husband and must have been a beauty before age started to take it from her slowly.
The next person Jon saw was the heir, Daryn Hornwood, who was nearing seventeen and who
seemed to have more of his mother’s features. Daryn was the last child of Lady Hornwood as her
three other sons all fell during the Greyjoy rebellion.

The last person in the group was a girl who had a lovely heart-shaped face, light brown hair, and a
few freckles covering her. She was thin but looked more like a woman than the girl Jon
remembered. Jon felt his chest warm, and that heat was rising his neck. After pleasantries and the
gathering broke apart and Ella started walking towards him. Jon didn’t realize he was holding his
breath until she walked past him.

“Cousin!” Her voice was warm and soft.

Larence smiled wide, “ Ella!” Larence lost some decorum and hugged his cousin. She returned the
hug with just as much vigor. Jon was still staring when she glanced at him and turned to Laurence.

Ella turned to Jon and asked, “Who is your friend, cousin?”Jon felt his heart sink as he realized she
had completely forgotten about him. He tried to fight the disappointment and focused on not letting
it show.

“Come off it, Ella, you know Jon, you wrote me last year asking about him!” Larence said a bit too
loud. Jon’s heart skipped a beat, hearing those words, and Ella’s pretty face blushed a bit as she
punched Larence in the shoulder.

“I know Larence. I was only making a joke.” Ella finally turned to Jon and gave him a curtsey,
“Lord Jon.”

Jon quickly said, “I’m not a Lord, Lady Hornwood.” Jon stood there a second. He then promptly
bowed, remembering his manners.

“Call me, Ella, Jon.” She said with a more serious tone.

“Of course, my Lad-, I mean my Ella, I mean Ella!” Jon sputtered out, and he felt himself blush
deeply as both Ella and Larence let out a laugh.

Jon was so embarrassed that he awkwardly excused himself.

He was too nervous to see Ella again, and he told his father that he would go to the orphanage to
make sure they were taken care of before they left.

“Just be washed before you return for the feast tonight.” His father said dismissing him, Jon
nodded and made his way through the gates and waved to Fat Tom before he left.
Fat Tom spoke in his rough voice, “Off again? Oh, alright, be back before milord Stark makes me
come fetch yea, ya?” Jon just smiled and made his way through winter town before he saw a dozen
kids running around a ragged older woman.

Sera smiled as Jon neared. “Oh, thank the Old Gods you finally showed milord,” Sera said curtly.

“I’m no Lord Sera, what needs to be done today,” Jon replied.

“Try ta keep the children from killin’ each other so I can wash a couple of clothes.” So Jon tried to
wrangle the rowdy children together but soon gave up and convinced them to play monsters and
maidens. They were too eager to agree, and a seven-year-old girl named Lara demanded to be
maiden, Jon, of course, played the monster who kidnapped her.

“What monster should I be?” Jon asked the gathered group of kids.

“Dragons!”

“Wildling!”

“Bear!”

They all shouted but eventually agreed on Bear, and soon Jon was snarling and chasing the brave
young boys and girls as they tried to save the young maiden. Soon the monstrous Bear was
defeated, and the group was clamoring to play again. Jon had dirtied his tunic and cloak. Still, he
smiled at the happy faces as he agreed to another round. It was better to be here than enduring the
endless meetings that his father and Robb were currently handling, or so Jon repeated, willing it to
be true.

When Jon asked what monster he should be, he heard the same few suggestions, he listened to a
warm, and soft voice say clearly. “Direwolf?”

Jon turned to see Ella standing next to Laurence and a Hornwood man at arms. He immediately felt
his face grow hot as he tried to clean some of the dirt off. She had a smirk as she approached him,
and he finally found his senses. He bowed and barely spoke the words, “My Lady.”

“Lord Jon,” She said mockingly.

Jon’s heart started to beat faster, but he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I am not a Lord.” Ella
smiled playfully.

Little Lara bravely walked up to Ella and said with as much authority a seven-year-old orphan
could, “‘Pardons milady but Jon is playing with us right now, so if you don’t play, please leave
him for us, because he is ours!.” Larence let out a laugh as Jon’s face reddened even more as he
immediately scolded the girl.

“Lara, please apologize to Lady Hornwood!”

Lara looked defiant as she shook her head from side to side as Ella came over and knelt in front of
the girl and asked, “What was your name? Lara, yes?” Lara started to look uncertain and only
nodded.“My name is Donella Hornwood, daughter of the late Daryn Hornwood .” She knelt beside
Lara and said, “But you can call me Ella.”

Lara looked immensely pleased with herself and found her manners. She curtseyed and said, “My
name is Lara milady Ella.” Her little face darkened a little. “I meant no off...off...I didn’ mean to be
mean, but Jon is leavin’ and won’ be ‘ere to play for a long time.” Little Lara looked crestfallen.
Gods above, she would be a mummer when she was older.

Ella looked from Lara to Jon and smiled, “Then I won’t keep him from you. If...” Lara fidgeted,
waiting for Ella to finish, “I get to be a maiden with you.” Jon and the children were shocked, but
the children were soon excited to have another playmate. Ella made her way to the center. Larence
decided to be a fellow monster and crouched down and started to chase the children around. Ella
gave Jon a disapproving look as she said, “That is the poorest and least frightening monster I have
ever seen.” Her smile betrayed her mocking tone, and Jon couldn’t help but smile back. Jon’s grin
morphed into the snarl of a dire wolf as he turned to face the brave knights and ladies of the North.

--

“Aye, get up, you bastard.”

Jon tasted blood in the back of his mouth. He didn’t anticipate a fist, and he was paying for it
dearly.

It had been a few weeks since the party of two hundred people left Winterfell. They were heading
for the fork of the White Knife, where the barges of House Manderly would be waiting for them to
take them the rest of the way to the port city. The Wolf’s River was wide enough for a good-sized
riverboat and to float down lumber. Still, its lack of depth prevented barges big enough to safely
transport a party of two hundred and all of their belongings needed for an extended stay. The White
Knife, however, was broad, deep, and slow enough for those barges. Since they didn't have enough
small vessels to take the Wolf's River, that meant their party had to make their way to a small town
and holdfast on the northern bank.

Jon didn’t mind the slow journey to the fork. Ever since Ella arrived at Winterfell, Jon had found
any excuse he could to talk with her. Conversing with her soon proved quite tricky as Lord and
Lady Hornwood were very protective of the late Daryn Hornwood’s only child. Fortunately,
Larence agreed to help distract his father. Unfortunately, Larence was doing a poor job of doing it.
He would end up right next to Jon instead of being he and Ella’s lookout, which made it impossible
for any prolonged conversation. In the end, Jon didn’t mind as much as he let on, because it gave
him someone that could commiserate with the experience of being left with the other soldiers and
men-at-arms.

In the evenings, many of their group would spar, preparing for the upcoming melees. Whether it
was the proper melee or the squires', all were preparing for their chance at glory. The highborn
melee fighters only sparred with each other as it was not appropriate for lowborn soldiers and
guards to fight their “betters” outside of the tourney. Jon was initially upset, but it allowed him to
practice away from his father, which meant he could challenge the soldiers of each house, testing
his mettle against real fighters. The first evening, many of the soldiers laughed at a Lord’s bastard
who was not even a man who had come to spar with seasoned warriors of the North. His father’s
men did not laugh with them. Jon knew they didn’t think he was the best, and they may not even
consider him good compared to grown men, but he got up every time, and he learned. It took a few
days, but eventually, they started to treat him like any other soldier instead of a lord’s bastard.
Well, most of them anyway.

“I said. Get up, boy.”

The wind still hadn’t returned to his lungs, and his head was ringing. Jon tried to focus on the
ground, and it seemed to steady. Jon slowly got himself back onto his feet.

“Well, men, it seems like the boy has a little fight left in him.” Jon turned to face the man.
Steelshanks Walton was the captain of the guards for Roose Bolton. He was a tall man who always
wore steel greaves that made his legs look much longer than they were. The man’s usual dour face
held something someone could confuse for a smile. The man pointed the blunted blade and aimed
at Jon’s own. “Go on, pick it up.” Jon walked over and picked up the tourney sword. “Come on
now, boy, you’ve done poor practice. At least make me sweat.” Walton lunged at Jon, and Jon
barely had time to get his weapon up to deflect the blow. Steelshanks was powerful and quicker
than Jon expected, and Jon could feel his own strikes get weaker, and every clash of steel shook
his whole body. Jon tried to feint, but Walton was ready for it and countered with an attack that
caught Jon above the knee.
Pain flashed, and Jon grit his teeth as he knew it was going to be a bad bruise. Walton was starting
to breathe heavier now, but Jon knew he wouldn’t hold out for much longer.

Walton charged and swung. Jon rolled out of the way and grabbed dirt with his off-hand, and when
he found his feet under him, tossed the earth at Walton’s head as Walton turned to face him.

“Fuck!” Walton yelled as the dirt him in the face. The captain swung wildly, and Jon deflected the
strike and brought the sword down hard on the man’s wrist. At the last second, the wrist moved,
and Jon’s blade connected with Walton’s right above the crossguard. Walton’s sword clattered to
the ground, and Jon felt some satisfaction until he felt something connected with his chest that
made him stumble backward. Before Jon could look up, he felt a massive body run into his, and
Jon was lifted for a moment before the ground came up to meet him, and Jon let out a grunt as the
weight of Walton forced the air out. He reached for his sword when there was a hand around his
throat, and a dagger raised.

Then he heard the laugh. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and unpracticed as it escaped the
captain’s mouth. “That was a dirty move, boy.”

Jon could only whisper out, “It almost worked.”

“Almost.” The man agreed as he brought his face closer, Jon could see the yellowed teeth and
could smell onions on his breath. “Sand is better than dirt, the better chance it gets in the eyes.”
Jon blinked twice before the man got off of Jon. The captain wiped the dirt off his face and left Jon
sprawled on the ground.

Larence soon appeared in his field of vision and held out a hand. Jon got up to his feet and retrieved
the sword. “Why do you spar with Bolton men? They are much rougher.” Jon winced as the pain
in his leg, ached with every step.

“Because they are rough,” Jon said

“What do you mean?”

Jon let out a breath as he stopped and rubbed the spot on his head where he was sure a bump would
form. “They don’t hold back. My father’s men will push me, but they hold back for fear of my
father if I am hurt, so they hold back. Even though I’m a bastard, they respect my father enough.
Those men, though,” Jon pointed at the group of Bolton men. They were still sparring with one
another while Steelshanks surveyed them, “they don’t have any qualms beating a bastard bloody.”

“But you are Lord Stark’s son?”

“Bastard son Larence. Same as you.” Jon replied. He tried to keep some bitterness out of his voice.
After a few steps, Jon realized Larence wasn’t next to him. He turned to see the nearly twelve-
year-old boy with his head down. Jon walked back to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Jon?”

“Yea?”

“I don’t want to be a bastard.” The boy said so softly he could barely hear him. Jon felt a deep ache
in his chest.

“I know.” Jon put his hands on both of the boy’s shoulders. “I don’t want to be one either. Come
on, let's get something to eat and then get some sleep.” Jon got out of the sparring armor and stored
away from the training swords, then made his way through the camp.

The two boys shared a companionable silence, but before Larence left for his tent, he asked, “Jon,
can you teach me to fight like you?”

“I’m not a good fighter Larence. I am sure the Glover master of arms or even your brother Daryn is
a better sword than I am,” Jon said.

Larence shook his head, “Your really good, Jon! Please?”

A sigh involuntarily left him, and Larence’s head started to drop again. “Fine, we have to do it in
the morning.”

Larence smiled, “Yes, yes, thank you!” and the boy left back to his tent. Jon ran a hand over his
face.
“That was very kind of you.” Jon looked to where the voice came from, and he saw Ella standing
there. The evening light haloed around her, and Jon couldn't help but smile at her.

“I don’t know if that is true. Larence would be better off with someone better than me.” Jon
replied.

“I’ve seen you spar for a couple of nights, you fight men twice your age and beat them most of the
time.” Jon went to disagree even as his face flushed red. “Then again, what do I know about
fighting?” Ella smirked at him as he stood there, “Goodnight, Jon.”

Over the next two mornings, Jon and Larence woke up early and sparred for an hour, with Jon
critiquing his stance, his grip, and balance. When they fought, the boy didn’t last long, but he kept
quiet and didn’t complain. On both days, Arya would show up in trousers and a stick asking to
join. Jon would refuse, causing Arya to storm off only to come back and watch from a distance,
practicing against air. On the second day, after their morning spar, Jon was dragged by Robb to
ride next to him and the other high born boys.

Jon did his best to pay attention to the conversation. Still, his eyes kept wandering over to where
the wagon where the highborn women who were tired of riding a horse were. Jon tried to catch a
glimpse, Ella. When he didn’t, he turned his attention back to Robb, who was explaining to Theon
the importance of this holdfast where they would meet the Manderly barges.

Jon was excited to see this particular holdfast. He had grown up hearing stories about Castle
Greydam.

“Greydam was not its original name. It used to be known as Forkton thousands of years ago. It was
a small but important holdfast as it held the key to the rest of the North after White Harbor.
Maester Luwin said there used to be towers on banks of both the White Knife and the Wolf’s River
and large chains that could block the passage of any boat. Maester Luwin taught that there were
more than a few battles fought here but none more famous than the one that had saved House
Stark.” Robb explained to Bran and Beren Tallhart, who were becoming fast friends. Theon, who
was next to them, looked bored to learn about anything that didn’t involve a bow or breasts.

“Long ago House Greystark, a cadet branch of House Stark, was given White Harbor to protect the
North and hold the entrance to the White Knife. However, they eventually allied with the Boltons
to try and usurp the Kings of Winter. House Bolton planned to draw the Starks from Winterfell and
get their armies out in the open. Greystark forces were supposed to come up the White Knife,
march along the Wolf’s River, and hit the Starks from the south, cutting them off from Winterfell.
It would have worked except the small but loyal House Towers was able to forestall the Greystark
force of three thousand. They only were able to muster a force of four hundred men, nearly half of
which were not proper soldiers. With a stout keep and defensible towers, they were able to keep
the chains taut for almost two weeks, forcing the Greystarks to march south and cross the White
Knife fifty miles south and march back up from there, forcing them to have to cross at Castle
Cerwyn and leave half their force to siege the castle.” Robb said with enthusiasm, and the two boys
were smiling at the story. “This bought the Starks enough time to deal with the Boltons and turn
south to crush their cadet branch. Since then, the castle and lands had been known as Greydam.
House Towers was given White Harbor for their service but eventually died out, leaving only the
last daughter who married into the family that held it now.”

“The Manderlys?” Beren asked, and Robb nodded.

“Since then, Greydam has dwindled into a shell of what it once. Much like Moat Cailin to the
south. The towers were torn down, the stone needed elsewhere, this made the chains useless, and
they were soon done away with.” Robb finished the story lamely, which Jon thought was a poor
way to go about it.

Castle Greydam was still there, although in disrepair. The outer stone walls were torn down and
replaced with wood. Only the inner keep had stone walls, and those were barely twenty feet high.
It was said it used to have a sluice gate similar to Riverrun, although it too was no longer in use and
was filled in a couple of centuries ago. Still, Jon was excited to see this vital piece of history, and
he wondered if Ella knew all about Greydam. He turned his head around to search for her again.

“Jon, she is in the back of the procession,” Robb said, and the other boys and sons of the North, all
let out a laugh and Jon felt his face reddened.

“Snow, sniffing around a highborn, as he’d ever had a chance,” Theon said with derision. Jon knew
it came from envy, but that didn’t stop Jon from glaring.

Cley Cerwyn continued, “She is quite pretty, thinking of taking a run at her myself Jon, a future
Lady of Cerwyn or the wife of a bastard? I say it is an easy decision.” Robb turned, ready to silence
Cley, but Jon spoke up first.

“Lord Cerwyn, a bastard I may be, but at least I don't have to grow a beard to hide that monstrous
mole on your chin.” Jon’s eyes went wide as he was unable to stop the words coming from his
mouth, and Cley's face flushed with embarrassment and rage while Robb, Theon, and the other
young Lords turned their laughter towards Cley.

“How dare you-?” Cley started.

“Lord Cley, it was only a jest,” Robb said, "and quite a poor one at that. Jon tried to grow a beard
once, and it didn’t turn out well." Jon accepted the untruth, and Robb tried to quell the smirk and
failed.

Cley turned to Jon and pointed his finger at him. “You should show some respect, I’ll be a Lord
one day, and you-”

“Will be a brother to the Lord of Winterfell.” Robb finished, the jovial tone still there, but there
was something behind it. Cley went quiet, but the scowl remained. “However, you are right. My
brother was out of line, but there are better ways to settle disagreements than childish jabs.” Jon
looked at Robb with the anger of his own as his brother continued, “You could choose to settle
with a spar, first to yield?” Robb turned and gave Jon a wide grin. Jon’s face paled and opened his
mouth to protest.

“Robb, uh Lord Stark,” Robb rolled his eyes at the use of Lord, “I don’t think that would be a good
idea.” Robb just shook his head, smiling and winked at Jon, while Cley Cerwyn snarled.

“Oh, the Bastard of Winterfell nervous about crossing swords with a true Lord?” Gryff Whitehill
jested.

Robb’s face lost its amiability at the mention of Jon’s birth status. “I’ll put ten gold dragons on my
brother to win.” The young Lords went silent, sure, they were all Lords, but a gold dragon wasn’t
an insignificant amount. "Nobody wants to match it?" Robb dared them all.

Cley looked around and then scoffed, “Fine by me, Lord Stark, maybe I can buy something nice
for Lady Hornwood. Tonight at Greydam?” Cerwyn queried. Before Robb could reply, Greatjon
rumbled over, overhearing the conversation.

“What is this young Lords, someone wagering over fight? Gambling?” They all look down
embarrassed ready to be scolded by the giant man. Then they heard something they didn’t expect.
“Who is going against who?” Greatjon voiced loudly enough a few more lords ears perked up.

Robb answered. “My brother Jon against the young Lord Cerwyn, Lord Umber.”

Greatjon thought about it. “I’ll match that two dragons, young Robb.”
Harmond said. “Father, I’m going to put two on Jon here. Also, can I have two dragons?” The
Greatjon roared in laughter and agreed to his second son's request.

Leobald Talhart and Lord Helman came over, and the latter said, “Gamblin’ eh? Two dragons on
the Lord Cerwyn, talented with a blade that one.”

Leobald Talhart nodded as well, “Can’t afford a dragon but...two silver stags on Cerwyn.”

The Lords Glover came over, putting a gold dragon each on Jon. Soon it seemed every Lord and
men at arms were placing bets on Jon Snow and Cley Cerwyn. Marching was dull, and all men
enjoyed gambling and fighting, and Jon had never been so nervous. He had been sparring quite a
bit, but he had never fought with Cley Cerwyn since before the last winter, so he had no idea what
to expect.

As the sun was going down, they arrived at Greydam. The small little village surrounding the keep
had maybe a couple of dozen buildings, and the small folk came out to greet the Lords of the
North. Greydam was currently in possession of the old Lord Hobard Benyen. He was sixty-eight
years old; all of his family had died, leaving him alone. Two grandsons in the past two years from
sickness, his sons killed in either Robert’s Rebellion or at Pyke. The lands were not very rich, but
the castle was stout, and the river could provide some coin, so Jon knew the issue of succession
was causing his father a headache.

Lord Hobard greeted the group and gave bread and salt to everyone there. The man looked
weathered, with receding white hair that seemed to cling to his head desperately. His cloak was old
but well made, and his servants and few men at arms lined the courtyard.

As soon as the group entered the castle, Jon and Cley and most of the men traveling went out into
the training yard, and Jon and Cley Cerwyn started to armor themselves. His nerves were
beginning to get the better of him, and Robb was there next to him, helping him put on the last
bracer.

“Jon, you’re looking a little pale.” When Jon didn’t return the smile, Robb’s face turned serious,
“you’ve kicked my ass all over the yard, this is nothing.” Robb finished with a smirk, but it faltered
as Jon didn’t respond in kind. “Jon, I want to show the Lord’s of the North that the best sword in
the North is my brother, and they should fear that he will be by my side for the rest of my life.”
This time Jon looked away as his mouth twitched. “Now Jon, go kick his ass cause I don’t have
two gold dragons.” This time Jon did chuckle, and tension started to ebb from him.
They stepped out to the small training yard, and it seemed everyone was there. He saw Bran and
Arya wave at him while standing next, Father and Sansa. Sansa was talking to...Jon’s breath left
him as he saw light brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Jon felt his nerves return tenfold. Still, Jon
warmed up by swinging his sword a few times, trying to get that anxious energy out of his body
but to no avail. Jon saw Cley Cerwyn doing the same thing, but he had natural confidence.
Confidence that comes from knowing your future, confidence, Jon had never known.

“Jon.” the warm, soft tone made Jon jerk his body around so fast he almost fell over himself. Ella
just stood there, smiling with Laurence and Arya, whose smiles mirrored Ella’s.

“My Lady.” Jon bowed deep, unable to hide his smile.

“Ella.” She said sternly.

“Lady Ella,” Jon responded with a playful tone.

“Ella.” She said, grinning broadly.

Jon continued to grin. “Ella.” This was how every one of their conversations started the past two
weeks, something Jon wished to maintain.

“Jon. I bet a silver and twelve coppers on you. It’s all the wealth I have for the tourney. Please
don’t make me regret it.”

Jon just looked at her and could only muster a simple, “As my Lady commands.”

Arya rolled her eyes, and Jon gave her a shove, and she tried to kick him back before she composed
herself. “Jon, I wanted to wager on you as well, but Father said it was irresponsible to gamble and
wouldn’t give me the coin. All I had on me was two coppers.” Arya was beaming proudly. “I told
Ella all about how you fight, said you were the best sword in the world, please don’t make me a
liar big brother.”

Jon felt all his nerves melt away at those last two words, and he mussed Arya’s hair, but she hit his
hand away. “Never little sister.” Before he turned around to face the young Lord Cerwyn, he
addressed Lady Hornwood and Lord Halys’s bastard, “Ella. Larence.”
Jon was only a few paces from Cley when the Greatjon’s voice boomed, “Alright lads, we go until
one of you’re disarmed or your opponent yields. Don’t kill each other.” Jon and Cley nodded and
readied themselves. Jon was in his usual stance; Cley was close to the ground. Their eyes locked.

His breathing slowed.

His eyes narrowed.

“Fight!”

Before Greatjon’s echo stopped, Cley Cerwyn lashed out with impressive speed, and Jon was
forced back saved only by instinct. Jon was back-pedaling in the mud as Cley hacked and slashed
with a strength that rivaled Robb’s, but Cley was a shade slower than Robb. Jon did all he could to
hold Cley off as he studied his opponent's movements. When Cley let out a particularly vicious
swing, Jon danced out from under it and behind the young lord. If Cley was surprised, he didn’t
show it and started with his attack once again. Cley was strong, but Jon was far quicker and moved
away from swings and cuts striking back like a viper, slowly chipping away Cley’s confidence.
Cerwyn swung once, twice, and Jon dodged, spinning and slashed at Cley’s leg with more force
than necessary, and Jon felt the sword connect against the padded leather and mail. Cley cried out
and to his credit did not drop. Cley struggled to put any weight on his leg, and now it was Jon’s
turn to put Cley on the defensive. Jon went at Cley, attacking and slashing until the young Lord
was sweating and panting, his breath coming faster and harsher. Finally, Jon took mercy, slipping
past a jab and bringing the sword down on Cley’s wrist just hard enough to disarm him. With a
sword at his neck, the heir of Castle Cerwyn was shocked as he mumbled what Jon believed was,
“yield.”

Jon smiled and heard most of the gathered men groan, and a few men heartily let out a yell in
victory as quite a few coins exchanged hands, and a few people became a little bit wealthier. Robb
came up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Gods Jon, I’ve never seen you move that well, tell me you still don’t take it easy on me when we
train.”

“Never,” Jon said honestly.

Jon didn’t see Arya but felt her wrap her arms around him and loudly proclaim, “that was
incredible! You moved so fast and quickly struck it was like….” Arya moved her hands as if
striking an opponent with an invisible stick as a small auburn-haired boy joined him.

“Jon! That was really good! Can we spare some? Maybe with Beren? I want to be quick!” Bran
exclaimed.

“Me too!” Arya parroted. Jon just shook his head.

“Only if Father says so.” Disappointment showed on his sister’s face while Bran’s brightened.

Jon glanced up, seeing Ella Hornwoord walking towards him, and he quickly looked away. Bran’s
little voice reached him, “Jon, your face is really red, do you need some water? I can go get some!”
Robb let out a big laugh, and Arya unsuccessfully stifled a giggle as she gave a quick look between
the approaching girl and Jon.

“Come on, you two, let’s go collect my money.” Robb placed his hands on Bran’s shoulders and
kicked at Arya’s legs to get her to move. Jon gave Robb a thankful look as Ella came to a stop in
front of him. Her green eyes burned bright as she looked at Jon. She seemed suddenly shy but soon
rallied to speak first.

“I would like to thank you, Jon.”

“What for?” Jon racked his brain for what he had done.

“Why for making me wealthier, of course!” Ella said, and her dazzling smile made Jon’s chest feel
warm, and all he could do was give what he knew was a stupid toothy grin back.

“Of course, my Lady, I would never fail you?” Never fail you? What kind of dumb stupid-

“I would hope not good ser.” Am I... courting? But before he could say anything, Ella’s tone
became much more formal as she spoke. “I apologize for intruding, but I must now go and prepare
myself for tonight’s supper.” She shot a look over his shoulder, and he turned to see Lord
Hornwood make his way to him. Any good feeling he had was soon replaced with a measure of
dread.
The amiable Lord Hornwood came over, grinning and clapped Jon on the shoulder, “Larence
hasn’t stopped talking about how good you are with a sword. I’m glad I listened to him! Taking a
couple of stags from Lord Tallhart is the best I’ve felt in years!” He let out a loud laugh, and Jon
gave a brief, stilted chuckle, and the Lord of Hornwood walked towards the great hall of Greydam,
and Jon let out a sigh of relief.

“Oi, Snow!” He turned to see the Smalljon lumbering over with Dacey Mormont. “This young lass,
and I owe you a drink!” Smalljon said playfully, winking and Dacey.

“Watch it, Lord Umber.” Dacey Mormont said in her low throaty voice, neither playful nor
reprimanding. But Smalljon just let out a loud laugh like his father and grabbed Jon by the
shoulder.

“Come on, Jon, let’s get you cleaned up, your feasting with me tonight.”

Jon was enjoying the company of young heirs and sons of the North. They were eating well, and
Harmond had snatched a mug of ale from his father.

As far back as Jon could remember, this was the first time he enjoyed a feast, and for a brief
moment, he felt like he was supposed to be here. Although to say it was a proper feast would most
likely be wrong, but Jon didn’t care. Smalljon was boisterous and drinking for three men and was
only matched by his father. Smalljon and Dacey Mormont were ribbing each other, while Maege
was ignoring the Greatjon’s loud laugh at his own jape. Jon was in discussion with Harmond and
Lyra, when Robb, Theon, and Cley Cerwyn walked over. Well, in Cley’s case, limped over.

“Jon, I would like to spar some while we wait for the barges to loaded in the morning,” Harmond
said. Jon felt a rush of pride until Harmond continued, “I’m only used to facing strong opponents,
you’ll be a nice change of pace.” Harmond gave a sly grin, and Jon reddened, while many of the
young lords around him burst out laughing.

Still, regardless of the jabs and jests, he sat with the next generation of Northern rulers, feeling like
he earned his place, so Jon spoke, “You're right Harmond, I have never fought someone with such
poor form.” Harmond smiled back at, swung a fist, and Jon moved his head back in the nick of
time. “Only proves my point.” Harmond quietly chuckled, conceding the point.

“Aye, a quick bugger you are,” Harmond spoke. “When you get some meat on your bones, you’ll
be a great fighter, Jon.” Jon reddened a bit at the compliment. “Pretty as woman, but a good
fighter.” Harmond laughed with most of the table when Asher came over, in his cups a bit.
“Aye, and what does a pretty fighter do when they get older, Snow?”

Jon took a moment and looked at the five or six young lords who were looking at him in
anticipation. Jon answered honestly, “The Night’s watch when I turn eighteen.”

The merriment faded a little in Harmond’s face, “Why?”

“There is honor in serving,” Jon said automatically.

A passing Alysanne Mormont stopped and butted into the conversation, “Serving where?”

“The Watch,” Jon said.

Alysanne barked a laugh, “You sound like the Old Bear.” Alysanne continued. “He’s a good man,
but only went on his fiftieth nameday, with a grown son ready to take over.” Alysanne then placed
her hand on Jon’s shoulders. “There is an honor, yes, but wait till you're older. Don’t waste your
pretty years freezing your balls off.” Alysanne then grabbed Jon’s face and kissed him to the shock
of the table. It was a quick and forceful peck, and Jon had no time to dwell on it before it was done.
“Pretty but not a great kisser.” She slapped Jon’s cheek playfully and walked on to the uproarious
laughter of everyone around. Jon got up from the table to the feigned ‘ah’s’ of all the lords, which
soon turned to laughter.

He needed some air, and some time to regain his dignity and his natural color. He walked out of the
hall, past the training yard, and to the stables to where his horse was. It was an old horse that was
gifted to Robb from the Ryswells, but he had received a new destrier this year, and he gave Jon this
one. Jon found a brush and went to work, brushing his coat out.

He was nearly done when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Ella there, looking
pretty having changed from riding wear into something more suited to feast. She looked angelic as
the evening sun framed her hair.

“Lady Hornwwod.”

“Jon..”
“Ella…,” Jon replied, and it got him a smile, and Jon returned it.

“I heard you had a new suitor.” Jon’s face reddened. “A she-bear from House Mormont.” Ella
gave out a small laugh as Jon turned back to the horse, trying to hide his shame. “I hear she has a
child already. She must be a great kisser.” The embarrassment was too high, and Jon put the brush
away.

“I guess.” Ella sat in silence at his reply. “She was my first.” Jon winced and turned to see Ella
smirking. “What?”

“I never took you for a liar?” Ella responded

Her words confused him, “A what?”

Ella hunched her shoulders and said, “Come now, Jon.”

“It was!”

“Sure…” she said as she rolled her eyes, she patted one of the horses chuckling for a moment
before looking back at Jon, her cheerful face falling for a moment, “Gods. You’re serious! But
you’re so hands….” Ella’s voice faded as her face flushed.

Jon’s face stayed the same shade of red as they remained in awkward silence for a couple of
minutes, trying to keep busy.

“I’ve been kissed once.” Ella finally said, and Jon felt something bloom in his chest that he tried to
swallow back down. “It was a boy in a mummer's troupe, he had long red hair, and he sang to me.”
Jon held his tongue while he checked the hooves of his horse. “It was a good kiss.” Jon finished
with the hooves. “He asked me to come with him, but that is no future.”

Jon felt a punch to his gut, and he couldn’t stop himself, “Aye, that’s what matters most.” Jon got
up.
“Jon, that’s not what…”

“No, it was,” Jon said. Ella went to speak, and Jon raised his hand and kept looking down at the
straw on the ground. With a gentle voice continued, “It should be, you deserve someone with lands
and a keep and servants, so you never have to want. More than anyone I know, you deserve it.”

Jon felt a hand on his face, and he reflexively leaned into it and looked up, and Ella was staring at
him. She spoke so softly he had to focus on hearing her. “You deserve that too.”

Jon gave her a sad smile, “I won’t have it.” Ella frowned slightly. “Lady Stark won’t allow it, the
Riverlands won’t accept it, but my brother will ignore sense and do it when he becomes Warden.”

Ella gave a smile, “That’s…”

“That’s why I can’t let him. It’s a mistake, he has two other brothers that need land, but he’s a
stubborn ass, so I can’t let him.”

“Jon, what do you mean?” Ella said nervously.

“When I’m eighteen I’ll join the Night’s Watch, it's the only way,” Jon said, and he lowered his
gaze, four weeks ago he would brim with pride, but now….

He didn’t even see the hand, but he felt the burn from the slap. Jon stepped back in shock, holding
his hand over the mark. “What the hell?” Jon said while he continued to rub the mark on his cheek.

Ella’s eyes held a quiet fury even as they were brimming with tears. Jon was about to speak again,
but Ella grabbed his cheeks, and soon her lips crashed into his. Jon overcame his shock and kissed
her back. It may have lasted hours or only a few seconds, but far too soon, it was over. Jon’s cheek
still burned, but he felt lighter than air, but it disappeared when he opened his eyes, and Ella still
had some tears. “Don’t take the black Jon, there are…options, we….we could go across the sea,
live in Braavos.”

“You deserve more, more than I could give you. More than anything I could give you across the
sea and away from your family. No. I know you deserve more than what a bastard can give you.”
Jon said, defeated.
“You don’t know that.”

“I know your Uncle would never accept it.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” Jon replied. “I think you do too.”

“I don’t, and you shouldn’t either,” Ella shot back.

Jon's mouth formed a tight line, “I am a bastard.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” Ella said as she leaned toward him for another kiss.

Jon placed a hand and stopped her, “You should.”

Ella’s eyes opened, and she scowled and pushed him away, “You’re a coward, Jon Snow.” She
turned to exit the stable.

“Ella,” Jon said, but she had fled into the night. Jon felt pain, not like a beating in the yard but
something sharp and deep inside him. He felt that he needed to go after her, explain himself so she
would understand that he wasn’t worthy of her. That she was kind and beautiful and witty and
deserved everything, the world had to offer. What if he did receive a holdfast, it would be small,
with poor land and poorer people and unsuitable for someone like her.

Jon was about to take a step forward when he heard someone call for him. Jon was about to
respond when he saw Larence turn the corner, and the boy’s face was in a snarl, and he was
carrying a wooden practice blade. When he saw Jon, his eyes narrowed. “What did you do to
Ella?” His boy’s voice tried to make it threatening, but it didn’t work. Jon stifled a chuckle, but it
didn’t go unnoticed by Larence, whose snarl deepened. Jon’s eyes went wide as he saw Larence
raise his wooden blade to strike, and Jon moved to get out of the way. “What did you do to her,
Jon,” Larence spoke again as he brought the blade up back to his chest.
“Nothing!” Jon protested.

“Nothing wouldn’t make her cry like that!” Larence swung again, and Jon moved, but the boy had
gotten better, and the tip connected with Jon’s arm, and pain bloomed, and Jon knew he would
have a new bruise.

“Gods, Larence, calm down, and let me speak.” Larence’s scowl stayed where it was, but the
wooden blade stopped, and Larence raised it, so it was pointing at Jon’s chest.

“Speak. Now.” Larence gritted out.

Jon reached out and moved the wooden blade from his chest. “Your cousin...She’s…” Jon
struggled to find the words that he wanted to say. Jon plowed through, “I told her I am joining the
watch when I turn eighteen.” Larence eyes went wide as he forgot to scowl.

“W-why?” Larence sputtered out.

Jon shrugged, Larence was young, and he still seemed to have some innocence left to him. “Your
cousin, Ella, is a good person, and she’ll make a great Lady one day.” Larence furrowed his brow.
“But I can’t be her Lord. At least, not the one she deserves.” Jon’s throat tightened. “I told her that.
That she deserves someone better, that your father won’t let a bastard like me marry someone like
her.”

“But, you love her?” Larence questioned.

Jon thought hard on that. Do I love her? He fancied her. He enjoyed spending time with her. He
liked that kiss. “Maybe. I think I would, but it doesn’t matter.”

Jon then looked at Larence, his head was down, and Larence muttered out, “Cause we’re
bastards.”

Jon leaned back against the post and took a deep breath. He then let it out. “Aye, cause we are
bastards.”
 “Will I have to join the Watch too?” Larence said.

Jon gave a sad smile and put a hand on the short boy’s shoulder, “Not if you don’t want to, you
could go south, become a knight and marry a merchant’s daughter. You could go across the
Narrow Sea and be a famous sellsword. You can travel across the world and see all the wonders in
Lomas Longstrider’s tale. You could go to Oldtown, learn to be a maester, and serve a great lord.”
Larence face brightened a bit. “Being a bastard isn’t all bad, Larence, we have some freedom. Not
much, but we don’t have the responsibility of our brothers so we can choose to do what we want.”
Jon said. He didn’t know where the words came from. He wasn’t sure he even believed them, but it
comforted his friend. Jon wasn't sure whether if it was a lie or not. But comforting Larence, just for
a night, seemed like the honorable thing to do.

Chapter End Notes

Last little chunk for a bit.

 Chapter 5

Eddard

Ned was exhausted. Truthfully he was not sure the last time he felt rested. The journey to White
Harbor was slower than he had planned, the barges trudged alone and one barge hitting a bar in the
river three days into their journey, forcing them to stop and spend two days getting it ready to move
again. Now, instead of two weeks before the wedding, it was down to six days. Six days for Ned to
set the North right, consolidate Winterfell's power and authority, and to ensure the relationships
between the North and South were in good standing. Six days to establish good relations with the
Northern lords before the month-long slog of hammering out the finer points and details. Ned also
had to sit to meet with sycophantic southern lords and greedy merchants from across the Narrow
Sea. At least Ned would see Jon Arryn again.

Jon Arryn, Ned's second father, the one who taught him what it meant to be a man, the man who
allowed Ned to watch him rule the Eyrie for those few years before the world broke apart. The
only reason Ned had held the North together for the past thirteen. Ned felt the corners of his mouth
flicker up, thinking of seeing the old man again.

However, his good mood was interrupted by the thin pale man, with haunting blue eyes to his left.
"Lord Stark, thank you again for allowing me to accompany you and your heir, Robb, through the
gates of White Harbor, when you do have time, however, there are a few more things we need to
discuss." Roose Bolton spoke with what was almost a whisper, causing Ned to have to concentrate
on every word he said. Ned, never liked Lord Bolton, the ancient animosity was legendary, but
Lord Bolton's father was amicable, and no reports were coming out of his lands. Not one record,
except that which Lord Bolton gave him.

"Of course, Lord Bolton, I look forward to our talks." Lord Stark said back. Lord Bolton bowed in
his saddle.

Ned thought back on the journey here. Every day, Ned rode with a different Lord, so he rode with
every major lord at least twice, sometimes three times. I need to make sure to meet with those that
only rode with me twice.

The first time riding next to each lord turned out to be the same. They spent the time discussing
how their household was, how the small folk were fairing after the three-year winter, what needs to
be done in their lands, the strength of arms, opinions on the North, and the limited trade that had
with southern kingdoms and even discussion on the tourney. Those talks were long, but necessary
and allowed Ned to get a general census of how that portion of the North was. The hardest to talk
to was Greatjon. He was a good, loyal man, but to get him to stay focused was a difficult thing
indeed.

The second or third time was when Ned would ask what was needed, both by him and the Crown.
All of them complained about the Crown's taxes increasing for the sixth year in a row. This
became more and more difficult through the winter, and everyone knew the Crown raised taxes in
the summer years. It was especially challenging for Ned because word of Ned shouldering the
debt of House Mormont seemed to have got out, so many seemed to exaggerate the circumstances
of their coffers. Still, the talk of taxes and trade did not compare to discussions of betrothal offers
that came from everyone he spoke to.

Every lord offered a son or daughter to Ned's children. Each detailing why an alliance with their
particular house would be advantageous for everyone. Daughters, cousins, nieces for Robb and
Brandon, even Rickon. Sons, brothers, and nephews for Sansa and Arya. Gods he hated it, made
him feel as though his children were only pieces on a map, coins for bartering and wool for trade.
It was the same sentiment his father had, but it was necessary. Gods, I'm defending my father.

Usually, to finish the talks, they would all implore him to visit, saying that the Warden of the
North must see more of the North. All of this made Ned weary, and the only solace he found was
with his children.

Ned would see Robb following his lead, spending time with each of the future leaders of the North
that were there, speaking to them, joking with them, and doing something Ned envied, which was
making them like him with ease and grace that only Ned's older brother could accomplish. Despite
his envy, it made Ned proud to see his son being so dutiful.

Sansa was enjoying spending some time with the Northern ladies, and Ned believed it would do
her good to escape some of the southron traditions Catelyn so studiously employed. Sansa may act
like a lady of the south, but her heart was of the North, and it was beginning to show. She laughed
louder, joked with the other ladies, she even saw her take a swing at Robb but stopped and blushed
immediately before muttering an apology. They all told her she would be beautiful, and at ten
years old, Sansa simply beamed at any praise. Gods. Ned was going to struggle to see his girls
married off. Only to see them on a rare occasion. Well, maybe just Sansa. He looked to his other
daughter to see her following Dacey Mormont like a duckling following its mother.

Arya seemed to idolize the warrior woman. Asking them questions about weapons and hunting and
stories of their house. Dacey Mormont especially was indulgent his youngest daughter, but even
Ned could see Dacey starting to become weary with questions. Maybe I could foster her there.
Catelyn would fight him on it. Maybe let her visit three months of the year at the least.

Bran spent his time with the other lads his age, play fighting, racing around the group and causing
general mayhem, mostly with his large shadow, big-little Beren Talhart.
The last was Jon, who spent a bit of his time with Robb. However, according to Jory, Jon was
spending with soldiers or being around Ella Hornwood. This made Ned nervous, Halys was very
protective of the only piece of his late sibling he had left. Halys even suggested a match between
young Donella and Robb. The few times he'd seen Jon and Ella together, it simultaneously lifted
his spirits and deepened his anxiety. They would laugh together and talk intently, even drawing in a
few other people into the conversations, but anytime that happened, Halys would move over and
end the conversation.

Ned was under no illusions, Jon may have Stark features, but his other half refined them into a
much more handsome face than Ned or any of his siblings ever had. What saddened Ned most was
that his son looked, but Ned knew it was for naught. Jon said he wanted to go to the Wall, but Ned
had no desire to see that happen, unless... No, it would be foolish and political folly . Alas, it
looked like the issue resolved itself as Ned had heard from Jory that Ella and Jon had been
nowhere near each other since Greydam.

The party approached White Harbor, and the horn announced their arrival. He looked at his
children, all on horseback for the final leg. He was excited to see their faces as they were led into
the port-city. White Harbor was the most populous and one of the only actual cities in the North.
With almost fifty thousand people, it was much more crowded than his children were used to, and
Ned wanted them to get a taste of city life was like.

However, as they came upon the White gates, Ned's military mind started working as he analyzed
the tall white walls, thirty feet tall with parapets every fifty or so feet. There seemed to be fewer
guards than Ned would deem acceptable, but he assumed that it was due to the influx of people
here for the wedding. Outside the city-gates, there were a few hedge knights in their small tents,
and Ned knew that would see more before the wedding and tourney were through. When the gates
opened the fattest man, Ned had ever seen on a horse that seemed it could pull three plows at once.
Next to him appeared to be his doubles, only fraction thinner who mirrored their father's
expression. Fools they may seem, but Ned knew better. Still, he liked the Manderlys, ambitious
maybe, but loyal. "Lord Stark, welcome to White Harbor we are ever so thankful that you join us
for my son's wedding. We will feast your arrival, and every night after that, you chose to bless us
with your company."

So it begins. Ned forced himself to grin back, "Thank you Lord Manderly, I look forward to your
hospitality, it has been quite the journey here, and we would like to look as lords should for the
wedding." Lord Manderly laughed a bit too hard for such a weak jest.

"Aye, that would be the best for us all," Wyman said.

"Lord Wyman, this is my son and heir Robb." Robb came and bowed a little on his horse as
Wyman, who returned the gesture. "My daughters Sansa and Arya." Sansa gave a perfect response,
and Arya looked like her back spasmed. "And this is my second to last, young Brandon." Bran was
looking around in awe at the many buildings and could only nod when he noticed the silence.

"Welcome, welcome all of you. My eldest, Lord Wylis, will escort you as I greet the rest of the
Northern Lords you have traveled with."

"I appreciate it, my Lord." Ned and his family made his way through the gate, each taking some
bread and salt when they did. Wylis was Ned's age with a bald head and think mustache giving him
the appearance of a walrus that often occupied Seal Rock in White Harbor's bay. Wylis led them
down the main road, which boasted of choice inns, shops, blacksmiths, and a few apothecaries.
Side streets shot out in every direction leading to the other places of the city, some less reputable
but where the cheaper fares could be found, and the closer to the harbor, the more reasonable the
expense. The main road led straight to the Harbor, but the largest side street led to the center of the
town and forked in two similar but distinct directions, one headed towards the old castle-turned
prison the Wolf's Den, while the other led to their final destination, New Castle. The New Castle
was as white as the Harbor's name and was high up on a hill overlooking the city, and as Ned rode
up to it, he had memories flash before him of a red castle he once rode up to. Ned shook the
thoughts from his mind, and instead, he and Wylis talked about his brother's upcoming wedding.

Ned asked who had arrived, and took a deep breath, "House Grafton obviously and the Arryns of
Gulltown, and with you most of the Northern Houses. Lord Karstark is here with all of these
children. The Ryswells and Lady Dustin as well. House Locke made it only an hour before you.
We are still waiting for the Flints of both Widow's watch and the Fingers to get here. We have no
idea if the Reeds will attend. The Lords, Corbray Redfort, Royces, and Lady Waynwood and few
more Vale houses will arrive in the next couple of days if the seas are good. The houses of the
crown lands will be here the day or two after that. The Hand of the King will arrive a day or two
before the wedding, and Lord Arryn wrote that he will have the Crownlords with him, as well as a
Lords of the Narrow Sea. We also have a magister from Pentos and four merchants from Braavos,
not to mention the knights and soldiers who wish to participate in the tournament. We did hear that
your good brother would attend as well, and wanted to meet his nieces and nephews." Wylis talked
for so long without a break. He became nervous, "Apologies, my Lord, it has been a stressful few
weeks."

"No need to apologize Lord Wylis, I can sympathize with your situation, if you need anything of
me, please don't hesitate to ask." Wylis looked relieved, and Ned continued, "Your two lovely
young daughters, how do they fare?" Wylis' expression softened and talked at length of his
daughters. Wynafryd, who just turned fifteen with hair like his wife's who was was a bit shy. His
daughter Wylla, a year younger but was wild and care-free with a sharp tongue and sharper wit.
Ned gave a genuine smile, "She will get right along with my Arya, then." Wylis was very pleased
with this, and they discussed their children until they entered the Merman's Court.

As soon as they stepped into the Great hall, Ned was quickly greeted by Lord Karstark and both
the Ryswells and Lady Dustin. Ned made his excuses to get away and to get his family settled.
They were escorted to their rooms. Which were on the floor underneath the Manderly families who
were at the top. They were left alone to unpack. This was the first time he noticed Jon, whose
happy demeanor was nowhere to be found and was replaced by his typical brooding face. Ned
decided this could wait and decided to talk to his children about what would be expected. "Robb
and Jon, you will spend the mornings with me as we meet with Nobles from all over Westeros and
a few from Essos to discuss anything and everything. Afterward, you may travel only to the
Harbor, tourney grounds, or training grounds but no more gambling, please?" The three boys only
snickered while nodding their heads. Ned's voice grew serious again. "You may not cross the main
road. Alyn will be your escort. Sansa and Arya, you will do what is expected of Ladies," Arya's
mouth opened to protest, "to the best of your ability, but you will have two guards each with you.
Bran, no climbing. I mean it! This is not our home, you may also not leave the Castle, and will
only travel to the tourney grounds with me when the tournament takes place. I know how slippery
you can be, so you will have three guards with you at all times. Do I make myself clear?"

An echo of agreement found him.

Ned turned to Theon, "Theon," the young boy turned to him, the smirk falling from his face, "You
need to be careful, every northern house here lost men to your father's rebellion. This is your
chance to show them you will be different, and you are not your father." Theon frowned at him,
and Ned decided to push the issue further, "I'll have four guards with you at all times, and I mean
at all times."

Robb spoke up, "Guest rites protect him, father, he doesn't have to worry."

"Of course, but I just want to make sure," Ned finished and dismissed his children.

The next few days went about as well as he could expect. Robb and Jon did well, paying attention
to the various negotiations Ned had them be apart of. Robb struggled to follow it all but did well
while Jon seemed consumed by it and listened with eagerness as deals were done with the Northern
Lords. The only meetings that didn't go as expected were the meetings with the Whitehills,
Karstarks, and Hornwoods and unfortunately, they were one right after another,

Ned never liked Ludd Whitehill, as he was a minor Lord sworn to the Boltons, and they rarely met
face to face, but as tensions were getting out of hand between House Forrester and Whitehill, it was
time to intervene.

Ned cleared his throat and began speaking, "Lord Whitehill, Lord Bolton and Lord Glover have
asked me to speak to you and Lord Forrester. I have spoken to Lord Forrester, and he has told me
you have been making more aggressive claims," Ned held up his hand to forestall an interruption,
"I understand that this is only one side to the story, so I want to know yours."

Lord Whitehill stared at the people present in the room, first Ned, then Robb, to Jon and Ned's
guards on either side. "Lord Stark, you know of the long-standing enmity between Forrester and
us." Ned inclined his head. "You know that both of our main trade is in lumber, some trapping, and
hunting but mostly lumber." Ned knew where this was going. "As you well know, the forest under
the rule of Ironwrath is well stocked in a wide variety of wood. The woods around Highpoint have
some variety as well, but the most prized are the ironwoods. Highpoint has four hundred acres, but
as you know, the Forresstors have a thousand times, maybe even more. I know that lumber is
traded nominal outside the North, our way is the old way." Lord Whitehill was becoming flushed
with anger. "Most of those forests are ours, Lord Stark. Unlawfully taken. Those ironwoods are
ours, they are the reason we struggle Lord Stark." He was shouting now. "Lord Gregor isn't just
satisfied which is already taken but is pushing for villages and mills. I demand justice be done."

Ned fixed him with his best imitation of his father's stare until Ludd Whitehill cooled off. "You do
not demand of me, Lord Whitehill." The old lord's scowl lessened a bit. "However, Lord Forrester
said much the same, I could find the ancient laws and borders if we were in Winterfell. Instead, I
will only make the suggestion I made to Lord Gregor." Whitehill seemed a little more interested.
"Marry your young son and heir Gryff to Lady Mira, have Gregor, as part of dowry surrender some
acres of land, be it mills, villages, whatever. Join the houses, end this nonsense." Whitehill's scowl
returned with rage and a snarl.

"Marriage, Lord Stark, that is your counsel? I will not sully the line of my house with Forrester
blood! How dare you suggest this! No wonder the Mor-"

Ned cut him off, "Watch yourself, my Lord, this is the second time I warned you, there will not be
a third." Old Ludd was still angry, Ned sighed, "Lord Forrester had the same reaction, my Lord, I
do not want any more escalation between you two. Give me some time, let us find a solution while
we are all in the same place. However, this meeting is overall the same, You are dismissed."
Whitehill gave a slight bow and left. Ned looked at Jon and Robb, who were both frowning at Lord
Whitehill as he went.

"He is an unpleasant man, but he is one of our Lord's, so he gets his way," Ned told his sons.

"Even when he is acting like an ass?" Robb asked, smirking. This caused Jon to chuckle.

Ned silenced them both with a look, "An arse to you or me, maybe. But this feud is deep and goes
back to the Andal invasion, hundreds of years of malice between the two houses. It ebbs and flows,
but it has been reignited in recent years, and if your duty as a Lord, Robb, is to listen, hear their
complaints and try and find a solution."
"Won't one of them be mad at the outcome?" Robb asked.

Ned smiled at both his sons, "If you're lucky." Robb gulped, and Ned put a hand on his shoulder,
"You'll have plenty of practice Robb, and you will make some mistakes, but you will be successful
as well. Come, let us speak to Lord Karstark."

Lord Karstark came in soon after. The tall, gaunt, bearded Lord of Karhold was an imposing figure
and one that had taken time for Ned to earn his respect. That respect, unfortunately, did not end the
lord's ambition.

"Lord Stark," came Karstark's raspy greeting.

"Lord Karstark," Ned tilted his head towards the chair across from his desk. "Good to see you
come sit." As Rickard Karstark sat down, Ned started, "What do you wish to discuss?"

"A few things, my Lord." Ned waited for him to continue, "We need to discuss the taxes you are
imposing my lord, taxes are necessary, of course, but every year since the Greyjoy rebellion they
have increased, little by little. Until now, we are paying a quarter more than we ever did under the
Mad King, and we helped Robert win that throne, and when winter came, did he send us to aid us,
no, he took more when spring arrived." Ned could only agree, it was frustrating and hitting the
North harder than most. It was always a delicate balance in the North, and too much one way or the
other will cause it all to topple over. "Even then, though, the Mormonts have received a reprieve
from paying their taxes. They were headed by a slaver, and yet they get a reprieve?" Rickard
Karstark started to ramble, half in anger and a half in frustration.

Ned stood up, "Lord Karstark." When Karstark kept going, Ned raised his voice, "Lord Karstark!"
Karstark slowly stopped when Ned again affixed him with his gaze. "What would you have me do
with House Mormont? I went to execute their lord, but he fled to Essos. Should I take all that they
own? Punish the entire region, bankrupting the house so that they can never again be valuable
assets to the North? No. That is not our way. If we don't band together, aid each other, the North
fails. We punish those guilty, no more." This didn't assuage the Lord of Karhold. "However, I
understand the burden the Crown has been placing on us. Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King,
arrives soon. It is one of the first things that we will be discussing as I share your frustration."

"Aye Lord Stark, you were raised with the King and know you are friends, but what he is asking of
the North is not an act of a friend."
Ned knew this was bordering on treason, "Careful Lord Karstark, I share your concern, but outside
of this room, to people who do not know you, that would be a treasonous statement." Lord Karstark
was brash but not stupid. He understood he said all he could say on that.

"Lord Stark, I also understand your young son has no betrothed." Ned looked to his left, where
Robb was squirming, looking down, while Jon was trying not to smirk.

Ned gave a look at Jon. His son quickly regained his composure. Ned then addressed Lord
Karstark, "Aye, that was another reason for me to come to White Harbor, I was hoping to meet the
younger Lords and Ladies. This visit will allow me to help to see what was best for my family and,
of course, what was best for the North." Ned finished, and Rickard seemed to weigh his words.

"Then I would want you to meet my daughter Alys why you are here, young Robb. She's a good
young girl, and since the Karstarks and Starks haven't been joined together in many generations, it
would provide a stable foundation going forward."

"Aye it may, but I have to consider all options and take into account young Robb's opinion as well.
Thank you, Lord Karstark, you may go." The Lord of Karhold left, and Ned sagged in his chair.
One more to go.

"Will, you really take into account who I want to marry?" Robb's voice surprised him.

"Aye, but it will be a small factor Robb, I want you to be happy, but the North must always come
first." Robb looked resigned. "You know I was never meant to marry your mother, but eventually
we found happiness, you could as well." Robb nodded, and Ned motioned to the guard to bring
Lord Hornwood.

When Halys came in his usual jovial manner was replaced by something he just saw on Ludd
Whitehill. "Lord Hornwood, please sit." As he did, Ned kept going, "what do I owe the pleasure?
We had only just met yesterday when you so kindly offered your son for marriage to my Sansa.
Which is still being considered, of course." Ned noticed Halys glaring at Jon, and Ned realized this
would be a very different conversation. "Jon, leave us." If his son looked surprised, he didn't show
it. Instead, he looked a bit guilty as he walked out.

Halys sent his stare towards Ned, "I love my niece very much, Lord Stark, more so than I loved my
younger brother, who you know I adored. I want Ella to be happy, in a large hall, supported by
servants and good land with incomes so that she wants for nothing." Ned knew what came next. "It
will not do. To have her ruin her chances at a good future by running around with a bastard that has
none." Ned clutched the side of his chair, and he saw Robb out of the corner of his eye purple with
rage, Robb opened his mouth to say something, but Ned stared at him until his mouth shut.

"I understand your frustration Lord Halys, but that is my son, bastard, or no." Lord Halys calmed
and started to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, I have a bastard myself. Jon is a good lad, or so my son Larence says, really
looks up to him, he does. He's a strong fighter for his age, many of the lords speak highly of him,
and Ella was quite taken with him."

"Was my Lord?" Ned turned his head towards Robb with a questioning look.

"Aye Lord Stark, they were inseparable during the journey as much as they tried to hide it, but I
am no fool. But no more, Larence wouldn't say what happened only that he was there." Lord
Hornwood said. "Nonetheless, men talk, and I have heard soldiers say that she is taken with him
and that your boy cannot keep his eyes from her."

"They are but children, my Lord."

"Not for much longer, and I know what those looks will lead to, and I will not have her chances at
a good husband ruined." Halys was heated, and Ned fought to keep his frustration from showing.
"Pardon me, Lord Stark, but how would you feel if my Larence looked at your Sansa like your boy
looks at my Ella?"

Ned felt a pang within him. Damn him. He was right, but damn him. And damn himself for
agreeing. "Aye, so be it I will talk to him. Is there anything else?"

"Aye, and I am grateful, however, since Greydam, I have noticed she is decidedly unhappy and
decidedly not near your son." Lord Hornwood gritted the last bit out.

Ned thought for a moment, taking in the implications of Lord Hornwood's words. Or what thought
the lord was insinuating. "Have you talked to your niece?"

"I have, and she says nothing."

"And what would you have me do?" Ned knew what he wanted, but he wanted to hear the man say
it.

Lord Halys rubbed his hands together. "I would like to have your son sent to my chambers so I can
question him." Ned could hear Robb breathe out sharply.

"No," Ned stated, "But, I can call for Jon, and we can question him here and now." Ned flatly
stated.

Halys stared at Ned for a couple of heartbeats. "Of course." he gritted out. Ned called for Jon, and
Jon surveyed the room his pale face looking paler than usual, but Jon held a neutral expression.

Ned gave his son what he hoped was a sympathetic look, "Jon, Lord Hornwood has noticed his
niece Ella has not quite been herself, and she hasn't said anything about what happened, we thought
to ask you," Jon's went even further white which Ned found odd, now Ned was starting to get
nervous. Did Jon do something? Please, gods, don't let Jon have done something. "Jon, be honest
now. Go ahead, my lord."

Lord Halys studied Jon, "I love my niece Jon, I want her happy, and with a good marriage, so I
must ask a few questions about the nature of your relationship with her." Jon nodded, not able to
meet his eyes. "So Jon Snow, what is the nature of your relationship?"

Jon slowly raised his head and met the lord's eye, still pale but more resolute. "We, uh, we met my
lord at Winterfell." Jon swallowed. "We started speaking to one another, quite often, my lord. The
last we talked was the night I sparred with Lord Cley." Jon was starting to sweat. "We spent a good
deal of time together speaking about many things, but that night I uh mentioned my intention to go
to the Night's Watch on my eighteenth name day." Halys raised his eyebrow at that, but Jon
continued. "Ella, I mean Lady Hornwood said she would be displeased if I did, she uh, I'm sorry
my Lords, she uh kissed me." Shit.

Halys Hornwood jumped to his feet, "You what?!" Halys said, and Jon flinched back, and Ned was
on his ready to step in, but Jon recovered from his flinch, and instead of looking apologetic, he
looked...defiant.

"It went no further my Lord I swear on my honor, I know that means nothing to most, but it's all a
bastard has." Lord Hornwood was still angry and standing, his snarl was there, and his hand was
hovering over his dagger. "I am fond of your niece Lord Hornwood, and she is fond of me. I know
it is folly, and I told her as such. She slapped me and left me, upset and crying, and called me a
coward. She hasn't spoken to me since." Lord Hornwood's snarl disappeared, and the space was
silent for a few moments. Jon looked around the room, and Ned felt anger in his chest. Anger and
pride and profound sadness. His thirteen-year-old boy spoke like a man ten years older. With a
distinct idea of what his life would be and what he specifically would never have. Jon broke the
silence. "You're right, my lord, she deserves more than me, and I am too fond of her to allow her to
have less. To ruin her chances of having that life. No, that would not do."

Lord Hornwood's anger had abated, and he slowly took his seat. "Aye, you're right, you would not
do." He noticed Jon's jaw shift, but the tone of Halys's voice wasn't meant with ill intent, but
resignation. It was a while before the Lord of Hornwood spoke, "I appreciate your honesty Jon, I
will talk about this with Lady Ella." He got up to leave, and as he reached the door, he turned to
Jon, "You're a good lad, Jon...if…." Halys Hornwood trailed off, shook his head, and left the solar.

Jon was in pain, it was easy for anyone to see, Ned spoke, "Jon?"

"Excuse me, father, I'm not feeling well." Jon left, wiping his eyes.

Ned sat back exhausted and closed his eyes, thinking about how to fix all of this, He heard
footsteps to his right and then a sigh as someone sat down in front of him. "Father, we need to talk
about Jon."

Ned opened one eye and closed again, "What about Jon, Robb?"

"Father, Jon is not joining the Watch," Robb said. It wasn't a question merely a statement of fact.

Ned sat up and opened his eyes, "It's not our place to force him not to. It's his choice."

"I want to change his mind, I want to, I don't know, there must be something I can do." Robb
started pacing around. "He's my brother, Father, my brother, and he feels he needs to leave?"

"He doesn't…"

"He does! I know how he thinks, its probably because he thinks it will give him honor, or purpose
or maybe because I was an ass to him."
"Robb, do not interrupt me." His son stopped and muttered an apology.

Ned took a deep breath, but he knew his son would not be quiet for long. His hands were on his
head. "Father, please. Something, anything we can do?"

Ned had never been more proud of his son. He felt his tears start to form and blinked them away
before they could develop, "I know Robb, I've told Jon he is always welcome at Winterfell, but
he's a Snow, Robb." Robb's face fell, then he looked up determined.

"I can give him land, give him a holdfast, make him a bannerman to Winterfell! We could have
him close, make him my advisor, he could build it as his own!" Robb was excited and walking
around. Ned told him to sit, it was time for a hard truth.

"You could Robb, but where? How much would you give him? How would it affect the North,
what would the Lords of the North think?" Robb's excitement started to drain away. "I love Jon, I
would love to do what you suggest, but how can I face other Lords just giving away land?" Robb
was starting to get angry.

"We rule the North, the other Lords can shove it." Ned let out a chuckle, and the anger in his son's
face broke a bit as his lip curled.

Ned's chuckle turned from joy to something more hollow. "We are not Tyrant's Robb. We must be
strong, sure. We have held the North for thousands of years because we are strong. But our
strength comes from our men. Noble and smallfolk alike. Our job is to ensure their safety and to
make sure they feel valued. Granting keeps and land, no matter where, to someone, especially
someone.." Ned swallowed a lump in his throat, "like Jon just because he is your brother will cause
problems."

"But Brandon and Rickon.." Robb started to say, but Ned cut him off.

"Are Starks, Jon is a Snow." Ned gritted out, and it tasted sour.

"So, we do nothing and let Jon rot at the Wall because he is a bastard!"

Ned sighed and rubbed his forehead and trying to force his headache away. "No. Nor can we just
give him land because he is your brother. With Rickon and Brandon, although it isn't expected, it is
normal enough, but for Jon. No." He paused for a few moments. "Not yet, at least." Robb's eyes
flashed with hope. "Your brother is a good man, but he has not proven himself. He needs to make a
name or wealth or both, and then, we can give him land, and the North will think it just and fair."

"How do we do that?" Robb asked.

Ned blew out his breath. "I don't know, but I could ask someone to squire him, he's a bit old, but
we can get him knighted. That could help."

Robb laughed, "Jon is a better fighter than any squire and most knights."

Ned shook his head, "He is a good fighter...for his age. But for him with grown knights and fully
armored, he would be dismantled."

"Tell that Ser Rodrik," Robb spoke out of the side of his mouth.

Ned gave a small chuckle, "He is gifted, Jon is, quick as a hare and patient as a Shadowcat. But he
is still half a boy, he isn't strong enough to kill man, isn't tall enough to battle their reach."

Robb rolled his eyes, "Says you."

"Says I." Ned stood up and arched his back as a few pops escaped. "I'll talk to some Vale Lords,
Yohn Royce has a few sons that may need a squire, and I have known him for a long while." Robb
nodded, and they parted.

----

Over the next couple of days, Ned found his mind wandering back to Jon thinking about what
Robb said. How could I do this? Could I give Jon something? The thought didn't leave him as he
was writing letters bound for Winterfell when he heard a knock at the door.

"Come in."
Ned kept his eyes down when a soft but stern voice familiar greeted him. "Eddard, you always
worked too hard, with no time for pleasantries." Ned shot out of his chair and saw the broad-
shouldered, white hair and blue eyes of his second father.

"My Lord Hand, I was not told you arrived." Ned knelt until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Get up, Ned. We do need to speak though on official matters between the Hand and Warden of the
North." The seriousness in his tone struck Ned as odd until a smile showed through and opened his
arms, and Ned embraced him. They soon broke apart, and he and Jon sat back down at either side
of the desk. "Ned, tell me how fares the North."

Ned shook his head. "I'll be honest, Lord Arryn, this winter may have been brief, but no more
devastating. Here in the North, as you know, we need every year of summer to make it through
winter. Robert's rebellion than the Greyjoy Rebellion, however brief, depleted our stores and our
men much too fast. Add to that the tax increases and Lord Mormont's treachery, The North is in
the toughest position since my father went south." Jon moved his head, agreeing silently.

Then Jon spoke, "I understand the position you are in Ned, I really do, but the crown isn't doing
well."

"What do you mean?"

Jon Arryn scratched the back of his head, an unlordly gesture, but they were close, "You haven't
seen the King in what? Six, seven years?" Ned nodded. "He's not well Ned, he's drinking more than
ever, demands feasts constantly we have tournaments almost every month, and The King hasn't
been to a small council meeting since we planned the counter-attack of Pyke."

Ned sensed the news got worse and spoke, "Jon, how bad is it?"

"Bad Ned, you think your taxes are bad? They should be nearly double. Double Ned of what they
should be if we were to break even." Ned jumped out of his seat and nearly shouted.

"Double?! How? That would break the North Jon, and I assume only Highgarden and the
Westerlands could burden it, not that they would want to. The Vale would struggle, and possibly
get past it." Jon's words were fully sinking in, and Ned's eyes snapped to Jon, "How? How is the
Crown breaking even?"
The Hand of King, Lord of the Vale, and Ned's father head his head down in shame, "Borrowing."

"From who?" Ned thought he knew the answer, but his voice was barely a whisper.

"The Iron Bank." Ned felt his face pale. "And the King's good father. The Faith." Ned's legs went
out from under him. "I have had to send inquiries to some Archons of Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr as
well."

Ned struggled to speak, "How much? The North is struggling, but we can try...try to help, White
Harbor has had a little trade increase."

"4 and a half million" Ned's eyes went wide. "2 to the Iron Bank. 2 million to House Lannister and
five hundred thousand to the Faith."

"By the Gods, Jon, you let the Crown go into such debt? How? It has only been thirteen years?"

"I know." Jon put his head in his hands. "I know. Once I could control...No assuage the King's
nature, but I can't hold him back, He has maybe three to four of the highest quality whores a day,
the queen spends the Crown's money on anything and everything, tournaments, and feasts cost so
much to house everyone."

"Aerys left a full treasury!" Ned said.

"The Mad King was paying for a war, and Robert and I bought the goodwill of those defeated with
the rest of that coin," Jon Arryn said, rebuffing Ned.

Ned worked through the numbers of how many taxes the North collected a year, gave a guess of
what the other Kingdoms received as well. As the figures were totaled, panic started to set in. This
debt, as it stood now, would take years, maybe decades to solve. Ned felt a weight settle on his
shoulders, exhausted, "What can we do?"

"Honestly, Ned, I don't know." Jon feebly spoke." The only one with sense on the small council is
Lord Stannis, but the brothers hate each other and won't listen to the other. Everyone else, Baelish,
Varys, Pycelle, Renly. They all are either sycophants or leeches, but they serve their purpose."
"I can't leave the North Jon, let me write a letter that you alone will carry to the King. Maybe I can
get through to him, maybe I can…." They both looked at each other and knew that Robert would
never be swayed from his nature. He was as stubborn as a bull.

They sat in silence for a while. Ned only thought, thought about the North, their traditions, and
being content in their near poverty and comfortability with being on the brink. In ordinary times,
they could weather these issues, and Ned started to form a plan but was interrupted by Jon. "I came
to the North Ned for more than talks and trade, I came to force him into that chair, to take
responsibility and start to rule. He has a good heart, and maybe facing the responsibility will give
him a challenge."

"You think that will work?" Ned asked.

"Honestly?" Jon lifted his hands. "I don't know, men don't change, they are what they are, but I am
old, old and tired, and I won't be here much longer, and Robert needs to learn, or his son will be
forced to clean up his reign."

Ned nodded along, "How is the crown prince?"

The Lord Hand's eyes found him, but his head didn't move. "He...is difficult."

"Difficult?"

Jon scratched his chin quickly before continuing, "More spoiled and coddled. I hope in time that he
improves."

"Has the King thought about fostering him, having him squire to anyone."

"Aye, I've put forth a few names, someone to discipline him and hold him accountable, but the
Queen will never accept," Jon answered with a hint of exasperation.

"The King should order it done, it is in the best interest of the realm."

"And I agree, but Robert doesn't have the energy to fight his wife. Nor do I think he has energy for
the Prince." Jon said lamely.

"Still, it would be good for the prince to be away from the capital, serve and listen to someone,"
Ned said, absentmindedly moving papers around.

"Aye, like Robert's closest friend," Jon said, and the blood in Ned's body froze in place, and he
went still. Ned found Jon staring at him, "Yes." The Lord Hand said, "Yes. Yes." The Hand of the
King became more energized, the more he repeated himself. "This could work, and this is
something Robert could get behind. Something he would fight the Queen on and get his way."

Ned felt his heart start to beat faster, "Lord Arryn, it woul…."

"Be perfect, Ned truly. It would get him away from court, show him what it is like to earn people's
respect instead of being entitled to it."

"I don't know the first thing about raising a prince!" Ned protested, but Jon Arryn waved him off.

"Robb seems like a great young man, and it would tie the North to the Iron Throne and build a
bond with the Greyjoy heir as well. When Robert dies and gods help us, it is not for a time yet, the
next King would have close ties to two regions, two more since your Robb is related to my heir,
and Robb is nephew to the Riverlands." Jon spoke, explaining it as if it is already done.

Ned started grasping at straws, "The Prince is only ten years old!"

"Aye, it may take a couple of years, but I can get Robert behind this idea. Thank you, Ned,
remember this is for the good of the realm." Jon finished with a tone that Ned knew there was to be
no more discussion on this subject, and Ned feared he had taken on something he was not ready
for.
 Chapter 6

Jon

White Harbor was incredible; Jon never loved being surrounded by people. However, the Northern
city was exciting, new, and crowded due to the number of Northern warriors and southern knights.
Every time Jon walked through the proper training yard within New Castle and saw heraldry from
all over the eastern half of Westeros. Houses of the South included all the Lords of the Narrow sea,
Houses Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, and Sunglass all had a member of two and at least four
knights in their service, House Tarth was there as well, but it was just the Evenstar and a knight
who had impressive size. Even a few lords of the crownlands arrived; House Rykker, Rosby, and
Stokeworth were in attendance, but only House Rykker brought any proper knights to compete in
the tourney, Lord Renfred Rykker was there with two younger men, maybe sons? Jon could not
remember.

However, the Lords of the Vale were what made White Harbor seem so crowded, especially in the
training yard. As Jon walked with Larence at his side, he saw the Redfort sons sparing with Lyn
and Lucas Corbray and Robar Royce. Jon then saw the older but no less fearsome, Bronze Yohn
Royce sparring with his eldest Andar and beating the younger man with seeming ease. Jon
continued walking, seeing Belmores and Waynwoods, Hunters and Moores, Melcoms and
Templetons, Coldwaters, and the reason they were all here, Graftons.

House Grafton was there in full strength, Lord Gerold Grafton, with the bride to be Mereth. She
was a heavier woman, somewhere in her early twenties, but she had a pleasant face, and Jon had
only ever seen her laughing, simple maybe? Lord Gerold had only one son with him, his heir
Gerold the younger, who was close to twenty. Broad chest light brown hair and clean-shaven. He
was sparring with what seemed to be numerous cousins or bannermen, while a couple of women
watched. Jon learned those were the two other daughters of Lord Grafton and were destined for
better matches because they were all prettier than their sister, with names that sounded too much
alike.

One of who, Saryn, Jon thought but wasn't sure, was currently blushing while speaking with one of
the most bizarre-looking men Jon had ever seen. He had tanned skin with deep laughing lines and
dimples of both cheeks. He had light-brown, slightly curled hair, wearing bright red flowing
clothes and a small, skinny blade on his hip. Jon stared so long it took Larence urging him to move
forward to continue through the full yard.

Jon continued to walk through the yard, seeking out a Northerner who would spar with him. The
squires' melee was in only three days, and Larence was only there to watch or practice with a page
near his age.
Since it was only a day until the wedding, Jon's Father allowed him and Robb to explore the city
and mix with guests, but Jon had no desire. He had trained nearly four hours a day over the past
couple of months, and he was excited to see how good he actually was. Since his confrontation
with Ella, Jon was on edge, never wanting to run into her, so when he wasn't with his father
through midday, he stuck to beating the frustration out on whoever sparred with him. It kept him
busy and allowed him to be able to blend in with the number of men-at-arms and squires fighting.
So far, he only sparred with the men of Winterfell and a couple of young Lords from the North. Jon
went to the quartermaster then made his way to his usual corner to warm his muscles, loosening
them up for the day. It was only then he saw one of the few highborn willing to spar already
hacking and swinging at another man.

Jon was able to see the Umbers towering over everyone and headed out that way, looking forward
to sweating out his nerves. Greatjon Umber saw him first and bellowed out, "Jon Snow! Come
here, my boy. Smalljon is finishing up with young Eddard over here, and he needs someone to
make him work to hit them !" Greatjon roared as the young Karstark's shield was twisted, and the
young giant kicked him onto the ground. Jon had thus far been able to avoid most of the bad blows
when sparring with Smalljon, but he never could prevent them all. "You are quicker than a
shadowcat, and facing you has got him accustomed fighting someone tough to land a decent blow
on..." The giant of a man slapped Jon's back, and he felt the wind rush out of his lungs.

Smalljon was not aptly named, and the young man was nearly as tall as his father, just as strong but
twenty years younger. Jon was moving as fast as he could, but the Umber man was able to deflect
and defend nearly every attack. The few hits Jon did score didn't have the strength to end the fight,
but Jon knew they must have hurt him enough to slow him down. Jon had to be wary, knowing one
hit would be his undoing. Jon was able to duck under the swing and counter, but he only scrapped
Smalljon's greave but nothing more. Then Jon moved to avoid a well-timed strike he felt a hand
grip his shoulder and throw him what seemed to be ten feet, and Jon landed in the dirt. Jon slowly
looked up to see a green dress, and continued looking up and saw green eyes on a freckled face
under light brown hair. Jon paled, and the young girl had a perfectly neutral face that bored into
him. After a few moments, she gave a small smirk then turned and left as Jon felt as if Smalljon
had just thrown him through a wall.

Jon got back to his feet to see a small gathering had come to watch the skinny boy spar with a giant
Umber. Smalljon came over with a broad smile and a sheen on sweat on his brow, "Oi Snow, you
move well when you hit there is not much power, though, but you got time to build some muscle.
Until then, I'll enjoy our little battles. You make me move more than I am used to."

Jon was barely listening, thinking about Ella and just gave a non-committal shrug, "Aye, I knew if
you got one hit on me, that'd be the end." Smalljon bellowed like his father.

"Aye, you got the right of it! You'll be a hell of a warrior, Snow! Come on a couple more rounds! I
am starting to get used to fighting a rabbit-like you!" Jon gave out a deep breath and turned to face
the huge man. Jon improved little in the subsequent bouts, but he was proud that the only hits on
him were glancing blows. Still, even those felt like getting kicked by a mule. The last one was to
his forearm, and Jon couldn't use his left hand as it went numb and decided to call it quits.

Jon wasn't tired, but the fight was all out of him, and he just wanted to go back to the bed he was
using and sleep until they could leave for Winterfell. However, he knew he needed to fight in the
squires' melee. Jon needed to make sure Robb didn't get seriously hurt by doing something to
impress the women present. Those who weren't a knight or over the age of eighteen years of age
were allowed to enter. With Jon and Robb being the youngest to put their names in, he was
nervous. Jon only hoped not to embarrass his father. Three more days . Three days and then the
squires' melee and Jon's chance to start making a name for himself. He started walking towards the
castle when his way was blocked by bright red and purple clothes.

"Who are you, boy?" The accent was so thick Jon could barely understand him.

"Jon Snow, my Lord." The strange man let out a loud laugh at his answer, and Jon's hackles rose.

"Lord? I am no Lord, and we only have one with such a title where I am from. Nobles, captains,
even a few magisters, but Lords? No, just one." The man said with a smile.

Jon studied him for a couple of heartbeats, "You're from Braavos?"

"Braavos," the man gave out a sigh and placed a hand over his chest, "the greatest city in the world,
aye, my home, my heart, my very blood." Jon wasn't sure what to think of this odd, dramatic man.
It seemed whatever moment the man was having passed, and he noticed Jon again. "My name is
Tamir Fregar; my brother is Tormo Fregar, Tormo to me, soon to be magister Fregar to all others,
but I am no Lord, but my family name once was quite respected and shall be again." Jon could tell
by the way this Tamir carried himself, he was used to some sort of privilege.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, my Lo-, nobleman Fregar." Jon's stumble, made the man laugh once
again.

"Call me, Tamir."

Jon simply said, "Tamir, good day." Jon went to walk around him but found his way again blocked
by this man. Jon was frustrated and glared at this Tamir from Braavos. He was slim, but there was
a strength to him, he was close to six feet, and he assumed women would find him handsome.
"You have talent boy, and I would like to test your skill, teach you even, most boys would be
fearful of facing someone much stronger and skilled than them. Yet I have watched you these past
few days. Nipping at the heels of experienced men. Yet if you spar with one who you are getting
the better off, you leave and find someone better, yes?"

Jon only shrugged, "Can't learn if I'm winning every time." Jon's remark made the man's face
brighten.

"You are smaller than most men you fight, but quicker, though. You use your advantages well, and
make a decent fight of it." Jon felt his pride swell a small amount, but it did not last long. "Yet your
core is weak, and your balance is lacking, you move too much, making you tired when you don't
need to be." Jon felt his cheeks grow hot, from shame or anger he didn't know. That made the man
smile further. "You are angry, and it will make you sloppy, come, raise your sword, hit me." Jon's
anger disappeared and began to wonder if this was a trick.

"Is this a trick?"

"A lesson." Jon gave him a quizzical look, and he barely saw the steel before it connected against
his helm. White lights appeared as Jon stumbled backward. "Raise your blade Snow, or you will
find yourself dead." Jon's anger reappeared, and his blunted blade was out. Jon was already
swinging against the Braavosi. Jon knew he was an excellent swordsman for his age, but every
swing of his sword met only air as Tamir smiled and moved. Tamir moved like a leaf in the wind,
just enough to dodge Jon's sword, not even raising his own to deflect. Jon had to keep his
admiration in check as he fought Tamir until Tamir decided to end it. Before Jon could react, his
sword was gone, and he felt bruises already forming.

Jon was breathing hard, while Tamir still just smiled and picked up Jon's sword to hand it back. Jon
could barely get the words out, "How..how, do you move that way?"

"You Westerosi, only focusing on brute strength, raw footwork, and armor. Important, but not all.
You must move with precision, but with grace. Connect your weapon to your body and move with
fluidity like a dance, do this young Jon and you could be a great warrior, perfect it, and no one
could match you." Tamir finished, and his smile was gone. Jon could not decide if he liked this
man, but he knew he could learn from him.

"I appreciate your concern Tamir, but I must go to my family, but I would appreciate another
lesson," Jon went to leave when Tamir grabbed his shoulder.
"Ah, Jon Snow... do not leave so quickly." Jon tried and unsuccessfully glared at Tamir Fregar. "I
once learned there are no houses named Snow in Westeros. You are a bastard?" Jon felt his blood
boil, and Jon no longer hid his glare. "You Westerosi are prudish, except maybe those Dornish, but
they have no sense of humor. Bastard or no, Essos, you can make your own way, regardless of
birth." Jon raised an eyebrow.

"Aye, but who wants to live in Essos Lord Fregar," Jon asked before he could stop himself.

"Oh, and have you been to Essos?" Tamir retorted. Jon didn't answer, and Tamir slowly spun his
sword and returned to his progression.

"So Snow's are bastards of high lords of the North? So who begat you young Snow? Cerwyn?
Woolfield? A Hornwood?"

"Eddard Stark." Silence followed for a long while, "But if you asked about me, you already knew
it." Comprehension dawned on him, "So what do you want?"

Tamir feigned shock initially, but a sly grin spread over his face, "I enjoy having friends, and more
importantly, so does my brother Tormo. A son of the Northern ruler seems like a good friend to
make."

Jon's anger started to rise, "I am no use if you need a friend, find my brother Robb; he is the heir."

This confrontation didn't perturb Tamir and simply said, "That was my plan Jon Snow, but you are
much more interesting, if it leads to better relations with the North, it would be a win for
everyone." Jon could not hide his anger, he was just a pawn to be used to get close to his father,
and he was about to say that he wouldn't allow it, but Tamir continued. "However, if it came to
nothing….well, I still have made a friend, a broody one, but there is something more to you," then
paused before saying, "I think." Jon didn't know how to respond. Tamir just grabbed a practice
sword and started to move a unique style Jon had never seen before.

"In our lessons, could you teach me to move like that?" Jon sputtered out, and Tamir just looked at
him. "If...I mean, you had offered…." Jon saw the sword flash towards him, and Jon barely got his
up in time, and Jon struggled to keep up with Tamir's strikes. This time Jon was able to hold on for
more than half a minute before being disarmed.
"You are improving Jon Snow, slow, but I can see it." He attacked again with no warning, and Jon
was moving back to avoid the sword. He was hit again and then was on his back. He felt for his
blunted sword hit his side, and Jon got back onto his feet and readied himself again. On and on,
they sparred, Jon being beaten over and over again. Tamir didn't seem disappointed but impressed
by the end of the session. "Morning and evenings, be here." With that, Tamir left, and Jon started to
limp his way back to the Stark quarters when Larence found him

"You were amazing, Jon! You moved so fast against that Braavosi."

"Aye, maybe, but it was all for naught the man is untouchable," Jon replied.

Larence shrugged, "He won't last in the melee with that skinny blade, and he is more than ten years
older you Jon! No one your age could do half as well as you!" Jon gave him a small smile.

"I don't know about that. In a few years, Larence, I'm sure you'll be leagues better than I am."
Larence puffed out his chest and beamed. Jon genuinely enjoyed the boy's company, and he was
going to be a good sword the older he got, but Jon had a pit in his stomach thinking about the boy's
future. His future.

They walked, and towards the entrance of the keep, Jon spotted Ella again, and Jon put his head
down to walk past. "Larence! Jon." The contrast in how she said the two names were startling, but
Jon could not resist her and looked towards her voice.

Ella was speaking to the two Rykker men while wearing a pained expression fixed into what Jon
assumed was supposed to be amusement. When they approached, Ella introduced them to the two
men. "Larence, Jon, this is Hemly Rykker and his twin Ser Lenfred Rykker, they are the nephews
of Renfred Rykker, Lord of Duskendale. Sers, this is my cousin Larence, and this is Jon Snow." Jon
noticed the contempt she was able to put on his name, and his chest tightened while he affixed his
neutral expression.

"Sers," repeated Larence and Jon.

The two Rykkers barely glanced at him, and Jon studied them further. They were both near
eighteen, a couple of inches shy to six feet, average looking and well built. However, it was their
eyes as they looked at Ella that Jon noticed, and something in him was rising to the surface, and
Jon fought to keep it down. Jon recognized the looks like that, the ones Theon gave any woman
that had a chest.
The one called Lenfred spoke first, "My lady, as we were saying, you are quite the beauty and
hoped to win your favor in the coming tournament." Jon's clenched his fist as the Hemly spoke.
Angry at this pompous southerner and more so that Ella called him over.

"Oh, and what will you two be competing in?" Ella said.

Hemly spoke first, "I would join the proper melee, but the knight I squire for forbids it so I must
fight with young children and teach them a thing or two."

"While I will be in both the proper joust and melee, as I already have my spurs," Lenfred said.
Gods, Jon hated this boastful prick. Lenfred continued, "Which is why I must ask a beauty from
this wondrous land for their favor, and I cannot find anyone that holds a candle to yours." Others
take me, what a pompous arse.

Hemly continued, "Aye, someone from such a harsh land to be so beautiful is rare indeed, if not
your favor, allow us to dance with during one of the feasts."

Jon glanced at Ella as she spoke, "That would be lovely, if you, please excuse me. I need to speak
with my cousin." They Rykker brothers left but not before smirking at Jon. Then Jon, Larence, and
Ella were alone.

Jon spoke before he could stop himself, "Ella, be careful of those two. They do not look
trustworthy."

Ella turned so violently that Jon flinched backward, "I will speak to, dance with, give my favor to
whomever I please Snow!" She nearly yelled the last bit, and Jon flushed red, feeling his heart sink
so far in his body, he wasn't sure he'd be able to find it. Jon saw Larence also turn a little red, but
whose own face was flushed red. Jon muttered an apology and left the yard.

Larence's voice had an edge Jon had never heard, and as he was leaving, he could hear him say,
"You're selfish cousin, you know it could never happen, then mock him for being a bastard? I
thought you were better than that." Jon felt a sad smile form as Larence ran to catch up to him. Jon
struggled mightily not to turn around and look at her again. Alas, he was successful.

"You didn't have to do that," Jon said. "I don't want to get you into trouble with your family."
"Aye probably will hear it from my father." Larence said, "But it's the honorable thing, and it's
something you would do."

"I don't know about that." Jon felt his face redden, knowing he could never tell off his family.

Larence was silent for a moment as they continued to climb the steps. "I do."
 Chapter 7

Robb

Robb felt the wedding itself was a rather dull affair. The sept of White Harbor was an elegant
building, well made, and seemed to have as much wealth as the New Castle. That said, Robb did
not understand the need to have such opulence to worship the Gods, old or new, nor did it make
sense to need to have full-time worshiper to tell you what the Gods wanted you to do. Strange gods
the Seven were. They were his mother’s gods, and he had sat through the teachings and worship
every so often, but they held little sway to him. Still, the ceremony seemed to go as planned, and
unfortunately, he sat next to Sansa.

“Wasn’t Lady Mereth’s dress incredible?” Sansa said to no one in particular. “I hope my dress has
that much color when I am wed.” As she said this, Robb noticed the quick glance towards a group
of Northern Lords. Robb felt his protective instincts start to overcome his apathy as he searched for
one she looked at. “And the stitching did you see how complex it was! I must learn how it was
done.”

Robb noticed his father doing the same thing as he was. “Aye, but let’s pray that day does not
come for many years yet,” his father grumbled. Sansa’s face flushed as she smiled.

Robb’s Uncle Edmure appeared and put his hand on Sansa’s shoulder, “Oh, Sansa, you will be
prettier than your mother when you are older, your father will be beating away the number of
suitors who come for you!” His father just grunted in reply. Edmure had arrived that morning, and
Robb enjoyed his carefree Uncle, but Robb suspected his father was already growing tired of him.

Bran came up to his father’s side and said a little too loud, “I think it was boring, but at least the
tournament starts tomorrow! Robb! Are you excited to fight? I wish they had a page’s melee! Then
I could kick Benfred’s butt in front of everyone! Who do you think will win? Mychael Redfort is
supposed to be the best young sword in the Vale. I overheard the hand say so! And the jousting
Robb, I want to be a champion jouster, be like Barristan and become a mystery knight at only 10! I
could do it! “Bran continued to ramble on about the favorites to win all of the competitions. This
soon turned to an argument with Arya about who was more skilled in what, including the archery.
Robb’s father had also allowed Robb and Jon to participate in, on top of the squire’s melee, but
neither felt they would have a good showing. Although he would still attend as it was the only
thing father had allowed Theon to participate in, as few accidents happened there.

Arya and Bran continued to argue even after the feast had begun. “Greatjon is the tallest, strongest
man he has to win!” Bran pleaded with his sister.
“But he fights with a team! Greatjon cannot beat ten men by himself, idiot!” Arya yelled back.

Ned used his serious voice, “Bran, Arya, that’s enough talk of the tourney for now.”

Edmure had a curious expression when he turned to Robb, “What does Arya mean Lord Umber
can’t face ten men? Doesn’t he only face one man at a time?”

Robb gave a laugh, “The joust isn’t as popular in the North Uncle, the melee is where northerners
prove their mettle and if they fought one on one it would take the whole summer.”

“Then how will they decide a champion?” Edmure asked, now looking earnest.

“Champions, Uncle. Last I heard there were almost 400 participants!” Edmure spat out his wine
over his tunic, which caused an uproar of laughter from the Stark family and their neighboring
tables.

Edmure, still coughing, “How...is...the melee..done?”

“Teams uncle. Although I do not know how many teams or how many will fight at once. Also,
depending on how many men participate, even the number of men on each team, may change.
Though the squire’s melee will be every man for himself.” Robb finished, letting his eyes wander
over his competition.

Bran spoke up then, “I heard that they will allow the champion of the squire’s melee to participate
in the proper one.”

Edmure scoffed at that, “Don’t you think it is a little dangerous?”

Robb shrugged his shoulders, “Probably, but it is still an honor. It would show the North you are
ready to face men in battle.”

Dacey Mormont came by as Robb spoke, “Just men Lord Robb? Surely you haven’t forgotten what
I can do in the training yard?” She playfully slapped Robb’s shoulder, and Arya just gave an
admiring look at the new heir to Bear Island.

Robb only blushed, “I apologize, my Lady, you and your sister’s prowess will serve you well in the
next few days.”

“Thank you, Lord Robb, do seek me out for a dance, will you.” Dacey Mormont left them, and
Robb watched her go. Although she wasn’t a classic beauty, there was something about her that
was captivating.

Edmure spoke up, “I cannot believe you Northerners allow women to fight alongside the men.
Women are the gentler sex, meant to run a home, not a battlefield.” He shook his head,
disbelieving.

Robb heard the deep voice of his father respond, “There are no gentle people in the North Lord
Tully, they would not be able to survive it.”

Edmure continued to shake his head, drinking his fourth cup in one swallow. Music started playing,
and Robb surveyed all the women in the great hall and noticed Jon sitting with young Larence
Snow and the pages and squires of the many knights in attendance. The Merman’s Hall of New
Castle was nearly thrice the size of Winterfell’s own great hall, so Robb only noticed Jon because
Robb knew him so well. Robb had been upset when his father told him that Jon could not sit with
them, and Jon, as always, only nodded his head, saying he understood.

Robb was shaken from the memory when his Uncle prodded him. Robb turned to him, and Edmure
motioned with a nod, and Robb looked and saw Wylla Manderly walking towards him. Robb
wasn’t keen on the younger of Wylis Manderly’s daughters. Wylla was a year or so younger than
Robb, she was pretty but not very thin, but not fat like her father. Wylla was rude and spoke like
Arya would to him, which Robb found quite annoying. Robb was much more interested in Ysillia
Royce, the daughter of Bronze Yohn, but he saw that she was already dancing with Torrhen
Karstark, so he prepared himself for this confrontation.

This brought Robb back to Wylla, and he remembered their first conversation nearly three days
ago.

“Your hair’s green?” Robb had asked when he first saw her.
“Aye I chose this color, but you were born with that color of red, I have a few dyes if you want
something better!” Wylla’s words were sharp, which earned her a scornful look from her family
but a huge laugh out of Theon, Arya, and Bran. Robb had been furious with shame, and when their
fathers weren’t looking, Wylla even stuck out her tongue to him.

So when Wylla stopped in front of Robb and asked him for the first dance, Robb begrudgingly
agreed. Wylla didn’t miss the tone of Robb’s agreement, and as he took her hand and led her to the
floor, she whispered to him. “You think I want to have the dance, Lord Red Hair ?” Robb looked at
her with a glare, and he was about to respond with an insult of his own. “I am only here because
my grandfather thought I was rude to you a couple of days ago.” Wylla continued trying to hide the
look of frustration off her face.

“Well, you did insult my appearance Lady Manderly,” Robb muttered with insincere sincerity.

Wylla looked at him with her lips tight as they started to dance. “Only after you said my hair color
was bad.”

“I never said it looked bad,” Robb interrupted.

“Yes, you did! You said-”

“I said your hair’s green.” Wylla just stared at him as Robb continued, “I was just surprised is all, I
have never seen hair dyed like that before. It does suit you.” Robb was shocked that he said it out
loud. It does suit her. In a weird, unique sort of way. Wylla was a little taken aback, and then her
face blushed bright red, clashing with her green hair. They didn’t speak again, and Robb just
focused on moving his feet correctly. Wylla’s face finally returned to its natural coloring as the
song ended. “Thank you for the dance Lady Manderly,” Robb said.

“Wylla.” She muttered.

Robb was already looking for Ysilla, “Wylla.” Wylla’s face flushed red, but she had a frown again
and quickly returned to her family, and Robb returned to his. Robb spent the next hour and a half
dancing with every lady of the North and a few ladies of the Vale. He enjoyed dancing with the
Mormont’s because they were easy to talk to, speaking mostly of their chances in the upcoming
tournament, different strategies, and how Bear Island was faring. Alys Karstark was awkward
while Karla Flint was nervous and fidgety and even stepped on Robb’s toes. Dance after dance
Robb found himself with a new partner engaging in pleasant but stilted conversation, but Robb did
not mind, this was his duty, and if there was one thing a Stark did, it was his duty.
He did finally get to dance with Ysilla Royce, who was beautiful, fair-haired, and laughed at what
he said. She even squeezed his arm when they were about to be parted. “Lady Royce?” Robb
asked.

“Ysilla, Lord Stark,” She said, smiling sweetly at him, and Robb felt a small blush creep up his
neck.

“Ysilla, I was wondering if I could have your favor for the squire’s melee?” He asked.

She gave a demure smile, “Oh? I do not think Waymar would want to see that.”

Robb turned to where the Royce’s were placed, and he could see Waymar staring daggers into him.
Robb gulped a little bit, “What would you like to see Ysilla?”

Her smile turned coy, “I would like to see you win.”

Robb gave his own smile then, “It may be only possible with your favor, my Lady.”

“We will see then.” Ysilla then pulled out a brilliantly embroidered kerchief holding it in her hand
with her palm facing the floor. Robb, in a move of pure bravado, reached and grabbed her the
kerchief and hand. Then in one motion, placed a chaste kiss on her the back of her hand as well
while taking the favor.

Ysilla seemed pleased at that act, and Robb could only smile as he turned back to his table. Sansa
looked ready to swoon, and Robb rolled her eyes at her. He then noticed the Manderly’s looking
decidedly neutral save Wylla, who was pointedly not looking at him but was frowning at her cup in
front of her.

Robb didn’t even think about it and instead, sat back down. Still smiling like a fool. Robb didn’t
feel exhausted, and he surveyed the room to see how the rest of the Northerners were fairing.
Dacey Mormont was laughing and smiling with Smalljon as he was explaining some humorous
story. The Karstarks and Hornwoods were in a good-natured argument about something
meaningless. Domeric Bolton, who had arrived with the Redforts, was singing with his harp quite
well, and Robb noticed Sansa tearing up, then stopping when Arya teased her, Robb had laughed
along with Arya. Robb then looked over to the Royce’s and caught Ysilla’s eye then quickly
looked away.
Soon the bedding was announced, and he went to join the men until Jory but a hand on him and
told him his father told him not to. Robb was disappointed and looked to see if Jon was moving to
join in. Robb found him near a side entrance of the hall, wearing his solemn expression, and then
Jon got up and left through an opening.

Robb thought that odd, so he whispered to his father, who just nodded his approval. After the long
procession of men carrying away Mereth and the immense crowd of women, were carrying away
Wendell. Robb got up and left the hall, trying to find where his brother had gone. Robb saw a few
couples hidden away in corners and dark places doing things Robb only had a cursory knowledge
of, courtesy of Theon Greyjoy. Robb spent longer than he thought possible looking for Jon within
the castle and then slapped himself on the forehead for being a fool.

Five minutes later, Robb was walking down steps that led from the terrace and down to the
training yard, and it was then he heard the clash of steel against steel.

“Move, boy. Good, now shield up, down. Parry. Step. Counter.” He heard a thunk of steel against
the helm and Jon yelp in pain.

“You said, counter! Not block.”

“I did say block.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I said it with my body.”

He heard Jon let out an exasperated sigh, “so you lied?”

“With my words? Of course. All men lie with their words, few can stop their body from lying. That
is the lesson today. Listen with your eyes, and look with your ears.” Robb reached the final step,
confused at what he was hearing.

“Do you want me to smell with my mouth and taste with my nose?” Jon said with a mocking tone.
Robb then saw the foreign man, dressed in a jerkin and trousers that were both striped purple and
black. The man was holding out a hand to his brother, who was still on the ground. The man was
beaming, “Aye, yes Jon Snow. Yes! You are starting to understand.”

“Understand what? I was joking.” Jon replied back.

“Oh, I think you think you were joking, but I think you think you are getting it,” as soon as the
foreign man helped Jon to his feet, the man struck out, but Jon had expected it. “Block. Counter.
Move. Move. Block.” But as the man said this, Jon lashed out and scored a hit under the arm. “Ah-
ha, yes! Good, now again.”

Robb watched them train as the rest of the castle enjoyed the feast. Jon was sweating, but he wasn’t
breathing very hard, and Robb watched his brother and this strange man fight back and forth. It was
easy to tell that the foreigner was superior and was only testing Jon, but still, Robb could see Jon
had improved even since that day at Greydam. Robb blushed slightly, thinking he had only trained
three times in the past week, and they were expecting to fight tomorrow.

“Can I join?” Robb finally said and soon felt sorry as a distracted Jon got a hard hit against the
forearm.

“No.” The Braavosi said.

Robb was a little flustered at the refusal, “Why not?”

“Because you have drunk too much wine and eaten too many rich foods. However, you should
swing your sword and sweat some of it out before you sleep tonight. You will feel better in the
morning.” Robb was about to insist he should be allowed to join, but he saw Jon shake his head, so
Robb contented himself with going through some forms. Robb was soon lightheaded and felt like
he may be sick. Jon shortly finished up with the foreign man and came over to him.

“Sorry about Tamir Fregar. He’s a brilliant fighter and agreed to train me for three days, but his
training is mad! He tells me when and what to eat, he makes me run before we start and then
stretch forever. Then he does things as you saw! Now, he’s making me sleep before Bran!” Robb
looked at him in horror.

“Why do you do it?” Robb asked.

Jon just shrugged, “He’s the best fighter that would train with me, and I do feel good at the
moment. Don’t know about tomorrow,” Jon said as he playfully shoved Robb.

Robb rubbed his head, he was feeling a little less nauseous, but not much. “Aye. You’ve been
smart though, I haven’t sparred properly in a couple of days.”

“Aye it’s alright, we can show these soft boys how Northerners fight tomorrow.” Jon joked, and
Robb only gave his brother an unconvincing smile.

“I just don’t want to yield early, I know most the boys will be three or four years older than me, so
I won’t win but still. Halfway through, that’s all I want.” Robb said despondently.

“Aye.” Jon agreed. “Don’t worry, we’ll work together, I’ve even roped Harmond Umber into an
alliance.”

Robb raised his eyebrows, “Really? Why?”

“Cause I won’t last heartbeat without at least two good fighters,” Jon asked. Robb could only
agree. Jon then reached out and grabbed Ysilla’s kerchief.

“Oh? And what is this?” Jon said.

“Oi, give it back,” Robb said, and Jon only smiled more.

“Oh, and who may the fair maiden be that has bewitched my brother’s heart so?” Jon said, jumping
to his feet.

Robb just looked at him, “Who are you, and where is my brother?”

Jon just gave a small laugh, “Tamir must be rubbing off on me.” Jon then held it up and examined
it.
Robb got to his feet as well, “Seriously, Jon, give it back.”

“Whose is it, Robb? Young Lady Alys? Or Karla Flint? Maybe even Wylla Manderly?” Jon gave a
mischievous smile.

Robb was starting to get annoyed, “Ella Hornwood.” Jon’s smile disappeared, and a look of hurt
appeared on his face. Robb then smiled and snatched away the kerchief, “I am kidding you, dolt, I
would never do that.” Jon took a little longer to recover, and Robb decided that may have been too
harsh and told his brother the truth, “It’s Ysilla Royce’s.” Robb slowly folded it until it was
manageable enough to stow away.

Jon gave a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, thanks for that, Robb, every young
lordling in the Vale wants her favor, and you have just painted a target on our chests.”

Robb looked up, “What do you mean?”

“Well, we will have squire’s from the vale waiting to teach us a lesson in front of Ysilla
tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Robb said.

Jon gave a sigh, “Well, good thing we have Harmond with us. He should take some of the pressure
off.” Jon arched his back and gave a yawn, “well I’m off to sleep, Tamir is breaking his fast with
me at dawn. You headed to bed as well?”

“No, I think I need to move around for a while more,” Robb said. Jon said his farewell, and Robb
stared up into the night. Tomorrow was the first time he would fight in anything more than a group
of three, and he just realized a lot of the fighters would want to embarrass him. He was nervous,
but he had Jon at his side, so if he went down, he would go down swinging with his brother. And
Harmond.

Robb perked up and looked at the Merman’s Hall. The sounds of merriment could still be heard
from where he sat. Jon was right, they needed allies in their melee, and Robb left the yard to return
to the feast, hoping that the other boys he needed were still there.
 Chapter 8

Jon

"Hey, Forester! I saw your sister, and she looks like something a donkey would fuck!" Shit. Jon
thought.

It had been going well so far, Robb had convinced both Asher Forrestor and Cley Cerwyn to fight
with themselves and Harmond Umber. What started as sixty young fighters were now only twenty-
five with Jon just forcing Darron Coldwater to yield. Jon had thought they just might be able to pull
this off. Jon was to the left of Robb, who so far had handled himself well, but Jon could see him
tiring. Harmond made their center, and with his size and strength kept them steady. Asher was to
his right, and Cley making up the other edge of their line. Jon thought it was foolish, but Cley had
insisted, and Jon was pleased to see that Cerwyn had so held up well enough under the strain of the
melee.

Then Eddard Karstark spoke like the horse's arse that he is.

Asher let out a roar and broke from their defensive formation towards Eddard Karstark, who was
with a Manderly cousin and Arthur Glenmore. As Asher engaged with Eddard, the Manderly and
Arthur both separated from their own line and attacked a now lone Cley Cerwyn. Before Jon could
tell him not to, Harmond was already making his way over to Cley to try and help. That left him
and Robb on their own, and soon they were under pressure from Morton Waynwood and
Humphrey Arryn of the Gulltown Arryn's. Humphry had taken Robb and Morton, Jon. Jon and
Robb stayed close to each other's side to not allow them to be flanked. The two Valemen would
attack, trying to split the brothers, but Jon stayed close to Robb, which protected Robb but didn't
allow him to take advantage of Morton's mistakes.

They may have been there for seconds. It may have been minutes, but Jon heard Robb cry out, and
Jon knew they couldn't stay like this much longer. Jon waited for Morton to lunge forward and
caught the blade on his shield and deflected the blow, opening up Morton's guard with his sword
and slammed Morton's head with the edge of his shield.

The boy fell to the ground, dazed. His was face protected from real damage by the visor of his
helmet. That still didn't he didn't feel the force of the blow.

Jon didn't finish him off but instead whirled his blade around and deflected a blow that was headed
toward Robb's unprotected shoulder. Jon wasn't quite quick enough as Robb's shoulder still
received part of the strike, and his brother fell to one knee. Jon thrust his shield forward and forced
Humprey to step back. "Finish Waynwood!" Jon shouted as he engaged with Humphrey Arryn. Jon
felt something of a peace come over him as he didn't think, but only attacked. He and Humphrey
were clashing steel, parrying and striking, neither able to get the upper hand. Until Humphrey
feinted left and Jon pretended to fall for it and countered it by ramming his shield into the squire's
foot, Jon ducked on instinct as Humphfrey's own counter passed by him, and Jon felt the blade
graze his helm. Jon brought his sword underneath the wild swing and caught the man's shoulder
and rammed his shield in the stomach hard enough to force Humphrey Arryn to the ground.

Jon pointed the dull tourney sword at Humprey Arryn's neck, "Yield."

"Fuck." was the only reply Jon got, but the heir of House Arryn of Gulltown let go of his sword and
removed his helmet, and Jon took that as confirmation and turned around to find Robb, pointing his
sword at a disarmed Morton Waynwood. Jon smiled, but Robb was breathing heavily and looked
as though he would fall over.

He turned to see Cley Cerwyn fighting alongside a big squire from the stormlands with quartered
yellow sun and white crescent moons on the shield. The squire and Cley were pitted against Lucas
Corbrey, and Seldon Templeton and Seldon were pushing Cley onto his back foot, the one Jon had
bruised badly not two weeks ago. Jon shut the visor on his helm and moved quickly to intercept
them. Jon was only ten feet away when Seldon performed a beautiful counter to disarm Cley. Cley
moved backward to avoid the next swing head towards him. Jon sprinted the last few feet as
Templeton's blunted blade moved towards Cley.

Jon rammed into the Valeman and lifted Seldon up and drove him into the ground. Jon heard
something snap as he and Seldon landed. Jon raised a fist, but Templeton had moaned out, "I
yield!" as the future Knight of Nine Stars grabbed his own arm. Jon turned back to Cley Cerwyn,
who was struggling to raise himself off the ground. Jon grabbed his fallen sword and went over to
help him up.

"Are you okay?" Jon asked, and Cley looked at him, and Jon could see his eyes weren't focusing.
Jon patted the side of Cley's helmet, seeing a small dent.

Cley mumbled something incomprehensible, and Jon looked to the edge of the tourney ground and
waived over to a servant. Cley tried to move away from Jon, and as Jon let him go, Cley took two
steps, faltered sideways, and went down to one knee. Jon walked over and patted his shoulder and
lowered his visor to return back into the remaining contestants.

The Stormland squire and Lucas Corbrey continued to pair off. Jon headed in that direction but saw
something move to his right. On instinct, he raised his shield, but Jon was too slow. His shield arm
was struck, and Jon's hand slipped from the strap he was holding. Jon grabbed the band that was,
only moments before, over his forearm and swung the shield towards his opponent with wild
desperation. Jon raised his blade to deflect the next swing and was soon being driven back, his
shield held in a useless position. Jon kept trying to create space, but his opponent was determined.
Jon mistimed his parry and suffered a blow to his thigh, and Jon's leg gave slightly, and he knew
that he would be forced to yield. Jon swung his shield forward and let go, throwing the shield, but
his aim was off, and the iron rim only clipped the armored leg of his opponent. The squire
stumbled, and Jon limped up onto both feet.

It was then that Robb came out of nowhere, yelling loudly, and tackling Jon's opponent to the
ground and they rolled in the hard dirt wrestling.

Jon didn't have time to intervene as a squire with the Massey heraldry was coming towards him.
Jon noticed the squire was limping terribly. They engaged, but it wasn't much of a fight as squire
couldn't move side to side, and Jon was able to slip past his guard, and with a blade pointed at the
neck, the young Massey yielded.

Jon turned back to Robb, who was now under the older and stronger fighter, and Jon recognized
the bronze runes of the Royces. Robb was struggling to get out from under the youngest Royce.
Waymar raised a fist and brought it down. Robb threw an arm up to deflect it and retaliated and hit
Waymar in the face. Unfortunately, there wasn't much power, and Waymer returned the favor, and
Robb's head snapped backward. Waymar raised again to strike, but Jon yelled out, "Enough, he
yields." Waymar's fist didn't move, and Robb laid there exhausted.

" Do you yield?" Waymar questioned him, and Robb nodded. Waymar got up and looked from his
discarded sword and back to Jon, whose sword own was pointed at Waymar.

"Will you force a defenseless man to yield?" Waymar sneered.

Jon lowered his sword and grabbed Waymar's, which was near Jon's own feet. Jon gave it a few
swings before offering the hilt to Waymar. Jon stepped backward a few paces, and Waymar rolled
his shoulders as he gathered his feet under him. Then he spoke, "I am excited to say that I will have
defeated all that House Stark has to offer."

The dying ember was ignited within Jon, and he tried to fight it to keep it under control. "I am not a
Stark," Jon growled out.

Waymar only shrugged, "Then there will be no glory in defeating you." Jon's temper flared again,
he knew what Waymar was trying to do, and he was even more angry that it was working. Jon
studied the squire, and they slowly started to circle one another. Waymar was a good looking boy,
nearly a man, and would probably be a knight in a few years. He was half a head taller than Jon
now, but he was the third son. The third son with few prospects. Robar was the second and maybe
could marry and have a small keep if he was lucky, but Waymar would get little or nothing. Just
like Jon. Well, not really, but it would piss him off.

"What will your father say when you were beaten by a bastard three years younger than you?" Jon
smirked back. "Two older brothers, young but showered in glory, then there is you." Jon couldn't
see Waymar's face clearly, but he knew it was working as the grip on his sword tightened. "A
disappointment, what do families like yours do with disappointing third sons?" Waymar roared out
in anger and was on Jon in an instant, and Jon backpedaled, allowing Waymar to lead this dance.
Waymar was known as a skilled and graceful fighter, but he was angry and wild that day, and Jon
was able to read Waymar's intentions with ease. Eventually, Waymar started to slow, and his
breathing was more difficult, and Jon struck back at him, flashing his sword, and taking control of
their dance. Jon soon saw his opening and took it, and Waymar's sword was on the ground, and
Jon's sword steady and pointed at his chest. "Yield."

Waymar said nothing, and Jon inched forward, and his blunted steel pressed against the bronze
rune embedded in the leather armor, over Waymar's heart. "Yield Lord Roy-." Like a viper,
Waymar grabbed the sword with one hand forcing it up and lowered himself to tackle Jon by the
waist. Jon lowered himself on instinct, and Waymar's legs churned, trying to get Jon on the ground,
but Jon slammed his pommel on the back of Waymar once. Then twice, and on the third time,
Waymar stopped working to lift, and his knees went to the ground. Jon backed up a half pace and
then slammed his knee into Waymar, who fell to the ground moaning. Waymar was splayed out,
and Jon's temper was still flaring, and what he witnessed next only made it worse.

There were only four other competitors left, and the squire with quartered suns and moons was
fighting against three. Lucas Corbrey, Hemly Rykker, and Mychael Redfort all moved well, and
the other squire, tall and graceful, was trying his best to hold them all off.

Jon started to move over when the blunted morningstar the tall quire was holding was wrenched
away by Hemly Rykker, the shield was moved out of the way by Mychael Redfort and Lucas
Corbrey's sword connected against the squire's shoulder. Forced to their knees, the squire lowered
their helmet. Jon was too far away to hear if they said anything, but the three only opened their
visors, and all their eyes were wide.

Lucas tore off the helmet of the squire, and Jon saw short, fair hair fall loose. He then saw the
three young men start to laugh.

"A woman!" Lucas said.

Hemly turned to him, "Are you sure? It seems more like a freak."
"She does seem quite the monster, luckily we didn't break her teeth, or she would never marry!"
Mychel Redfort said.

"I don't know." Hemly feigned interest. "It may improve her look." The three squires all stood
mocking their defeated opponent. Jon looked around the melee ground, and scattered chuckles
were starting to be heard throughout the crowd. Jon started to approach, and he saw the woman's
face. She was ugly, there was no denying that. Her nose was broad, her lips too large, face covered
in freckles, and her jaw looked more manly than feminine. Jon only saw her blue eyes for a few
moments before tears overcame them, and she hid them in her hands.

"Apologize!" Jon roared. The three turned to see him with surprise. Jon himself was shocked he
had said something. The three squires were all close family to powerful lords.

Hemly was the first to speak. "Excuse me?"

"Apologize to her. She fought well, she deserves some respect." Jon was no longer yelling, but his
voice was still firm.

The three looked at each other and laughed again. Lucas spoke next, "She is a woman, pretending
at being a knight."

"And it took three of you to beat her," Jon said. "I think that is better than just pretending." Lucas
Corbrey's face turned into a snarl.

"Will, one of you, shut that bastard up," Lucas growled.

Hemly Rykker moved forward, "Aye that I will. You two stay where you are, when I am done with
him, we can decide the winner." Hemly shut his visor and made his way to Jon.

"This is your last chance," Jon said. "Apologize, or I will do to you what you did to her."

"Fuck off," Hemly said.

Jon had never known what his father meant when he talked about the wolf's blood. Jon got angry
like everyone else, but years of being a bastard forced him to channel it. Channel it towards
something productive but to never lose control. This was the first time Jon could remember his
anger truly threatening to overtake him. He fought to channel it where he needed it as the squire
from House Rykker approached, sword and shield ready. Jon held only a sword, so he looked in
desperation and found a blunted ax only a couple feet away. Jon grabbed it off the ground, swung
it a few times with his left hand, and looked at his rapidly advancing opponent. Hemly was ten feet
away, and he approached at a steady pace.

Hemly started an insult saying, "Well, bastar-." Jon moved quickly feinting left, and when Hemly
moved his shield, Jon hooked it with his ax and used Hemly's momentum to open him up for a
strike. And strike he did. Jon's blade came whirling down and connected with Hemly's helm.
Hemly, dazed, swung his sword around, and Jon leaned back to avoid the cut. Jon kicked the off-
balance squire as hard as he could, and Hemly fell backward.

Jon never pointed his sword, and before Hemly could yield, Jon kicked him full in the faceplate,
and the squire went limp. Jon turned to Mychael Redfort and Lucas Corbrey, who stared at him
with surprise on their faces. Jon hadn't meant to be so ruthless, or maybe he had as he felt these
squires deserved it. He pointed at the two and said, "You humiliated her, she fought well and lost,
but you weren't content with your victory,"

"She's a woman!" they sneered. Jon noticed the girl was looking at him with wide bright blue
eyes.

"And it took three of you to beat her, so I have no fear of losing to either of you."

Jon charged at Mychael Redfort and raised his sword and Mychael raised his shield on instinct, he
used his ax to hook the bottom and saw Lucas was lowering his blade. Jon’s axe moved Redfort's
shield forward just enough that Lucas's blade deflected and landed on Redfort's arm. Jon shifted
his sword to block Redfort's cut, but he was too close to the boy now for either strike to be
effective. Jon rammed his head into Mychael's, and he stumbled back, but Jon felt his ax tug out of
his grip. As Mychael dropped to the ground, Jon's blade was already moving as it met Lucas
Corbreys. The man was angry, and when Jon caught the edge, Corbrey's fist hit Jon's helm, and Jon
disengaged.

Lucas was attacking him like a mad dog, but Jon felt his own rage turn into a calm clarity, and he
was again no longer thinking just reacting. He was tired, but his wolf's blood fueled him, so he
barely felt it. The youngest Corbrey had to be drained as well, but the squire kept coming, one
blow after another. Jon saw that Mychael Redfort was regaining his feet, and he would join the
fight soon, and Jon knew he could not face two at a time, not now. Jon took his chance and pushed
both their blades up, and Jon lowered himself and launched his whole body into Lucas's, just as
Waymar did to him. When they hit the ground, Jon used his left forearm to block the punch aimed
at him, and Jon knocked Lucas hard over the head with the pommel of the sword once, then twice,
then a third for good measure.

The helmet was showing a dent, and Lucas was moaning in pain. Jon stood up, and Mychael was
stumbling towards him, his daze wearing off. Jon stood and grabbed both his own and Lucas's
sword and marched over to Mychael Redfort, the lazy swing was deflected, and Jon just thumped
him hard across the chest with the left sword, then with the right. Jon finished with the flat of the
left sword across the helm, and the squire dropped. Jon stood over the down squire, and Mychael
Redfort tried to swing his blade from his back, but Jon kicked it away and stepped on his sword
hand. Mychael Redfort yelled out, and Jon put more weight on Redfort's palm. Jon then pointed his
sword, the squire's exposed neck.

"I yield." He yelled out.

"Not enough. Apologize!"

"I'm sorry!" Mychael grunted out in pain.

"Not to me!" Jon growled. "To her!" Jon pointed his sword to the young woman who looked at him
then at Mychael. Tear tracks still visible on her dirty face, but the tears no longer flowed.

"Why?" Mychael asked. Jon's anger faded for a moment when he saw genuine confusion.

"She fought well. Better than you, even. You insulted her, it was wrong." Jon answered, but no
comprehension crossed Mychael's face, but the young man still nodded.

It was quiet for a moment before the sound of cheers overtook him. The squire's event didn't draw
much of a crowd, but it was more people than had ever seen him fight. He didn't know what to do
until the herald spoke. "The Champion of the Squire's melee, Jon Snow of Winterfell!"

The cheers went up again, and Jon was handed a crown of roses. He looked around and saw
familiar faces. Ella looked conflicted, while Larence next to her was bouncing with excitement and
whooping his name. A week ago, Jon would have given Ella the crown, but he was still angry, so
he broke their brief eye contact.

He saw Robb and Bran, who looked at him smiling, Robb looked worse for the wear and Bran was
yelling his name. Jon saw his father, and though he didn't say anything, Jon's pride swelled. He
looked to find Sansa but only saw Arya, who was beaming and cheering, and in the end, it wasn't a
hard choice.
 Chapter 9
Chapter Summary

Ned meets an old friend, then meets with a foreigner.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned

Ned spent the next hour with Jon congratulating him on his victory. He had been proud of his boys
as Robb had held up well lasting much longer than anyone would expect of him. Which made
what Jon did even more impressive. Many of the squires he beat would become knights in the next
year or so, and the way he finished off the last three had been a marvel to watch, moving with
brutal efficiency.

However impressive Jon's martial prowess was, he was far more proud of him for standing up for
the young woman who he later learned was Brienne of House Tarth. The girl was maybe ten and
six, but well over six feet tall and had moved well for a woman. Hells, she moved better than most
men.

Gods, Ned thought, another woman Arya could look up to. Ned later learned his youngest daughter
had spent quite a bit of time with Brienne for the rest of the tourney. Regardless, Jon had done
what was right, even if it could have ended poorly.

Ned was sad to leave his family, but he had a business to attend to, and his two boys seemed to
enjoy the attention they were starting to receive. Well, Robb was enjoying it while Jon seemed
uneasy and awkward and fending off Theon, who was trying to use some of Jon's now heavy purse
of 300 gold dragons.

Ned had just finished speaking with Lord Bolton, and that had gone better than Ned could have
hoped. He had no trouble convincing Roose to give up a claim to a hill and surrounding area to the
Hornwoods as Ned permitted him to start construction on an extension of the small harbor near the
estuary of the Weeping River.

Ned wondered if Lord Bolton's good mood, no, not good, but the less chilly mood was due to
seeing his son and heir for the first time in two years. Whatever it was, Ned was happy to take
advantage of it.

Ned was preparing for his next meeting when his door opened, and Jory stuck his head in. "My
Lord."

"Yes, Jory?" Ned said while looking down at a few of the scraps of parchment he had on his desk.

"You have a visitor, my lord."

Ned looked up then. "Is it my next appointment?"

Before Jory could speak, a hooded figure came in, and Ned's hand instinctively went to his dagger.
The man lowered his faded green hood quickly, and Ned's hand moved away from his blade as the
figure spoke.

"Hello, Ned." Ned sat there in silence for what felt like a few minutes. He hadn't seen his friend
since they parted ways at the Moat nearly thirteen years ago.

"Howland?" Ned said, and his friend gave him a soft smile. His friend looked well, older but well.
The sandy brown hair was starting to grey above the ears, and wrinkles were forming around the
eyes.

"Aye, it's me."

"What are you doing outside the Neck?"

Howland's soft smile slowly faded as he spoke, "I have come to ask you a favor."

"Anything Howland, you know that." Ned certainly did, his friend had saved him more times than
he could count.

Howland's smile returned, "No more than I owe you, Ned."

Ned rolled his eyes, it had been more than twelve years, but they had had this argument more times
then he could count. "I've told you, Howland, you don't-" but Howland only raised his hand as a
chuckle escaped the crannogman's lips.

"Ned, we will never agree on that, although that reminds me I need to congratulate you on Jon's
victory."

Ned smiled, "Thank you, the boy is gifted with a blade."

"Aye, he reminds of his parents." As Howland said this, Ned's smile vanished, and ice went
through his veins. "Ned I meant-"

"You will not speak of this." Ned hissed out. "Not here!"

Howland, as always was implacably calm, "I understand, but he is getting older, he needs to
know."

"He needs to be safe!" Ned fought to keep his voice down, "he can never know, and since the gods
are good, no one has had an inkling so far. He is my son." Ned rubbed his temples with his left
hand. "Is this the favor you came here to ask? The thing to bring you from Greywater after all this
time?"

"No. I only bring it up because it pains me that Jon doesn't know her, what she is to him."

Ned's heart tightened a bit, "Enough of this Howland, why did you come here?" Howland sighed
and reached into his sack and withdrew a clay jar and put it on the table. "What is this?" Ned asked
as he reached out and grabbed the clay container.

"The reason I need to ask you for a favor," Howland responded. Ned opened the jar, and inside was
a greyish powder. Ned looked up, confused. "Seven years ago, there was a small outbreak of
Greyscale."

"Gods Howland! How-"

 Howland stopped him from speaking and continued. "Crannogmen are not afraid to isolate
themselves if one becomes infected, and we live solitary lives, to begin with. This is not the first
outbreak of Greyscale in the swamp, nor will it be the last." Ned only nodded his head as Howland
collected himself before he continued, "In the swamp, all people who are destined to die, have a
duty. Those with Greyscale more than others. They burn all their possessions and travel to a small
collective and avoid all contact with other people and...end things... when it is their time. However,
this group searches out anything the swamp can give to alleviate their suffering." Ned stayed quiet
as something in his gut was building. "This group of damned men and women devote the rest of
their painful lives studying medicines and trying it on themselves regardless of the cost, that,"
Howland pointed at the jar, "is the culmination of many generations and thousands of lives."
Howland gave out a deep breath and continued "and could potentially save many more."

"It is a cure? For Greyscale?"

Howland nodded, "Among other things. Wounds covered in a paste made from this powder do not
get infected, even if it becomes infected, this can cause the infection to pass. Most boils and sores
are healed as well, but Greyscale, rot, and infections of the eye all are cured."

Ned's eyes never left the jar in front of him. "Howland, the amount of gold this could bring you.."
Ned tried to grasp the figure in his head.

"Is not what the people of the Neck want. Only enough for us not to starve in the winter and protect
our lands." Howland finished the last bit with more emphasis while looking at Ned.

"Protection."

"Protection." Howland agreed.

"What is in this powder? Where does it come from?"

"There is a type of fungus that grows in the Neck."

"Powdered mushrooms?" Ned asked, and Howland shook his head.

"Sort of, it is combined with some other things until you get that." Howland pointed. "We want to
share it, and trust me, Ned, when I say this. It can only be grown in the Neck. For the most part, we
can protect ourselves in the swamp from individual trespassers, but your ancestors showed a large
enough force can overwhelm and subjugate the crannogmen."

Ned nodded, "You have the protection of Winterfell. Now and always, my friend."

"Thank you. You have always been fair, so we will make it and give it to House Stark and House
Stark only, give us what you feel is just and use the rest how you will." Ned could only shake his
head.

"Howland, you should have all from this."

"We have little need for gold. Steel and furs, however, are worth far more, and even then, the need
isn't great. Come now, let us make this deal in writing, I have never been comfortable in large
cities."

Ned chuckled at that, "I remember riding in King's Landing, I thought you would be ill."

Howland smiled softly, "Can you blame me?"

"No, I guess not," Ned continued to laugh, "Come, let us get the unpleasant part of the discussion
out of the way."

So they did, the only arguing there was between them was Ned trying to give more and more and
Howland shaking his head and arguing back. Eventually, they agreed, Ned made two copies, and
they signed and sealed both.

"Ned, it was good to see you again." Howland stood and grasped Ned's arm.

Ned looked at his friend once more, "Gods, we are getting old, bring your family to Winterfell
sometime, with the first shipment."
"That won't be for a month or so, Ned, but I do not know, perhaps I will send my daughter and son
in my stead."

Ned gave the nod, "I understand, but you are and always will be my friend Howland, and I feel I do
not see enough of you."

Howland gave Ned a soft smile, "Nor I, you, Ned." As Howland reached the door, he looked back
one more time. "Tell him stories of her, Ned. Not as what she is to him, but of who she was at least.
Don't let her memory fade." Howland didn't wait for a response, taking his leave and leaving the
clay jar behind.

Ned's next meeting wasn't nearly as nostalgic or pleasant.

The two had been talking for nearly a quarter of an hour. Ned was becoming frustrated by the lack
of progress towards anything substantial.

"And the ale Lord Stark! So dark and rich that it may warrant another trip to White Harbor for that
alone." The Braavosi merchant was a wealthy man, and Wyman had impressed the importance of
this meeting. However, Ned was starting to wonder if the man simply preferred to hear himself
speak.

"Aye, it is a good brew," Ned replied.

"Good! Ha, Lord Stark, do not be modest. No ale in Essos is so fine."

"Aye, but I wouldn't know."

"Come now, Lord Stark, come visit Braavos, bring your sons and daughters, and let me show you
the bounties of Braavos. Where trade from all across the world gathers, you will see and taste
spices and delicacies you will not find anywhere else." The Braavosi went on to wax on about the
virtues of Braavos and then sung praises of the North. Ned was starting to feel the ache in his
temple return. Ned couldn't handle it anymore.

"Lord Fregar, I love the North, but I am not a fool. Though I may see its beauty and worth, many
think otherwise, and you have never left White Harbor. No, speak plainly, what is it you want."
Tormo Fregar looked at him, the facade he wore cracked, then slowly faded.
"You are right, of course." Tormo then stroked his beard, and the jovial expression slowly dropped,
"But only in part. True, there has been some trade with the North, pelts, and wool, yes. But I see the
true value of the North, Lord Stark. The value many of my fellow countrymen refuse to
acknowledge and fewer still that think it a waste of time to pursue."

"Timber," Ned answered. Tormo only nodded his head in acknowledgment. Ned continued on
hand, waving, "We send some timber to Braavos as it is."

"Some lord Stark, but not enough, not nearly enough. Do you know where Braavos gets most of its
timber?" Tormo asked, but Ned stayed silent, so he continued. "It used to be the inland hills of the
Lagoon, but the old trees were gone in the first hundred years when Braavos was founded. Men
started to cut down the pines on Sellagoro's Shield, but that was quickly stopped. After that, there
were still a few trees of worth to be found, but it was further and deeper into the hills. So further
into the hills, we went. The further we ventured, the more untenable the terrain, even still, we have
cut down what we could have. So we looked elsewhere. The Braavosian coastline held some
timber, so we settled some towns there, and within a couple of hundred years, those too vanished.
Then we moved east and south, always searching for more and more. Then the forest of Qohor was
suggested. You do not hear of our wars in Essos, but much of it is fought over timber. We have
battled Qohorik, Norvoshi, and until recently, Pentoshi, all over resources, but mostly timber.
Braavos has an unquenchable thirst for wood, but battles and wars are tiresome and costly. Qohor
and Norvos agree to sell us an amount, but when one side does not like the terms, there is fighting,
and terms are re-done." Tormo seemed more annoyed at the implication of war than anything else,
"But those lulls Lord Stark, those lulls nearly cause Braavos to die of that thirst. If the North sold
us more, we would purchase it, and at a premium. The trees in Essos are young, and the old are
guarded fiercely. But the North of Westeros, in your Wolfswood…"

Ned put a hand up to stop him, "What would stop you from going to war if you do not like our
price? What is to stop you from cutting down the entire forest?" Ned knew this was a weak
argument, as the men of the North have only held the forest back, and over the past few centuries,
the wood had started to become overgrown. But Tormo did not need to know that. "No, we sell
what we sell as we always have."

"As I said, Lord Stark, Braavos would pay, the North's wealth would increase, and we are not
fools. How many have tried to invade the North? No. Braavos could possibly rule the shoreline,
but we are not as foolish as the Andal ancestors, and the costs alone would be substantial and not
worth the effort. This is not to mention the wrath of the other kingdoms. We are merchants first and
foremost, and fighters when we need to be. Although I know my brother would dispute that claim."
Tormo gave a soft chuckle at that last thought.

Ned rubbed his temples together, "Why. Why do you want this? What is in this for Tormo
Fregar?"
Tormo became a little more serious, "I am a wealthy man Lord Stark, but compared the true
powers of Braavos, my wealth is still lacking. When my father took over from my grandfather, the
Fregars owned nothing, our vast wealth squandered. We are original key holders of the Iron Bank,
a founding family of Braavos, a name that was respected for a thousand years, and it took three
generations of foolishness, gluttony, and poor fortune to undo that all. My father was a harsh man
and obsessed with one thing, the repair of the name Fregar. But that repair took more than his life
and possibly more than mine as well. I have done well, a boast it may be, but I am proud of what I
have done for my family name."

Tormo took a breath before he continued, "I am ambitious, Lord Stark. I know, this is something
many men frown upon, especially here, but in Braavos, those without ambition are swallowed
whole. I control quite a bit of trade, importation of food, a foot in the garment trade, even a hand in
exporting our famous dye. However, the timber trade of Braavos is controlled by a select few.
Those that control it keep it in a stranglehold. If I could get a contract for myself, I could break that
hold, and that is what the North would provide for me."

"So, more wealth is the extent of your ambition?"

Tormo raised a brow, "Wealth, yes, wealth is good, and that is all many men could ever hope for."
Tormo leaned forward a bit before continuing, "For me, wealth is just a tool Lord Stark, this
wealth and control of trade can give me an opportunity."

"And what opportunity would that be?" Ned asked.

"What do you know of the Braavosian politics?"

"What?" Ned said, confused at the question.

"You have lords in charge of land here in Westeros, what do you know of how Braavos is
governed?"

Ned shrugged, "You have a Sealord who rules."

"Yes, and he is powerful, but his son will not be Sealord after him." Then Tormo shook his head,
"No, let me rephrase that, his son is not guaranteed to be Sealord after him."
"He is chosen, yes?"

"Yes, do you know how?" Tamir asked.

Ned thought on that, his father had mentioned it once, but even Rickard Stark found the process
too convoluted to be sure about it. "I know he is selected, and I know the process is to difficult to
follow."

Tormo gave a chuckle at that, "You are not wrong." Tormo chuckle turned serious again, "He is
chosen from the Great Council. This Council has forty-five magisters. My grandfather's
grandfather was once on that Council, and it is my wish my family is represented there again."

Ned began to understand, "So, you want to power."

"As do all men."

Ned knew it. He couldn't stop himself from scowling. Tormo was ambitious, proud, and power-
hungry, just like the other four Braavosi merchants Ned had met with already. However, Ned
thought, while the others used tricks and flattery to reach similar ends, Tormo seemed to be instead
honest when asked about his ambition, while the others had been evasive with their answers.

"The North values honor more than ambition Magister Fregar," Ned said, "We do not sell it so
cheaply."

"Nor do you have to, just your timber, and even then, I know it won't be cheap."

"Which you will use to fuel your ambitious rise?" Ned asked.

Tormo shrugged, "If not my ambitious rise, it will be used for someone else's."

"Or we can keep doing as we have always done and limit everyone's ambition."
"You can try Lord Stark," Tormo said, " and I respect your commitment to honor even at the
obvious costs it takes."

Ned studied the man, trying to understand him. Ned alas gave up, "You know how Northerners
are, and you no doubt know of my character. Why say what you have when you know what my
reaction would be?"

"I am a good merchant Lord Stark, great even. I pride myself to succeed in making deals where
others have failed. I have heard how the meetings with my fellow countrymen went, and I know
each of them well. As merchants, they are not what I am, so I thought I could win you over. What
may seem excessive flattery is sincere. There are many things in the North people in Braavos and
beyond would find pleasing. With timber just being the beginning." Ned quickly glanced at the
drawer where the jar was stored, and he knew Tormo had noticed, but the man continued anyway,
"You are also known far and wide as being honorable, so honesty was my only option." Tormo
stood as he finished, "But it has not worked either. I do not beg. Well, I do not beg when there is no
change in outcome, so I know this gambit has failed. Alas, I will try to find additional wealth and
power elsewhere."

Ned stood as well and reached out his hand, Tormo shook it as Ned said, "It will not be with the
North, no. However, I appreciate honesty."

Tormo gave what seemed to be the first genuine smile, "Good to know. Good day Lord Stark."

"Good day Lord Fregar."

"Lord Stark, we only have one Lord in Braavos, and I am not him, Tormo is fine." Then the man
left.

After their farewell, Ned thought about their conversation. The North had timber to spare. Usually,
the timber trade was quite slow after winter and picked up as summer went along for the
preparation of the following winter. However, three years into this summer, and it wasn't picking
up. Was it the taxes from Robert, maybe? Or the Reach only having a mild winter? Ned wasn't
sure. Whatever it was, it hasn't been as profitable as it should have been. They may need this deal
with Braavos, but Ned could hardly stomach the merchants he had met with.

Especially Tormo, but Tormo had been honest. He showed Ned who he was and laid forth his
ambitions. There was something to that. Or was there? Robert shows what he is, so does Tywin
Lannister, and desirable partners, they were not. Ned thought of what his father used to say,
 "The demon you know is better than the demon you don't. You, Ned, you are unmovable as a
mountain, but other men will not be so, however, if you know their wants, you can know how to
deal with them."

Thinking of his father had always made him feel ill, and this was no different. For all of his faults,
Rickard Stark only wanted to strengthen the North, and Ned thought he knew what decision his
father would make if he were here now.

Ned still had a week or so left to decide, he had no doubt it would be profitable, but with the
powder from the Neck, House Stark would see its wealth increase regardless. But how would they
transport the powder? How to distribute it across the seas, throughout Westeros and beyond?

Change was coming to the North.

Ned hated change.

Chapter End Notes

I know the cure from the Neck is a typical trope in ASOIAF fanfiction, but I needed
something to force the North to start the process of change.

This is a slow chapter, but it will be important later on. I promise it will start to pick
up. Well, pick up as much as I feel it should.
 Chapter 10

Jon

“Wake up, Snow,” Jon just growled in response. “Get up Jon, you asked me to train you, and you
don’t get to rest.”

“Go away,” Jon mumbled. His head was going to kill him.

Jon was a champion, even though it was only the squire’s melee, he was still a champion. Which
meant at the final feast, he was going to sit at the champion’s table near the front. Last night,
however, he was permitted to sit near lesser lords, and Harmond and Asher had made him drink
more ale than ever before. Now he was angry he had been so stupid, and his head and body were
letting him know how foolish his decisions were. It was one of the few times he had been
recognized by the highborn, and this time it was to celebrate his achievements.

Still, the pain in his head was almost too much to bear, and the annoying Braavosi was only
making it worse.

“I have fought in battles far harder than that simple spar you won yesterday. One time I was
fighting for an entire day, and it never let up. Then the next day, the enemy attacked again. Then
again and again, and I constantly fought every day for two weeks.”

“Liar,” Jon mumbled.

Tormo snorted in response, “I exaggerate, I admit, but I have been in a siege, and it does feel much
of the same. Come, boy.”

Jon curled his body more underneath the furs as a response.

Suddenly cold water was on him. “Ahh! What in the hells is wrong with you?” Jon said as he shot
out of bed. He looked to see Tamir smirking.

“Come we have training.”

“But I won yesterday!”

“And will you never fight again?” Jon glared with silent indignation, and his Braavosi friend
continued, “Regardless, you are sore and tired, training will help you not be sore,” Tamir spoke
again as if explaining it to a child. “Also, as I am sure you are aware, the winner of the squire’s
melee has the choice to fight in the melee proper.” Jon had known, but he also knew that he
couldn’t win, but if I lasted long enough against real fighters, maybe. Maybe what? Prestige,
honor, or glory. Power. No! Jon chided himself. I am not what they think I am.

Jon thought of Ella then, could he just have some power and glory? Enough to...Jon just shook his
head, trying to clear the ache from between his temples. It was too early to think about such things.

“Fine, give me a few moments-” Jon was hit in the face with his training clothes and heard Tamir
leave his chambers chuckling.

So Jon went to train. He was tired and groggy, and he threw up three times in the first fifteen
minutes to the laughs of both Tamir and a few of the other lords and knights training at that unholy
hour. Jon swore to himself he was never going to drink wine again. Or was it ale? Jon thought
there was an argument about wine at some point? Gods, he couldn’t remember.

Jon knew he had to push through the pain in his head, stomach, and right leg. With only the last of
those coming from the melee the day before. With the squire’s melee over, there were still five
days of tourney left. Two days of jousting, one for archery, one for the Proper Melee, and then the
final day of jousting. Three days for Jon to prepare, so he tried to push himself.

After the worst session of training Jon had ever had, he was nibbling on some bread and sipping
some watered cider to settle his stomach when a small man, with a faded green cloak, came to sit
in front of him.

“I remember a quiet, brooding Stark at a tourney. Though that was years ago.” Jon studied at the
man. He had straw-colored hair, a scar across the temple, and a gentle smile.

“I’m sorry my Lord, I think you are mistaken, I am not a Stark,” Jon said, he wanted to be angry
with the man but found he couldn’t be.

The man only smiled and patted Jon’s hand. “Your name may be Snow, young Jon, but that can’t
hide that you are a Stark.”
“That is kind, my Lord-.” Jon couldn’t recognize him nor see any heraldry.

“Reed, Jon. I am Howland Reed, and please, crannogmen are not so formal.” Jon’s eyes grew
wide, he had heard stories of this man. His father told him Howland Reed was a cunning fighter
and a dear friend to House Stark. The man in front of him just smiled, letting Jon sit with the
information.

“I came to meet with your father yesterday, and I leave in a couple of hours, but I did not want to
leave without congratulating you on your victory.’

Jon bowed his head, “Thank you, my Lord.” Jon felt a hand touch his chin and raise his chin.

“You never have to thank me, Jon.” Jon didn’t know what that meant, and it was awkward for a
few moments as he tried to come up with a response.

“How were your talks with Lord Stark?” Jon said, not knowing what to say.

“Nothing to worry about, good news for both of our houses I dare to hope. However, I did not
come to find you to speak on that. I wanted to find you to tell you that your victory reminded me of
another.”

Jon sat there in silence and let Lord Reed continue with the story, “Once there was a boy from the
Neck who traveled south to a great tourney at a burned rundown castle.”

“Harrenhal?” Jon was unable to stop himself, and the man only smiled sadly.

“Yes, Harrenhal. The one where the smiles died.” Howland Reed looked a little more
downtrodden, but quickly recovered. “But before the unfortunate events there was a young man,
who was set upon by three squires, the young man was beaten badly, before being driven off by a
she-wolf. She told them it was her father’s man they were beating. She was a fierce one and saved
the boy from further embarrassment.”

“Sounds like Arya,” Jon whispered.

Howland smiled at the interruption, “So I have heard.”

Despite himself, Jon could only smirk. Howland continued, “She brought him to her family’s great
tent, made him sit with high lords as was his right, but was something he feared. The young man
saw the squires that had hurt him were there as well, and the she-wolf saw them and told her more
fierce brothers. They offered to give the young man some armor, to set them right, but the boy
knew he never could and declined. If it was rowing a canoe or spearing maybe, but atop a horse?”
Howland just shook his head. “No. The next day the three knights of the dishonorable squires rode
out for the joust, and a mystery rider in mismatched armor came and challenged them all.”
Howland was smiling now, his eyes focused on nothing as he recounted the tale. “The mystery
knight was short and spoke in an odd voice. The shield the rider bore was a black field with a white
weirwood with a laughing, red face.”

Jon was too old for stories, but something about this one bemused him, and the Lord of Greywater
Watch continued. “The three knights laughed at their challenger and all accepted. First was a
knight with a porcupine on their shield, and he fell on the first blow. The next was the one with a
pitchfork, and it took three turns before he too fell. The last was a knight of twin towers, and it took
eight lances before that knight fell as well.” Howland smiled, and there was a tear in his eye. “The
smallfolk loved that mystery knight. The Knight of the Laughing Tree, they called him, and when
the three knights went to ransom their horse and armor, all the knight said was ‘Teach your squires
honor, that shall be ransom enough.’ Then the rider disappeared.”

Howland quickly wiped his eye and took a few breaths to collect himself before continuing. “That
rider saved my honor.” Howland grasped Jon’s hands tightly. “For that, I am forever grateful, and
you young Jon, remind me of that mystery knight.” Howland gave a brief smile, then raised
himself from the bench and turned to leave. Lord Reed shifted back to him before saying, “Jon, I
am leaving now for my home. However, you are always welcome at Greywater Watch.” Then the
lord left, and Jon was speechless but mostly confused.

That being said, it did give him an idea of what to paint on his newly purchased shield.

Jon’s thoughts were interrupted by Tamir throwing a stale roll at him, and Jon left again to train
some more.

---

Jon had never been well-liked, and he still wasn’t really, but over the next few days, more Lords
and sons of lords spoke to him more than ever before. Some Valemen were angry, mainly Horton
Redfort, but Mychael was courteous enough in defeat, even asking for a rematch. Mychael may be
a pompous arse, but at least he didn’t hold a grudge.

The Royce’s were much warmer, Robar, especially as he told Jon his brother was too arrogant and
needed to be humbled and was glad someone had done it before he got himself killed. Jon liked
Robar straightaway, seemed more a Northman than any of the other southern lords. He even let Jon
spar with him once, and Jon had managed to not look too much of a fool. Though the one victory
Jon earned was due to Robar being distracted by Lyla Condon, Ser Kyle Condon’s only daughter.

Other Vale Lords like Lyn Corbray and Symond Templeton congratulated him as well. However,
Lyn Corbray told Jon that Lucas was not likely to forgive him for the embarrassment, “and as his
older brother, I will have to defeat you to avenge him.”

Jon could only think to say, “Good luck.” Which caused the famous knight to laugh and slap Jon
on the shoulder, leaving his hand their as the bearer of Lady Forlorn finished his laugh.

The most bizarre encounter was the woman squire, who wasn’t even a squire. She was from the
Stormlands and named Brienne of House Tarth. She had thanked Jon profusely, and awkwardly,
“That was truly gallant Ser…”

“Snow, Jon Snow, but I am not a knight, so please call me Jon.”

The burly girl then blushed a bit, “Thank you again, Jon.”

“Of course, my Lady.” He responded, but before Jon had the chance to leave, a man, an inch or so
taller than Brienne came over and shook his hand.

“You must be the boy that fought like the Warrior in defense of my daughter,” He struck out his
hand, and Jon clasped it, “Selwyn Tarth, what is your name?” The man had a rugged and
weathered face that held little emotion, but his eyes had something like hope in them.

“Jon Snow, lord Tarth,” Jon said, and at the mention of ‘Snow,’ some of the gaiety left his eyes.
Jon tried not to be too hurt and kept his face fixed as warm as he could make it.

Selwyn recovered, “Well if there is anything you need, House Tarth is in your debt.” Selwyn
looked thoughtful for a moment, “I am a bit old to have a squire, but if you desire, my master-at-
arms Goodwin has a son who is a knight and one day soon will take over for his father. Say the
word, and I’ll make you his squire, and if rumors of your ability are true, you could be a knight in
three years.”

Three years? A knight? Jon could rid himself of the name Snow, be a Ser, travel the Seven
Kingdoms. Jon realized he had been silent for longer than appropriate, “Of course, my Lord, I
would be honored, but my father would have to approve.”

“Of course, please let me know before we leave.” The formidable man said. Jon just nodded and
then saw where Brienne got her stature, and unfortunately, her looks from. Then the lord got
uncomfortable then asked, “I must ask, why did you defend my daughter?” Brienne’s face burned
bright red at the question.

Jon looked around the hall and found what he was looking for, “You see them there?” The two
watched, and Jon continued, “House Mormont has many warrior women. Dacey and her sister
Alysanne that you see there are far better fighters than many men I know. In fact, the only reason
Alysanne isn’t competing is due to her pregnancy.”

The two Tarth’s looked at him, confused, and Jon shrugged, “I respect your daughter as a warrior,
and any warrior that did what she does deserves respect from everyone else.”

Lord Tarth gave a small smile then, “You are right, they do.” They excused themselves and left,
and Jon felt like Selwyn was a good man, and maybe being a squire in his household wouldn’t be
too bad.

Still, no matter how many interactions like those with the Royce’s and Tarth’s, there were many
more that continued to remind him that he didn’t really belong. Most of which came from House
Rykker. Before, they ignored Jon like everyone else, but now insulted him whenever they could.
Hemly could only scowl as he still couldn’t talk very well due to his tongue being so swollen.
Apparently, when Jon kicked his helm, he nearly bit through his tongue. Damn shame, that.

Still, this left his younger twin Lenfred to spew insults. The insults did little to bother him, or so he
showed, but if Jon was caught alone, an extra shove here or there would be given in retaliation. But
that is all they would dare do, as anything more sinister would breech guest right, and even those
two wouldn’t be stupid enough to do something so foolish.

The most stunning development was the attention of a few girls as well. There was the youngest
Royce, Rhea, and Mira Forrester, both of which started to look at him like most girls looked at
Robb. Even a daughter of Lord Belmore, though he didn’t remember her name, tried to offer him
her favor. Luckily she was scolded by her uncle or cousin, and Jon was able to escape the
embarrassing situation. This still didn’t stop Asher, Harmond, and Theon from taking the piss out
of him.

However, none of that mattered as the only member of the fairer sex he wanted to talk to was still
ignoring him. Worst yet, she seemed to be dancing with Lenfred and Hemly Rykker every evening,
which was more painful than any insult those arrogant arseholes could invent.

“She doesn’t enjoy their company.” Larence had said the morning before the proper melee. Jon
must have grumbled about it out loud instead of in his head as the two bastards sparred. Larence
had started to train with Jon after Tamir finished with him, which gave Jon a chance to lessen the
intensity while still forcing him to build his stamina. Larence was quick, small, but quick and a fast
learner. “She knows you don’t like it.” Jon only scowled at that. Jon then disarmed and hit the boy
harder than he thought.

“Gods, Jon!” Larence said as he rubbed his shoulder. Jon knew it would leave a bad bruise, nothing
severe but still too harsh for a friendly spar.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled, and Larence had the good sense not to say anything else. Well, not anything
about Ella.

“So your fighting in the proper melee? Against real knights and lords?”

“Yes.”

“You could get hurt!”

“They only use blunted weapons,” Jon replied.

“So Lyn Corbray won’t use Lady Forlorn ?” Larence asked with disappointment.

Jon laughed, “Good thing too, or he would take off my head.”

“I hear he is the quickest sword in Westeros!”

“I hear he is the only one that says that.” Jon shot back, and this got a chuckle out of Larence. In
truth, Jon knew this was a bad idea, but he had to make a name for himself. Earn some more glory,
prove that he....he was worth...something.

Jon had trained hard every day leading up to the real melee, with Tamir pushing Jon as far as Jon
wanted to be driven. “A man is only as good as he wants to be, and you, Jon Snow, need the desire
to be great if you want to be anything worthwhile. I see it within you. Use it and push yourself, and
I will mold you into something to be feared.” It wasn’t enough time, though. He was better now,
sure, but ten days of training would not make him into something formidable.

That being said, the rigorous training regimen had made Jon feel pretty good. But Jon was not a
fool, he knew he wouldn’t last long in the melee. Still, Jon knew he would last longer than anyone
thought, especially if he could get on the same team as Tamir.

Later that evening, during their routine training, Jon finally spoke up. “Tamir, I have a question,”
Jon asked.

“Speak it then.” Jon just rolled his eyes, and this response and spoke anyway.

“Tomorrow, during the melee, can I fight by your side?” Jon asked. Tamir gave him a smirk and
then shook his head.

“If it was up to me, Jon Snow, yes, but the game master picks the teams one hour prior, and if we
are on separate teams, I cannot.” Jon nodded, understanding the rules.

“If my team is all lost and I am alone, can I join your team during the melee?” Jon asked, hating
how much he sounded like a helpless child.

Tamir took a moment to respond before he turned the question around, “If my team is lost, Jon
Snow and I am the only one left, will you allow me to join you.”

“Of course!” Jon answered quickly, and Tamir gave a genuine smile.

“Then do not worry, Jon Snow.”

--

In the end, Jon didn’t have to worry. He was selected in the same group as Tamir, but as they were
preparing themselves in their team’s tent, Jon was a little dismayed at his fellow fighters.

Gryff Whitehill had not hidden his displeasure of being selected to this team, especially when one
fighter as young as Jon, “Aye little Snow, run around while the real fighters win this for you,” was
the first thing he had said when he had found out.

The other men of the group seemed to share his opinion. Although Jon was known for his prowess
for his age, compared to the older fighters, he was average at best, and since he was still growing,
he didn’t compare to the others in height or weight. The only one that he did compare to was 18-
year-old Willem Evrett, a newly minted knight from the Vale, who looked as nervous as he was.
The announcement of the teams and their members started. The herald, with his booming voice,
cut through the rising murmur of the crowd. The number of participants in the melee was more
than any of the lords could have guessed with nearly four hundred and fifty men who put forth
their name. It was a hotchpotch of competitors with lords and common men-at-arms from the
North, knights from the south, and a handful of foreigners like Tamir.

Jon’s team was an underwhelming mix of men. There was Jon, Tamir, two other foreigners that
Jon did not know, Ser Evrett, Gryff Whitehill, a ragged man with black chainmail and a dented
helm and nose guard, a soldier in the service to House Dustin, two Norrey cousins and, Jon was
happy to see, Jory Cassell. Jory had been quiet the whole time, preparing himself as another of the
forty teams were announced. There was a roar of approval as some names of well-known fighters
were given.

As more and more teams were announced, Jon’s stomach was in knots and felt as if he was going
to embarrass himself, his family, and bring shame onto all of them. His mind was racing when he
felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Jon.”

It was Tamir, he was in simple chainmail and leather armor, he didn’t have his thin blade but a
shield, spear and short sword, all blunted. He was flanked by two men, one had a similar skin tone
as Tamir’s but was three inches smaller, but built broadly. The other was a couple of inches taller
than Tamir and a bit thin but was heavily scarred. His skin was as dark as charcoal, and Jon had a
hard time looking away. “Jon.” This time Tamir patted the side of his face to wake him from his
reverie. “Jon, these are fellow members of the company I am a part of.”
“You never said you were a sell-sword!”

Tamir gave Jon a look of offense before saying, “Do you think I practice arms because it is a useful
tool to woo women?”

Jon stared uncomfortably at the ground and said the first thing that came to his mind, “Yes.”

Tamir and the other Braavosi let out a roar of laughter, and the darker-skinned man even smirked.
“Well, you have a point as it does help woo women, but no, I have been fighting in battles since I
was little older than you. But that doesn’t matter now. I was able to bribe the gamemaster in
including these two on our ten-man team.”

“You cheated!” Jon said outraged.

Tamir gave him an odd look, “Aye, so did most others. Have you seen the groupings, Jon? Most of
the wealthier fighters have paid to have their men on their team.”

Jon just shook his head, “There is no honor in that!”

“Ah, but there is glory.”

“And gold.” The knight in black ringmail shouted from across the tent.

“And gold.” Tamir agreed.

Jon snarled in response, but Tamir forced him to look at his eye, “There is no honor in battle Jon,
even a mock battle such as this. There are only those that win and those that lose.”

“It’s dis-” Jon was interrupted harshly as a hand slapped his face.

Jon stared at Tamir in confusion and pain, but Tamir gave him a pointed look, “Now, shut your
mouth, and listen to me, Snow. This is Arridos,” Tamir pointed to the other Braavosi, who gave
Jon a nod, “And this is Medvjed.” The dark skin man looked at him and nodded as well, but it
lacked any warmth.

“It is a pleasure sers,” Jon said, with the barest courtesy.

Medvjed gave him another nod, while Arridos said, “Pleasure is mine Snow, you fight well for
someone so young.” Arridos turned to Tamir, “So what is the plan, captain?”

Tamir became sober for the first time since Jon had known him. “Our best chance is for us to be on
the defensive, let the over-eager men rush into the crowd. Hold our ground, work together, fight as
a single unit, and take down those that come.”

“Aye, sure, fuck about in the corner like the pansy merchant you are.” Gryff spat on the ground,
“Fuck your plan.”

Medvjed and Arridos stepped forward, but Tamir put a hand on their arms. Slowly Tamir looked at
each fighter, one at a time, landing on Gryff last. Jon felt the authority shift in the tent, it was
palpable, wordless, and Jon couldn’t pull himself away. Jon only realized then that Tamir was a
leader of men, that he genuinely has seen war in a way many in the room had never known, and
that he had survived, no, thrived in it.

After nearly a minute, he continued, “Feel free to join the madness at the beginning, you will yield,
and our team will be poorer for it.” Gryff, to his credit, didn’t back down but became less defiant,
as he was complimented and reproached in a single moment.

The man in black chainmail stood up, “It’s as good a plan as any, which of the companies do you
fight for in Essos?”

It was Arridos who spoke first, “Müqeddes Cinler.” Jon knew it was Valyrian as he had a passable
education in the language, but Jory stopped polishing his helmet, and his father’s captain looked
up with his eyes wide.

“So you’re Demons?” the gruff man in black chainmail said. “I was part of the Stromcrows for a
season, fought your men near the Velvet Hills for some Norvoshi cunt.”
Tamir raised an eyebrow, “Will that be a problem?”

The gruff man gave a quick laugh, “Not in the slightest. Our commander was a shit, poor pay, and
worse food. Saved most of the money for himself. So thanks for killing him.” The man stuck out
his hand, “Name’s Bronn. Thought we were fucked for this fight, but with three Demons on our
side, we may have a chance. What do you need me to do?”

“Do you have a shield?”

“Never saw the need.” Bronn shrugged his shoulders.

Tamir spoke Valyrian to Medvjed, who turned at left the tent and returned thirty seconds later with
a round shield of oak and iron. He handed it to Bronn, who simply shrugged and grabbed it.

Tamir then spoke to the rest of the room, “We form a shield wall, tight enough not to let anyone
through, but loose enough where our tired foes can be let through to be finished off.”

“By who?” Jory asked, speaking for the first time.

Tamir looked at Jon and then at Willem and pointed at the knight, “You and the boy.”

Gryff scoffed, “Him? So we are protecting Snow, so he and the southron ponce get the glory?”

“Yes.” Tamir said, “But not for glory, but because they are the weakest ones here and the shield
wall will fold if I have them be apart of it.” If this was meant to improve Jon’s confidence, it was
not working. Gryff just smirked at Jon.

Tamir turned to address the room, “We can’t kill, but still, hit weak points, joints, ribs, you all
know where. When you feel you have them tired, they shout, ‘Munhaz.’

The older Norrey looked up, “What’s a ‘Munhaz?’

“It doesn’t matter, just yell it and then wait for five counts and let them through the line, Jon and,
I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Willem Evrett.” The newly anointed knight said in response, his voice wavering a bit.

“And Evrett here will finish them as one.” Everyone looked at Tamir, seeming to weigh their
options. Eventually, they all grunted in agreement then Tamir spoke with them all about placement
on the line.

Jon felt his hands shaking a little and looked at Tamir and his two fellow mercenaries. They were
all calm, breathing evenly while checking their gear one more time.

Jon took a breath, trying to find their calm that eluded himself.

He took another deep breath, trying to visualize the fight before him and felt some sort of peace,
but when he opened his eyes, Ser Evrett was there, looking as bad as Jon felt.

“Nervous?” Jon turned to see the man who called himself Bronn. Jon simply nodded in agreement.

“Me too.” Jon just gave him an incredulous look, Bronn just said he fought in wars and battles
across the narrow sea.

“Why?” Jon asked.

Bronn shrugged, “We are using blunted blades. If we were allowed to kill, I’d walk away from
scrap a wealthy man.”

Despite himself, Jon gave a small chuckle, and the man smirked back. Jon felt some of his anxiety
fade. Bronn gave him a pat, “Don’t let anyone flank us, I still want that gold.”

“Don’t get overwhelmed, I don’t know if I want to save you,” Jon said.

“Oh, don’t worry. If it gets too bad, I’ll throw that boar of man, Whitehill, into the enemy.” Jon
couldn’t tell if Bronn was serious, then realized he probably was. Jon gave a laugh anyway, the last
of his tension fading.

The rest of the team was gathered, ready to walk onto the tourney ground to be announced. Bronn
went to join them, and Jon was left alone for a moment. Jon listened to the cheering crowd, hungry
for skillful violence. They had almost drowned out the herald, and Jon took two deep breaths and
opened his eyes. Jon looked at the corner to his shield, which was smiling back at him.
 Chapter 11
Chapter Summary

The Proper Melee

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned

Ned was tapping the armrest of his chair in an erratic pattern. He looked around to stands filled
with thousands of people. The tourney ground had to be extended just to accommodate the size of
the melee. Most of the fighters were sitting there, anxiously waiting for it to begin. The shuffled in
the melee grounds that were now covered in a thin layer of sand.

Ned leaned over to Lord Wylis to his right, "What is the sand for?"

Wylis looked nervous before responding, "In case there is a lot of blood, ensure that the men
cannot slip as easily."

Ned nodded, fighting his nerves, hoping that Jon was forced to yield early and before he suffered a
significant injury." Thirty minutes had passed already, and they were just now finishing the
announcements of teams, with Jon's being announced last.

The herald's voice was hoarse at this point, and if Ned hadn't been so close to him, he wouldn't
have been able to hear the poor man finish the announcement. "With the last team, Arridos of
Braavos, Me-mg-ah-djev of the Doquu, Tamir of Braavos, Gryff Whitehill, Jory Cassell, Ser Evrett
of Wickenden, Erin of Barrowton, Rend Norrey, Lem Norrey, Bronn of…..somewhere, and lastly,
the winner of the squire's melee, Jon Snow of Winterfell."

Arya, Robb, and Bran jumped from their seats and yelled, cheering for their brother raucously
while Sansa politely clapped while Jon, who just exited the tent with his new purchases. The fresh
leather covering his mail, the padded gambeson underneath, the freshly forged steel helmet, and a
new shield that was-. Ned felt his heart stop as he saw the weirwood tree with a laughing face
painted on the front. "Godsdamn him," Ned muttered to himself.
"What was that Lord Stark?" Ned turned to his right where Wylis Manderly was sitting.

Ned waved his hand, "Nothing important, Lord Wylis."

Wylis grunted in reply, and Ned turned back to his son, wearing his light armor huddled in a circle
while the Braavosi was speaking to their group. Ned found it unusual that Jon was standing to the
Braavosi's right, focusing intently on what a foreigner was saying.

Robb was speaking to Arya and Bran, "You should see how they train! You know how Jon is in
the yard and how hard Jon works, but it seems mad. Tamir Fregar controls what Jon eats when he
sleeps, when and with what weapon they train, he even makes Jon slow down his movements so
much that it seems he stands still mid-strike! He has to sit in a pose to trust for nearly ten
minutes!."

"You think he could-" Arya started, but Ned interrupted.

"Tamir Fregar?"

Robb turned to him, "Yes, that one there, the Braavosi."

Ned saw the man Robb pointed to. This Tamir was leaning over towards Jon and Ned assumed
they were speaking to one another. "His name is Fregar?" Robb nodded his head confused. "How
does Jon know him?"

"He's been training Jon every day since a couple of days after we arrived in White Harbor. I think
he's why Jon won the squire's melee." Robb said, still beaming with pride at how his brother beat
three squires, all older and more skilled, in only a handful of moments.

Bran turned his head, "Can I train with him as well? If I moved like Jon, I could be a knight in no
time."

"Ser Rodrik is more than capable," Ned grumbled, but his mind was already thinking. Was this
some sort of trick Tormo's to gain support?
A horn interrupted his thoughts, and the roar of half a thousand fighters seemed to shake the
stands. The crowd joined, and the cheering soared as blunted steel met wood, and the melee had
begun. Ned searched for his son, ignoring all the other fighters and saw the weirwood shield next
to a shield with a bull on it. The two stood behind a line of eight men. Ned was shocked that they
all agreed to guard Jon, but then a smaller fighter slipped through the line. Their opponent was
struggling to stay up, and Jon disarmed him as the Bull-shielded knight kicked him to the ground.
The attacking knight yielded, and Jon and the Bull knight, Evrett, he thought, moved back into
position. Soon there was a hole in the line, and Jon pushed forward, closing it, then retreating when
the knight dispatched by the man named Bronn.

In the chaos of the melee, Jon's team held together reasonably well. The plan seemed simple and
effective as they fought well as a unit, each of them having a job to do. It appeared the clansmen
anchored the shield wall holding both flanks, while the three foreigners stood in the middle,
directing the shield wall. Every so often, someone would be let through, and Jon and his
companion fought well together, dispatching those that slipped in.

Ned was impressed by his son, it seemed he had improved even since the squire's melee and facing
men one at a time, gave his quickness the advantage. Combined with the help from Ser Evrett, they
helped their team slowly whittle down the competition.

Then the line broke, and three men rushed through at once. Two were Wull clansmen, and another
seemed to be a knight in the service to House Celtigar. The two Clansmen moved towards Jon. Ned
felt himself rise and heard his children grasp as they stood. Jon was forced away from his team. He
was backpedaling, as the two Wull attacked with their blunted axes. One hooked Jon's shield to
throw him off balance, but Jon, to Ned's surprise and the surprise of the crowd, let go of his shield,
the change of resistance, opening the clansmen up to a blow. Jon delivered then spun so quickly the
other clansman's blow struck his comrade instead of Jon. Jon then moved and delivered a crushing
blow to the man's arm, who dropped his ax, and Jon pointed at both clansmen who yielded. Jon
grabbed his shield and sprinted back to Ser Evrett, who was hard-pressed, and his son delivered a
blow to the man's back, and the two forced him to yield.

The crowd roared in pleasure at what Jon did. Ned found himself speechless at the display. His
children, on the other hand, cheered wildly, even Theon seemed impressed though he said nothing.

"Father, did you see that!" Bran yelled.

"Of course he did, stupid," Arya said.

Bran didn't seem to hear her, "That was incredible, he moved so fast, and did you see what he did
with his shield!"
Robb smiled, "Yes, gods, he's gotten better than even a few days ago."

Yes, he has. Ned was worried though, Tamir Fregar seemed to take him under his wing. Was this a
ploy of some sort, to ingratiate into his family through his son. Ned felt his irritation grow but kept
it to himself. Ned forced himself to concentrate on watching his son put on an impressive display.

"Your boy is a credit to you," Wylis said.

"Thank you, Lord Wylis, he's a good lad," Ned said. Ned looked at the Manderly's sitting next to
them. Mereth Manderly was seated next to her new husband, and both were speaking to each other.
Ned saw that Mereth was smiling.

"How is the newly married couple?" Ned asked.

Wylis smiled a bit, "They are warming up to each other, I think."

"That's good," Ned looked at his daughter Wynyfryd. "Where is your other daughter, Wylla?"

Wylis waved his hand, "She stays for the beginning, but most tourney's do not hold her interest for
long."

Ned nodded, turning to Sansa, whose initial enthusiasm for the melee was switching between a mix
of boredom and apprehension at the extraordinary violence. Ned could relate but still turned back
to his son, who was garnering acclaim, both for his prowess and age, but also the unique shield he
had on.

After nearly an hour, Jon's team had only lost two men, one of the Norrey cousins and a man-at-
arms from house Dustin. Jon's team responded by having their line shrink closer together as the
knight, Ser Evrett, who had been next to Jon, stepped up into the shield wall. Still, the chaos of the
melee seemed to swirl around them all, breaking against the shield wall like the waves crashing
against the rocks of White Harbor.

Smalljon Umber had fought savagely and defeated nearly ten men himself but made the mistake of
separating from his group to face the last three men and was eventually defeated by Dacey
Mormont and two Mormont fighters who sprung the trap and the heir to Last Hearth's team soon
folded in on itself. Greatjon held his group of ragged Umber men together and pushed towards the
center, swinging the immense Greatsword in wide arcs, keeping attackers at bay. The two elder
Karstark sons, Harrion and Torrhen, fought side by side, forming an impressive duo. Robin Flint
fought valiantly alongside Avery Locke but were both eventually defeated by Lyn Corbray in a
stunning display of swordsmanship. Andar and Yohn Royce were doing quite well, while Marlon
Manderly and the Ryswell brothers were tiring out and were each defeated in turn.

As the competition approached the two-hour mark, the initial enthusiasm of the melee was waning.
The squire's melee lasted maybe an hour and was much less viscous.

Men were unconscious, bleeding and broken, and were being dragged off by servants and squires
alike as the middle of the tourney ground turned into a brawl more than a skillful display of arms.
The smarter teams stayed at the edge and picked off the stragglers one by one.

Jon, tired as he looked, was still standing behind a line of five men. It seemed Ser Evrett, Gryff
Whitehill, and the other Norrey all were forced to yield. Jon's team had the most members
standing, but the chaff had been sifted away, and Ned's anxiety only increased as the likelihood of
significant injury was growing every moment Jon stayed in the melee.

Ned was incredibly proud, though, his son was the youngest fighter left by almost a decade and
had made it into the final fifty. Just pull out of the fight . But Ned knew his son. He would fight to
the bitter end to prove he belongs. Ned felt guilty at those thoughts, knowing he hadn't done
enough to curb that behavior.

A hole their wall opened up between the dark-skinned man and the other foreigner and Jon jumped
into the gaps and Ned watched as the two men with Jon in between moved in cohesion, with Jon
using his shield to block a strike from Dacey Mormont's mace, and Arridos covering Jon's exposed
side with his own. Then all three thrust out in different directions, Jon with his sword and the two
foreigners with their spears, pushing back their opponents. They even managed to force one to
yield. Soon their whole line advanced, and the two foreigners forced Dacey to yield, much to
Arya's disappointment. Jon took the small moment of reprieve to return to his place behind the wall
as it closed back together.

Only then, a man in black chainmail, Bronn, moved too slow, and Andar Royce's morningstar
landed a blow on the poor man's shoulder, and Bronn fell to his knees with a hand up yielding. Jory
then was then separated from the group trying to fend off the heir of Runestone. With Yohn Royce
forcing Tamir out of the line and Lyn Corbray holding the other two at bay. The shield wall had
been broken apart.

"Jon, look out!" Arya screamed, and Ned felt his blood run cold as he turned to find Jon narrowly
avoided a strike from a knight with two war hammers crossed on a blue and white field. House
Rykker. The young knight was pushing Jon hard, and Jon was struggling to keep his weapon up.
Jon then separated from the group, trying to put some distance between him and the Rykker
knight.

Ned watched, gripping the armrest of his chair, and didn't notice as his knuckles turned white. Jon
ducked and parried, and the knight stuck with him, scoring a few glancing blows here and there.
Ned then understood what Jon was trying to do. Then Jon seemed to finally start to take control of
the duel, as the knight he faced was moving slower as Jon, with more open space, was tiring him
out. Jon was able to score a rough hit under the shoulder, and Ned knew if the blades had an edge,
his son would have rendered the knight's arm useless. The knight tried a backswing with the sword,
and Jon was able to trap it and disarm the knight in a single, smooth move. Ned sighed in relief,
though even from here, Ned could see Jon breathing heavily. The knight from House Rykker lifted
his arms in surrender, and Jon turned back to return to his team's broken line.

Ned felt himself rise from his seat as the knight from House Rykker raised his shield to strike Jon
from behind.

"No!" Robb cried out when a spear flew past Jon's shoulder and hit the knight right above the chest
plate, knocking him onto his back.

Ned looked to see the dark-skinned fighter, who had thrown a tourney spear, immediately suffered
a blow to his unguarded shoulder, and yielded to Lyn Corbray. Jon turned in confusion to the
knight now on his back. Then Jon must have seen the knight from House Corbray advance towards
him as his son lowered himself into a fighting stance once again.

"No, no, no yield Jon. Yield." Ned muttered to himself.

There were only twenty fighters left, and many were dropping quickly now. Whispers about the
Weirwood fighter could already be heard. Yield son, there is no need to keep going . Jon didn't
back down, and Ned could see Lyn laughing as Jon did his best to hold him off, but Lyn was a man
grown, experienced warrior, killer of Ser Llewyn Martell and wielder of Lady Forlorn. Jon fought
admirably, but he was not quite a man yet. After three minutes of Jon trying to evade and counter
against his opponent, Jon's blade hit the dirt by a brilliant counter that his exhausted son couldn't
react to in time.

Thank the gods . But unexpectedly, Jon moved as quick as Shadowcat and struck out with a kick.
The crowd gasped in shock as Jon's leg connected with the knee of Lyn Corbray, and Jon dodged
the swing, and Lyn's knee buckled a bit as he stepped forward. Jon swung his shield and the
laughing face connected with the front of Lyn Corbray's helmet, and the knight stumbled backward
but kept his feet under him. Jon pushed forward, wielding only his shield. Jon tried to push his
 advantage, but Lyn Corbray steadied his feet under him and swung his sword.

Jon couldn't move swift enough and was once again on his back foot. Lyn Corbray was no longer
laughing, and Jon could only move his shield as Jon was battered over and over again, and his new
shield's iron rim was denting, and the wood underneath took a beating from the force of the blows.
Ser Corbray's sword feinted up, and Jon fell for it. The sword whirled towards his son's leg. Jon's
shield caught some of it, his leg caught the rest, and Jon stumbled to one knee. Lyn didn't even
wait for Jon to raise his hand but swung his fist, and Jon crumpled to the ground.

"Jon!" Arya cried out while Sansa gasped. Robb and Bran sat there in silent horror while Ned was
already out of his seat, rushing down the stairs to the tourney ground. He turned back to Tomard,
"Find a maester and bring him to Jon immediately!"

It took longer to reach the healer's tent than it should have, and when he made the stands cheered
loudly, and applause broke out, the herald shouted out the champion, but Ned wasn't paying
attention. His son, his only piece of her, was unconscious, and nothing else mattered.

Chapter End Notes

This was a shorter chapter and the next one will follow soon enough.

Thanks to everyone who has commented so far!

 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes

Jon wakes up

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Jon

Jon moaned as the taste of dirt-filled his mouth. He was trying to get his body to turn over through
the sheer force of will. But try as he might his body didn't want to acquiesce, so he sat there, lying
face first in the dirt.

Suddenly, he felt his feet were grabbed by someone, and another pair of hands cupped his upper
body. Jon was lifted off the ground, and then there was nothing but air underneath him. His head
muddled, and he tried to move his left leg. "Ah!" Jon groaned the pain slicing through his hazy
mind. The same damn leg as before. He needed to see if he could walk on it, test to see if it was
permanently damaged or just a bad bruise. Jon tried to escape the clutches of the encompassing
hands, but they only grasped him tighter.

"Calm down milord, calm down milord! You are almost to the healer's tent."

"Wurrt hepind?" Jon's speech slurred. His head was hurting, there was a cloud in his mind, and
everything was moving too slow, but at the same time was way too fast. As they carried him
through the melee grounds, it was starting to lift. The bright light was dimming, and the fog in his
mind was now clearing, giving comprehension back into his control.

"Blow to the head, young Ser. Your helmet had a nice little dent to the side."

Jon was trying to remember what occurred, he remembered Lyn Corbray coming towards him, he
remembered losing his sword and kicking the famous knight in the knee. After that, it was hazy.

Then in one moment, it rushed back to him, the fist he didn't even see.

"Corbray…." Jon mumbled.

"Aye, the knight did well, rung your bell good, beat back the Giant Umber Lord, don't know if he
got hit in his head as bad as he hit yours, though!" Jon couldn't see the man, so he leaned his
unsupported head backward to get a better look at the man. He had a soft face and round shoulders.
He was also sweating profusely.

"Shield?" Jon said softly.

"Sorry, milord?"

"My shield." Jon tried to escape again to find his shield, he couldn't lose it, he just bought it!

"Oi!" The man holding his feet shouted, "Oi enough! We'll drop you if you keep squirmin' like a
worm!"

The man with the soft face spoke, "Your shield will be fetched, ser, don' worry none." Jon
acquiesced.

"Who…..who won? Jon mumbled, but he thought it was a little bit clearer than before.

"Not sure milord, melee still going on," the soft faced-man spoke, it was an oddly deep voice, Jon
realized. Just then, a loud cheer went up, and a roar of applause followed, Jon thought the herald
was saying something, but Jon couldn't make out what it was, but the uproar that followed couldn't
be missed.

The two men carrying Jon reached a table in one of the healer's tents, and they laid him down
gently. As soon as Jon felt the wooden table under his armor, he tried to sit up when a firm hand
held him in place. Jon slowly saw a dark-skinned hand, and Jon followed the arm up to see
Medvjed staring down at him.

"Still boy," Medvjed put his finger on his head. "The head is paining. Pain for time, rest until no
pain." His Westerosi was stilted and had a thick accent he didn't recognize.

Jon tried to get up again in defiance, and the man placed his other hand on his shoulder as well.
"Stay."

"This rangy bear of a man is right young Jon. You took a good blow." Jon looked around to see
Arridos walking towards him with a slight limp, "Unnecessary by that cunt of knight, though thank
the gods he didn't use the sword, or they would still be picking your brain from the dirt."

Jon couldn't help but smirk and shake his head, "Aye." Jon looked at the dark-skinned man,

"Thank you, Medvjed, for the spear." The man cocked his head, then Arridos said something in
Valyrian too quickly for Jon to understand.

Medvjed seemed to comprehend then turned back to Jon, "Müqeddes Cinler, are one. We fight with
others or…" the man seemed to try and find the right word, "or slip."

Jon looked in confusion at Medvjed, and he turned to Arridos, who listened then said, "What my
inarticulate compatriot is trying to say is that us Demons fight as one, and if we did not we fall on
the real battlefield."

"I am not a Demon," Jon said.

Arridos stuck his arm out, "Today you were." Jon gave a sheepish grin and grasped the man's
forearm.

Arridos just patted his shoulder and looked up, and the smile slipped a bit. Arridos turned to the
dark-skinned man who both shared a look. Medvjed looked back to Jon and patted his chest once
and said, "Rest, byka cinler." Little demon. Jon nodded in thanks.

"Lord Stark," The two men said with a nod of their head and turned to leave. Jon felt his body grow
stiff.

Jon's father entered his field of vision. His grey eyes were not as hard as they usually were, replaced
with something Jon thought was a concern.

"Thank the Gods you're okay," Ned said as he embraced Jon quickly. Jon was too shocked, and
instead of returning it, an involuntary groan from the pain escaped him. "Others take you, Jon,
challenging Lyn Corbray with no sword?"

Jon gave a weak grin, "Thought...I thought I could catch him off guard."

His father's face of concern morphed into a face Jon recognized a little more, "Jon, he bested you
already, there was no shame in that."

At the word of shame, Jon's felt his smirk faded, and he bit back his retort and instead said, "Yes,
father." Jon turned his head, so he wasn't facing his father again.

"Jon. That's not to say-"

A flat voice interrupted his father, "Lord Stark, I am maester Theomore. Excuse me for
interrupting, but I need to see the injured fellow." A fat fleshy man with pink cheeks and a
permanent frown came and looked at Jon. "Follow my finger." Jon did so. "Good. Can you tell me
your name?" So Jon did.

The maester spoke to him and asked a series of bizarre and unrelated questions. Then he harshly
prodded and poked Jon up and down his leg and head, not stopping to ask any more questions then
turned to his father.

"The young man has a very, very mild concussion, maybe not even that. The leg will have a bruise
but isn't broken. He is exhausted and needs a good meal and night's sleep. No ale or wine, only
water. He will be back to normal in the next week or so. Try if you can to not stress the leg, it won't
make it worse, but it will hurt like the seventh hell if you try to put too much stress on it." Then the
maester left with barely a nod of respect.

Jon let his head rest against the table, his exhaustion was starting to overcome him, two hours of
fighting, and he felt as though his shoulders would never lift another object. I need to train more, to
get stronger, to last longer in a fight. I need Tamir-

"Jon!" Jon smiled at his little brother's voice and turned to see Bran running full speed at him. His
father stopped Bran from hitting Jon but did not see Arya, who slipped past their father's arms, and
Arya connected against Jon's bruised leg.
Jon groaned again as the pain lanced up his body and seemed to make his head hurt worse.

"Arya Stark!" Jon's father spoke with a harsh tone of disapproval, and Arya stepped back with wide
eyes.

"Jon, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," She repeated as Jon as the pain subsided.

Jon rubbed his palm against his forehead as he laid flat on his back. "It's okay, little sister, just took
more of a beating than I thought."

Bran spoke up then, "I can't believe you kicked Ser Lyn without a sword! Then he struck you, and
your helmet flew off! Ow!" Bran yelped as the flat of a hand hit the back of his head.

"I'm sure he doesn't need the reminder of getting his bell rung," Robb said as he approached the
cot. He held out his hand, and Jon grasped it. Robb lowered himself and whispered, "You are a
damn fool. Brave but a fool, Snow." Jon could see the smile on his brother's face and couldn't help
but retort.

"Aye, it was something you would do, Stark." Robb playfully punched Jon's shoulder. "So who
ended up winning?"

Bran wasted no time to inform him, "You should have seen it, Jon! After you fell, Ser Lyn and Ser
Symond fought Lord Royce and his son Andar! Then the Greatjon faced both of the Karstark
brothers and beat them both! Fregar then faced two Wulls, and you should have seen it, Jon, he
went like this," Bran started dancing around acting like he was getting attacked from all sides,
"Then he defeated them! Then Lyn Corbray, Greatjon, and Tamir were left, and all three fought
each other, Jon. It was amazing!"

"It was indeed young, Stark! Shame that your brother was unable to participate." Tamir stepped
into the tent, holding Jon's weirwood shield, and Bran's eyes went wide with awe. "I believe the
mysterious Weirwood Warrior will need his weirwood shield," He placed it onto the table next to
Jon. "Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to meet you." Tamir bowed with his characteristic flourish. "Lord
Robb, it is good to see you again. I haven't had a chance to meet this young northern beauty, nor
you, young Stark. I, am Tamir Fregar, a captain of the Müqeddes Cinler."

"What's that?" Bran asked, too young to know it was rude.

However, it was Lord Stark who answered with a glare, "Braavosi sellsword company." Robb and
Arya's eyes went a little wide, while Bran took a small step back.

Tamir ignored the comment and continued, "I fought as well as I could alas the Giant out there
would not falter. Still, I earned a decent purse for myself and my team." Tamir shrugged and
ribbed Jon's side, "I would rather have had the victory though, no matter, I must train harder," Then
he turned to Jon, "As must you. Though I must admit, young Jon, you lasted longer than I thought,
especially to someone as talented as the one who dented your helm."

"Aye," Jon said, "I am not strong enough."

"No, you are not, but we-"

"Will do nothing as you will not see my son again," Lord Stark spoke, and a chill entered into the
tent. Jon turned to his father and then to Tamir, who, for the second time since Jon had known him,
was not smiling.

"Father-" Jon started. It was a mistake as Lord Stark turned to him, and the 'Lord's Gaze' was on
him, and Jon felt the next words die in his throat.

"Lord Stark," Tamir started, "I see a great warrior in Jon, he needs someone who sees that as well,
he needs to be challenged or his talents-"

"Will be in the North, trained by and for the North, to be used to protect the North. Not to sell for a
bit of gold," Ned growled.

Tamir wouldn't be cowed though, "Yes, he will make a wonderful bodyguard where his martial
prowess and keen mind will be wasted away." Jon's face flushed, and something in his mind
clicked. Tamir had a point. Jon looked at his father, whose teeth were clenched, but Tamir
continued, "Or deprived of joy by serving on a frozen wall, killing barbarians."

"It is an honor to serve at the wall, my brother, their uncle, is First Ranger and serves the realm."
Lord Stark retorted.

Tamir scoffed, "He serves as a prison guard. The Wall is a place for criminals that your country
does not want to house. A clever ploy, but let's not pretend it is for anything else."
"It is for them to regain their honor." Lord Stark replied, and Jon flinched at his words, and Jon saw
Tamir notice.

"What honor did your brother lose to have to serve there." Tamir shot back. Jon saw the eyes of his
stoic father widen and him trying to come up with a response, Tamir spoke again, "What honor
does Jon need to regain?"

Jon sucked in his breath, and no one moved. His father's usually imperturbable mask slipped, and it
morphed into something feral. However, his father's voice remained calm and under control, "My
son has no need to regain something he has never lost." Jon felt his eyes water slightly, and Tamir's
lips curled. "You, however, profit off of death, and I will not let my sons fall down that path and be
corrupted by killing for nothing but wealth."

Tamir now matched his father's snarl with one of his own and pointed a finger the Warden of the
North, "You know nothing of the workings of Braavos you insuffe-"

"Tamir, that is enough!" A new voice carried through the tent, and Jon turned to see a man a little
older than his father. He wore a simple, yet elegant dark purple tunic with a black frock and a gold
inlay. His hair was graying, but Jon could tell he was related to Tamir. He was flanked on either
side by Medjved and Arridos.

"Tormo he-"

"Is the Warden of the North and deserves, no, has earned your respect." Tamir opened his mouth,
but Tormo spoke up, "Leave." Tamir stood there in defiance, but Jon could see the resolve start to
crack. "Now." Tamir huffed and left his fellow Demons following him. Tormo turned to those left
in the tent. "I apologize for my brother's discourtesy Lord Stark, especially in regards to the matters
of how you run your land and your household."

Lord Stark had placed his stoic mask back on but only nodded, then spoke softly, "I do not
appreciate anyone manipulating my children for their own benefit."

"Nor do I." Tormo responded, nodding in return, but before he left the tent, he added, "Whatever
you think of me, Lord Stark, my brother is not the honorless and warmongering mercenary you
believe him to be." Tormo looked around and then found Jon. "My brother sees something in
you."
Tormo opened his mouth to speak again, thought better of it, and then left.

Silence permeated the tent, and Bran and Arya only fidgeted while his father had a look of
irritation that was mirrored by Robb.

His father broke the silence, "Robb, go find Alyn and bring him to help get Jon to his quarters.
Arya and Bran, I need you to go find the steward and tell him to bring food and water to Jon." His
siblings left quickly to accomplish their tasks. "I-," But his father stopped, 'I-, You did well, son."

"Thank you, father," Jon said coolly, still angry about how Tamir was treated. His father turned to
leave, and from somewhere within him, courage bloomed, and Jon spoke again, "Tamir is a good
man."

His father stopped and turned around, facing him again. "Is he?"

"Yes," Jon said adamantly.

His father looked at him for a long moment, "How do you know?"

"How do you know he isn't?" Jon shot back, "Is it because he is a sellsword? Rodrik Stark, your
grandfather, was a sellsword!"

The tent was quiet after Jon's outburst, and his father was silent, taking in his words, "Aye he was."
His father took a deep breath before continuing, "He was, and he was paid well for it and traveled
around the world fighting other peoples' wars."

"Then how can you be angry about Tamir doing the same thing?" Jon asked.

His father was silent for a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts before continuing, "killing
someone does something to you, and knowing my grandfather and fighting in a war myself, I think
killing for money did something even worse to him. He was not a good man, Jon, not until he met
my grandmother. Old Nan used to tell me when he had returned to the North for good, my
grandfather drank his nights away and was violent towards many people."
Jon was silent, uncomfortable hearing this about someone he thought to emulate. His father
continued anyway, "Apparently he eventually changed, I don't remember much of him from when I
was a young boy, only stories he told us. Stories children shouldn't hear." His father trailed off,
then started again, "Killing a man, Jon, it haunts you. It still haunts me sometimes, and every time
I killed someone, I could justify it. My grandfather killed more than I ever could, and it did
something to him that took years to recover from if he ever did. I don't know if it was because he
was a sellsword or if that was just how he was." His father stopped, staring at the tent.

His father was quiet for a long moment, "Your right, Jon, it wasn't because he was a sellsword."
Ned took a deep breath and got to his feet, and walked around, "His brother wants to make a deal
with the North, and I thought Tamir was trying to use you at his brother's behest. I do not like
underhanded tactics such as those, I reacted poorly."

"Tamir told me as much when I first met him, I told him I wouldn't, but he didn't care." Jon tried to
explain.

"And he trained you anyway?" His father asked, and Jon nodded. "I see." His father scratched his
beard with his right hand, "Did Tormo come to you at any time during training?"

"No," Jon said, a little confusion.

"Then I'll make sure to apologize to Tamir and then thank him as well."

Jon felt a little relieved at that, "Thank you, father."

His father waved it away before asking, "Do you want to be a sellsword, Jon? Be apart of the
Mueq...Meq...?"

Jon smiled at the inability of his father to pronounce the name, "Müqeddes Cinler,"

"Yes, that one," He said with a small smile, "I am glad I forced you and Robb to learn some
Valyrian. But yes, do you want to join them?"

Jon looked down at his hands and nervously rubbed his left hand with the index finger and thumb
of his right. "I...I…maybe," Jon stopped then started, "Would that displease you?"

"It's not something I would have the strength to do, and you're right, Jon, I shouldn't besmirch
someone that does something I could not do. No, if it is what you want, I won't be displeased. I just
want you to know it could be difficult. It was for the few I know who tried."

Jon nodded, thinking over it, killing was something abstract to him, but that was what he was
training to do? What were they all were taught to do? Jon looked up to his father, "Lord Tarth says
he has a knight in his service I cold squire for."

His father's eyes widened a little, "Oh, do..do you want to? Go to Tarth, I mean."

Jon shrugged, "I could become a knight."

"True, but you could become a knight here in White Harbor. Or I could ask Lord Yohn Royce to
squire you if that is what you want." Jon bristled a little at that, which came as a surprise to him.
Why did he feel that way?

"I don't know, father, Tamir is one of the best fighters I have ever seen."

"Aye, he is a good fighter." His father stated, Jon could hear the trepidation and little confusion and
the sudden change in topic.

Jon looked up, trying to explain it, "Tamir.." Jon stopped, then started again, "Tamir doesn't care.
That I am a bastard, that I am your bastard."

His father nodded, and Jon saw he didn't look convinced, but spoke anyway, "And Lord Selwyn?"

"His daughter was in the squire's melee."

"Ah," was all his father said. "What about the Watch? Last time we spoke, you were dead set on
joining." When Jon didn't answer, his father just gave a small smile, "It is okay, Jon."
Jon just nodded, "I don't know, father. I wanted to, but now…" Jon drifted off.

"You aren't sure."

"No. What should I do?" Jon asked.

"If it was up to me, I would have you never leave Winterfell. Stay there away from danger until I
have passed, but there are many things you can do, and it seems you have options as well. But we
can talk about this more when you are a little more healed." His father smiled then patted his
healthy leg. Lord Stark got up and opened the entrance. When the flap of the tent was moved aside,
Jon saw Ella pacing back and forth, and when he caught her eye, he noticed they were watering.
She looked immediately relieved, but the tent flap closed again.

Jon got up from the table and moved gingerly over to the entrance when he opened it she was
standing there.

"Ella." Jon sputtered out, grimacing as he put weight on the leg.

Ella didn't respond, looking to the ground and wiping her eyes. When she finally looked up, her
eyes were red, "You are a damn fool, Jon Snow."

Jon knew it was a jest, but he was still angry. "You don't speak to me for more than a week, and
that's what you say to me."

Ella gave a disbelieving look, "I spoke to you six days ago."

"What a pleasant conversation that was," Jon said, turning back into the tent.

Jon felt her hand grasp his forearm. He stopped, "Gods above Jon Snow. This is not the
conversation I wanted to have."

Jon faced her again, "What conversation did you want to have?"
She sat there, moments passed as she collected her thoughts, "I thought you were seriously hurt,"
she said, quickly finding the ground again.

"Why would you care?" Jon asked, trying and failing to keep the coolness.

Ella gave an irritated look, "You know why."

"Do I?" Jon asked. Jon felt some satisfaction as she looked a little crestfallen.

"Don't you?"

Jon took a deep breath and let it out, "Not anymore, after all, I am just a lowly bastard."

"I-, I'm sorry for saying that," Ella said.

"You shouldn't be," Ella looked at him in surprise, "It is expected of southern ladies to put us
bastards in their place."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Jon nodded to a few tents down, where Lenfred Rykker was glaring at them both, "Your southron
knight would expect such behavior."

"He is not 'my knight,'" she snapped. Jon hated that he felt himself smile and inflate at those words
and tried to let his frustration back in.

"Well, Ser Lenfred ceratinly seems to think so."

"Yes. Well, unfortunately, he doesn't have the quickest wit," Ella said.

"Or the quickest sword," Jon said immediately. They looked at each other, then smiles cracked
before letting out a chuckle. They sat there, staring at each other as the laughter slowly subsided. It
felt good to laugh with her again. But Jon felt the hurt still and dropped the smile, she did as well.

"Can you forgive me?" Ella asked.

Jon immediately opened his mouth to say yes, but stopped himself, "I don't know." Jon saw her
eyes water, "at least not yet," he said. He cursed himself for how quickly he relented, even though
it was just a little bit.

She nodded, "What can I do?"

"I don't know," Jon said honestly, he hurt her, yes, but she cut him deeply. Jon looked back over to
Lenfred, who was speaking to his brother, still glaring at him every few moments. "Stay away
from the Rykkers, I meant what I said, I don't think they have good intentions towards you."

Ella looked uncomfortable and shifted back and forth, "Lord Rykker asked my father for a
betrothal." Jon felt the anger rise in his chest, but she added, "My uncle hasn't said anything, and I
don't think he will agree, not yet at least." Jon calmed a little, not much but enough to feel it.

"Still, stay away from them. Lenfred and his twin don't seem accustomed to not getting what they
want."

"Jon," she said one more time, "I want it to be you."

Jon didn't say anything, just nodded, too unsure to say anything affirmative or dissenting.

She tried to find something else to speak on when it became uncomfortable, "You know everyone
is talking about the Weirwood Warrior."

Jon shrugged, "Not the worst name."

"I think it fits," She said. Robb, Alyn, and Theon came then, "Goodbye, Jon."
"Goodbye, Ella."

Robb gave him a pointed look. Jon glared at him, "Don't."

Robb raised his hands in surrender, stifling a laugh. Theon unsuccessfully doing so.

Jon's mood soured a bit as Alyn took his right arm under his shoulder, and Robb took his left.
Theon grabbing his shield and helmet, "Gods above and below Jon, look at these dents, how are
you not dead?"

"Cause I can actually swing a fucking sword Greyjoy," Jon grit out, the melee and his
conversations with his father, and Ella had him exhausted, and he was not in the mood to deal with
Theon's japes.

"Not the one between your legs," Theon said.

Jon just glared at him, face going red, "How has your luck been here? Have you returned to Old
Reliable yet?" Jon said, raising his right hand.

Robb laughed aloud, and Alyn tried to hide his, Theon only snarled, "I don't know Snow maybe I'll
visit your mother tonight down by the docks, there was one whore with big tits maybe she-" He
didn't finish as Jon's fist connected with Theon's nose, and he sprawled into a group of knights and
nobles they passed. Theon tried to get up, but Jon was on top of him. Jon could only hit Theon two
more times before Robb and Alyn pulled him off. The whole area outside the melee ground was
crowded and most slowed down to watch the scene unfold.

"You broke my fucking nose!" Theon yelled out.

"Gods Jon," Robb said, going to Theon's side and lifting him up, "It was only a joke."

Jon just glared at his brother, "Was it?"

Robb looked in confusion, then opened his mouth as comprehension dawned. Robb tried to say
something, but Jon spoke first, fishing out a handful of silver stags at the same time, "Here." Jon
 said, throwing them at Theon, "For your nose and for your whore. If you do find my mother tell her
to thank her gods, I didn't turn out like you."

Jon turned away, cuffing his eyes surprised they were a bit damp. He was limping badly when he
passed Arridos, Medjved, and Tamir, who witnessed the whole thing. Arridos was whispering to
Medvjed, who then looked at Jon with wide eyes.

The dark-skinned man bounded over, "Here Byka Cinler, help."

Jon tried to shove him away, "I'm fine,"

Arridos was there then, "I don't think you are," he said with a little too much pity, but that
disappeared, "Though with a rung bell and bruised leg, you still pack a punch."

Jon smirked then, blinking rapidly to get rid of any trace of tears, "You should remember that."

Arridos laughed then and took his left arm and slung it over his shoulders, Medjved doing the
same. Tamir approached slowly, "Well, for you, it seems one melee isn't enough," Tamir smirked,
"That makes for a good Demon."

Jon looked away sheepishly, but his father's words about his grandfather were still in the back of
his mind. Is that what he wanted to become?

Chapter End Notes

Thanks again for everyone that has commented and left kudos.

Ironically, these shutdowns have left me with more work than before. I'll try to stick to
once a week.
 Chapter 13
Chapter Summary

The final feast of the wedding.

Chapter Notes

Found a little time to write.

As a warning, this chapter helps earn some of the less savory tags.

Robb

"You have very light feet, my lord," She said. Robb only nodded thanks in return. It was the final
feast and Robb swore, after tonight, he would never dance again. The feast after the wedding had
been a pleasant experience as he danced with many beautiful girls, made many of them smile and
even received a few promises from the older girls that made him blush. He thanked every god, old
and new, that Theon hadn't seen his face then.

That first feast, he felt like he could do and be with anyone. However, in the second feast, the
conversation seemed to be the same. Robb struggled to come up with new jokes, but the girls he
danced with still laughed. Ysillia Royce even grabbed his arm again and gave him a chaste kiss
when he returned her favor that he had worn in the melee. Robb then made a joke about the stain
on Lord Manderly's doublet looking like a trident. Her laugh was musical, her hair was a lovely
light brown, and Robb had danced with her four times that evening. He had felt so confident in his
wit he repeated the joke to every girl he danced with, and every girl had laughed except Wylla. She
had stopped dancing immediately and left the hall, her green hair making it easy to spot her as she
stormed off. Still, Robb had enjoyed himself.

Three feasts later, and Robb was tired. Tired of the same jokes. Tired of the same stilted
conversations and tired of the same five sets of steps. The only person Robb enjoyed dancing with
at this point was Ysilla, and even those dances started to become boring. Although at the moment,
he would much rather have her as a partner.

"Did you hear me, my lord?" Her voice had become even thinner, and Robb felt like his ears
couldn't take much more of it. She sighed again, and Robb rolled his eyes as he focused back upon
her. She was now looking away from him, scanning the crowd as he was doing a few moments
ago. Robb took the reprieve from the stimulating conversation that they were having to study her
while she was distracted. Her green hair was still as eye-catching as ever and not in a good way.
No matter where he looked, it was just there, and he found his way back to it. This time, however,
he noticed a quarter inch, maybe less, of blond hair at the roots.

"Huh." Robb wondered out loud, and Wylla's eyes snapped up to his.

"Did you say something of importance, my lord?

Robb's irritation was rising, and he just ground his teeth, choosing to stay silent instead of engaging
in another argument. Robb broke eye contact and searched the crowd. Arya was starting to drift off
while Bran was already half asleep. Sansa was speaking quietly to Alys Karstark and Mira
Forrester. Mira Forrester looked away quickly as his gaze passed over her. The champions table
seemed to be in good spirits and the Greatjon was forcing the jousting champion, Robar Royce, to
continue to drink. Jon was there speaking with Tamir Fregar and the two other foreigners that were
on his team. Tamir Fregar must have said something as Jon's face lit up, and his brother laughed.
Robb felt the pain of jealousy and forced himself to look away.

Robb hadn't seen Jon much since his and Theon's short brawl right after the melee. Robb was torn.
Jon had started it with his jape about knowing how to swing a sword, but Theon had no need to call
Jon's mother a whore.

"Was it?" Jon had said to him. Robb looked at his father then, who was speaking now with Rodrik
Ryswell intently. Could he have done it? Sleep with a whore, while he was still in his mother's
womb? Is that better or worse than someone else? Robb didn't want to think of it, so he pushed the
thoughts away and continued to scan the crowd.

His eyes fell on the high table where Lord Grafton was speaking to Jon Arryn, the hand of the King
was nodding along to whatever his bannerman was talking with him about. His eyes moved again
and found Lord Manderly speaking to his eldest son. Robb stared at the two enormous men and
noticed that Wylis Manderly kept looking at him and Wylla.

"Seven, save me, and let this dance end." Wylla's thin voice whispered.

"Here I was thinking I had light feet," Robb responded. Wylla mumbled something under her
breath. "What was that?" Robb asked, only half interested in a response.
"Nothing, my lord."

"Fine."

Wylla tried to mumble another response, but Robb was paying attention and caught, "Your pride
couldn't handle it."

Robb, half interested in what that meant, engaged, "Oh, my pride couldn't handle it?" Robb asked,
"What could you say that would hurt my pride?"

Wylla's face started to flush red in embarrassment, and Robb gave a little chuckle. Exactly. Robb
thought. Then Wylla looked at him again, and Robb realized too late that it wasn't a flush of
embarrassment.

"You are just as arrogant, empty-headed, and rude as every stupid young lord and want-to-be
knight here," Wylla whispered, which only made her thin voice all the more terrifying.

"I'm not rude," Robb responded, both shocked and a little hurt. He had been nothing but kind to her.
She was the empty-headed one, yet Robb was kind enough to keep dancing with her.

Wylla only scoffed in response. The awkward silence only lasted a few moments, and Robb soon
wished it lasted a few more. "Not rude, sure. The first thing you did when you saw me was making
fun of me, then when we danced you made fun of my Grandfather. Then you continue to make
stupid and witless jabs making fun of all the other people here. While strutting around like some
great Lord failing to notice that every girl only laughs at your jokes because they want to marry
into your house." The song ended as she did, and Robb stepped back as if struck. He bumped into
someone behind him.

"Apologies," Robb whispered as he faced Lord Glover, who was dancing with Lady Maege. Robb
turned around, looking at Wylla who seemed to have recovered from her little tirade. Robb bit his
lower lip quickly, trying to fight the emotion at bay and remembered his manners. "Thank you,
Lady Manderly," Robb said as he bowed. When he stood straight again, he saw that Wylla's face
was pale and her eyes wide.

"Lor-"
Robb didn't let her finish and returned back to his seat next to his father's, which was thankfully
empty. Arya and Bran's were also abandoned, and Sansa was dancing with Domeric Bolton, which
allowed Robb a few minutes of peaceful stewing. Robb used this interval to go through every joke,
every sentence and everything he had done since arriving in White Harbor. He thought about every
girl and looked at them all while he drank the Arbor Red that was at their table. Was she right? Do
any of them actually like me or am I just a Stark name to them ? Robb had just finished his second
cup, and his head was starting to feel a little light, and his mood began to get worse and worse. No,
I was charming, I wasn't rude! Robb looked to see Ysilla dancing with Mychel Redfort, Mychel
was saying something, and Robb saw her grasp Mychel's arm and laugh the same way, and Robb
felt his stomach drop. He looked down the table to see Wylla looking at him with a regretful look.

Robb felt his temper flare. I don't need her pity, she couldn't say anything to hurt his pride. Robb
deflated a bit, knowing that is exactly what she had done. Why does she get me so angry? Robb
refused to entertain the answer that came to him right away and instead looked to see if he could
find Jon and talk to him. Jon might understand, and Theon would only suggest going to a brothel. I
think I need more friends.

Robb looked back out to the nobles dancing and saw Jon dancing with Ella Hornwood, and he felt
his mood start to improve. Jon was the best man he knew, and Robb just hoped that Ella would be
enough to convince Jon to stay away from the Wall. Or, if not Ella, some other woman would. If
they didn't, Robb would make sure his brother didn't waste away at the Wall. Damn his father and
damn the North. Jon would get a keep and would get a wife and a family and would actually be
happy for once. Robb felt himself smiling again. I am not mean . "I'm not witless either," Robb
mumbled aloud as he went to pour another cup. That's ...four? I probably should stop after this.

After taking another long pull from the chalice, he finally studied the ornate vessel that held the
sweet-tasting wine. Robb marveled at the inlaid gold, but then he saw Jon scurry out of the hall.
Robb narrowed his eyes as he felt his ire rise again and, in his anger, looked for the person that
hurt his brother.

Ella, in a well-made green dress with stitches within them that look like antlers, stood near the
edge of the opened floor looking towards the door Jon had just exited, and Robb felt his blood start
to boil. Robb stood up and stumbled a little bit but caught himself. Robb looked around to see if
anyone saw him and saw only Wylla looking at him. This vexed Robb even more, and his wine-
addled convinced him that he needed someone to get angry at.

Robb brushed his grey and blue tunic, then walked towards Ella, who was now talking to one of
the Rykkers. Stenferd? No, Lenly? It didn't matter.

"Lady Hornwood," Robb said as he got close enough for her to hear, although the small, sober part
of his mind was telling him it was a little loud.
"Lord Robb," Ella said, smiling, Robb's anger bellowed in him. "Have you had a chance to meet
Lenfred of House Rykker?"

Robb put the best smile he could on, "I haven't," Robb said as he grasped the older boy's hand. Not
boy, man, he was eighteen and a knight. "I did see him fight in the melee."

"Thank you, my Lord." Lenfred slurred the last word. Gods, he's drunk . Robb noticed a yellowish
bruise near his neck.

"Saw that happen to." Robb blurted out. Gods, I'm drunk .

"Aye, tricky little," Lenfred silently burped, "slave. Lucky throw."

"I remember you getting disarmed by my brother first, though," Robb said while smiling; however,
Lenfred was now scowling. Aye, first your brother than you. " I also saw you try to strike him after
yielding."

Lenfred's scowl deepened, "As I told the game master, I merely raised my hand to the sun, but was
already intending to strike. It is not my fault he was foolish enough to turn his back on an
opponent," Lenfred finished with an air of arrogant annoyance, "The little bastard only got lucky
that beast of a slave saved him," The knight said.

Before Robb could yell at him, Ella spoke, "Seems everyone is so lucky when they face you.
Maybe you just aren't skilled, how much money did your uncle pay to get your spurs?" Robb
laughed a little too loudly, but Lenfred was furious.

"You think that's funny you northern wh-" Lenfred was interrupted by an older man who looked
like him.

"I apologize for my nephew. He is more than a little drunk and seems to have left his manners at
the bottom of his cup." They turned around quickly while Lord Rykker started to whisper to his
nephew. Robb noticed Tormo walking over where the Rykkers sat with the other Lords of the
Narrow Sea.
"Thank you, Lord Robb, for interfering on my behalf." Ella went to leave, but Robb placed a hand
in front of her.

"Do you mind if we speak a moment, in private," Robb asked, and Ella nodded. Robb started to
lead her to the side of the hall. Robb looked back at the Manderley table and caught Wylla's eye
again. The look of pity was still there, and it only fueled Robb's anger, but he found something
else, jealousy? Others take me, I am more drunk than I think . The two exited the Merman's Hall
and had to make their way through a throng of drunken men and tipsy women. Lords and ladies
were laughing and drinking as the feast was starting to hit its peak, but Robb didn't care.

Eventually, they found a secluded area, and Robb turned back to Ella Hornwood, who looked at
him like he was plain curiosity. "Is there something you wish to speak on, my Lord?"

Robb felt a little woozy, but he fought it away and focused on Ella in front of him. Why was she
moving, she needed to stop swaying.

"Jon," Robb said, closing his eyes to focus. "What did you say to him?"

"That. Lord Robb is between myself and Jon." Robb forced his eyes open and tried to imitate his
father, it seemed to have its effect as Ella's confidence shrunk a little, "We spoke about the future,
he has the foolish idea to either join a mercenary company or squire for some knight in the south."

Robb was surprised, "Oh. That's...good." Was it good? Jon would go away for a time. So soon? In
his drunken state, he was already missing his brother.

Ella, however, scoffed, "What good would it be if he left the North, I wouldn't see him for years."

Robb looked at her in confusion, "He would leave so he could gain renown and probably some
wealth as well."

"I guess that is all men ever want then, regardless of who they leave behind," She said sadly. Robb
just stared at her in disbelief.

"Did you tell him that?"

Ella stared at him with an incredulous look, "Yes." Then she said a moment later, "Maybe not
exactly like that." When Robb looked at her, she continued, "I simply said that if he would rather
galavant around the world that I would not be here for him when he returned. Then he got a little
angry and left."

Robb put his palm on his head, partly out of exasperation and part to stop feeling so muddled. He
eventually said, "I love my brother," then paused and continued, "he's the best man I know."

Ella scoffed, "Tell him that he doesn't think we are currently a match."

"He's right." Ella looked confused, and Robb continued on, "He's too good for you." Ella's look of
confusion became worried then shifted into a scowl, but Robb continued, "He deserves more than I
could ever offer him. He deserves more than a girl who is too witless and rude to see that Jon, for
some unknown reason, fancies her too much to sully her with his own bastardy." Ella went wide-
eyed, but Robb was still too tipsy to notice as he continued, "Who admitted to his own humiliation
to Lord Hornwood that he would never dare do anything to hurt her chances at a prosperous match
knowing it wouldn't be him." Robb could only shake his head, "Who after said girl calls him a bas-
" Robb felt ill at repeating the word, "bastard. Then tells her he is leaving to gain some fame and
fortune with the sole purpose of being good enough for her, is then told by that same silly little girl
that she couldn't wait for him. You're damn right, you don't deserve him!" Robb finished, surprised
he had been yelling. Ella was wide-eyed and speechless. Then Robb felt his stomach roll. Oh, it
wasn't from saying bastard. Robb was actually going to be sick.

Robb left the Ella, who had started to gather tears, and bolted out of the hallway, and found a
small terrace with a little garden. He emptied his stomach onto a poor sort of shrub and the flowers
around it. He sat there panting, for how long, he wasn't sure. Then Robb heard footsteps behind
him. Before he could see who it was, his stomach betrayed him and emptied it once again.

A thin, high voice greeted him, "You are lucky Ysilla Royce isn't here to witness her dashing lord
vomit his supper on this poor selection vegetation while berating a poor girl." Robb wanted to
vomit again, and for some reason, this time, his body wouldn't. Others take me, not her, not now .
Robb could only dry heave, which caused a delay in his greeting.

Eventually, the heaving subsided, and he finally was able to say, "Lady Manderly." Then Robb had
to battle the vomit that now wanted to make an appearance, "please leave me be." He heard
footsteps come closer and felt a hand on his back and saw a cup. Robb waved it away, "No more
ale or wine, please just go."

"It's water, my mother always brings it to my father when he drinks too much, it's supposed to
help," Wylla said. Robb didn't reach for it. He was still angry at her, for the words she said, it was
her fault he was puking while the feast was passing its crescendo. After a few moments, Wylla
huffed, "Gods you're still a proud-"

"I know!" Robb snapped. He was still lightheaded and his stomach hurt and he was in no mood to
hear this all again. "I know. You're right, happy?" Robb slid to the floor and looked up to Wylla
who stood there silently. Robb grabbed the cup and drained the water in one swallow. "Thank you
for the water." Robb's headache was still pounding, but he could think now. He sat there with his
eyes closed. He tried to enjoy the sounds of people laughing and music playing and reveling in the
Seabreeze that snaked its way through the New Castle.

"Why were you yelling at Ella Hornwood? She is a distant cousin of mine, you know."

Robb looked at her, "No, she isn't."

"Well, through marriage, sort of. Okay, Ella is just a friend of mine, and that doesn't excuse your
beration of her. She left in tears, by the way, so I hope you're happy."

"Beration isn't a real word," Wylla glared at him, and Robb huffed, "She deserved it," Robb said
with coolness.

Wylla scoffed, "I cannot imagine how that would be the case."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Well, if you have the comprehension for it, then some poor little maiden like me stands no
chance!"

Robb rolled his eyes, "She fancies my brother."

Wylla actually gave a genuine smile at that, "Little Brandon? That's-"

"No, my other brother, Jon."

"Oh," Wylla said "The….natur-"

"Yes, he's a bastard, but he's a good man," Robb snapped.

Wylla flinched back, "Well, what did Ella do to your ba-....uh...Jon." After Robb explained it
quickly, she looked at him like he was an idiot, "Gods above, she obviously is half in love with
him."

"That doesn't give her an excuse to treat him like horseshit!" Robb, who was slowly sobering
realized he swore in front of a proper lady, and not for the first time tonight. Mother would box my
ears. Robb vowed he was never going to drink like this again.

Wylla responded right away, "Well, young women sometimes are stupid and treat men they find
attractive poorly." Wylla's eyes were on Robb then widened at what she just said. Robb just looked
at her, then they both looked away, uncomfortable at the sudden tension. Robb closed his eyes,
praying she went away, and he could be alone to sober up.

"I'm sorry for what I said," a thin voice interrupted his thoughts. Robb opened one eye and looked
at Wylla. However, Wylla's attention was focused on something on the ground, unwilling to look
at him.

Robb, studied her, then gave a humorless chuckle, "No, you aren't." Robb saw her fight a smile, the
tension from moments before starting to fade.

"No, I am not." She agreed, losing the battle against the smile. "Still, it was quite rude of me."

"Yes, it was," Robb said, and started to get to his feet. "But you weren't wrong."

"I was about somethings," Wylla said sheepishly. Robb only rolled his eyes in response, then she
continued, "No lord with any pride would walk back into a feast with vomit on his boots."

Robb looked down in horror as we saw that vomit was indeed on his boots, "Damn it!" Before he
could react, there was a kerchief in front of his face. Robb nodded in thanks and reached down for
his boot.

"Oh, gods above! Use it to wipe it from your mouth, not your boots!" Robb stopped and just looked
at her and he went to hand the kerchief back to her. "Why would I want that back? No, it's
disgusting now keep it." Robb shrugged and it was his turn to be on the receiving end of eye-
rolling. "Just go back to your chambers and get another pair." Robb raised his hands in defeat and
slowly stood up straight. Robb didn't realize how close they were, and they stood there, only a foot
apart, the tension before was back. Robb could see an intensity in her eyes, and something drew
him closer to her.

Her face was flushed, and Robb felt himself lean in when she whispered, "Your breath is terrible
right now," they both snapped out of it, and the tension was immediately gone.

"Yes, well. Wait, what?" Robb said, confused at the sudden turn of events. Wylla's face was bright
red, and Robb was unsure of what happened.

She turned to leave back to the feast when there was something that sounded like metal hitting
stone echoed below the terrace. "Did you hear that?" Robb asked.

"Hear what?" Wylla said as she came to a stop and turned around, face still bright red and
unwilling to look at him.

Robb listened for a few moments. Maybe I- . Someone yelled as it came from the direction of the
training yard. Jon . Robb didn't know why, but he just knew Jon was there. Robb looked at Wylla
whose eyes were just as wide as his. "Find a guard!"

"Robb wait for-" The rest of her words were lost as Robb moved as quickly as he could through the
castle. The cold wind and salt air sobered him as he tore through the cobbled pathway down to the
training yard as fast as he could. Something was wrong, Robb could just feel something was
wrong.

He heard someone yelling and the sound of a steady thump. Robb turned the corner to the terrace
above the training yard and stopped in shock.

A girl in a green dress had blood pooling from her head while a man splayed on his back with
another man on top of him raining blows. The raven curls of his brother moved up and down as he
cried out, raining another punch on the man.

"Jon!" His brother didn't turn, focused only on hitting the man on the ground, and Robb rushed
over and grabbed his brother by the shoulders, pulling him off the beaten man. Jon fought Robb,
trying to get loose out of his grip. Robb had to grip him harder. "Jon! It's me, its Robb."

Jon turned to him wide-eyed, and his breathing sounded wrong and labored. Jon's eyes were
bloodshot, and his face was almost blue. Jon's nose was bleeding, and there was a shallow cut over
his forehead that was trickling blood well. "Jon, Jon, look at me it's okay what happened?" Robb
asked. His brother didn't answer, or couldn't answer as his breathing still sounded wrong, and Jon
only pointed to the unconscious man.

"He-," Jon had a fit of coughing and fell to his knees, trying to suck down air.

Shouts could be heard as other men and women probably heard the commotion, wanting to see
what was going on. Robb turned to see now it was Ella Hornwood bleeding and unconscious. Robb
then saw the man whose face Jon had beaten bloody, he couldn't recognize it, but Robb recognized
the crossed war hammers of House Rykker. The man's chest was rising and falling, but the face
was a mess of bruises and blood.

Robb heard movement and fabric being torn. Robb turned to see Jon wrapping a piece of his tunic
around Ella's head, trying to stop the bleeding. Jon said something, but a raspy gargle came out as
he was trying to shake her awake, another fit of coughing and wheezing escaped him.

Men in the livery of House Manderly and House Arryn turned the corner. The guards started
shouting as Jon sat there, cradling Ella's head, silent tears falling down his face.

Robb could only stare in disbelief as the world around him turned to chaos.
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes

Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this!

Ned

"I want the boy's head!" Renfred Rykker had been shouting for quite some time, while his other
nephew sat next to him. "I want his head, and I demand reparations for what he has done!"

The stern voice of Jon Arryn silenced the room. "We do not know what has happened."

Lord Renfred pointed right at Ned and shouted, "His vicious bastard broke guest rite and beat my
nephew and nearly killed Lady Hornwood!"

Ned jumped to his feet and put a hand on his dagger, "If you say one more lie Lord Rykker I swear
to finish what I started on the Trident." Lord Renfred snarled and put his hand on his own dagger.
Ned had never liked the man, they had fought on separate sides in the war and different sides of
the Ford, and for the first time since he had returned home from that war, the wolf's blood pumped
through him.

"I would expect such a threat from a man who stained his honor for a quick fuck," Renfred spat.
Voices erupted on both sides, and Ned could hear the Greatjon bellow in rage next to him, and the
only thing that prevented bloodshed were the guards of House Manderly and Jon Arryn.

"Silence!" Jon Arryn's voice roared out. "I demand order in this room!" Silence came again. There
were many lords crowded in the Merman's Court, but Ned knew the rest were waiting to hear word
eat up whatever gossip they could get. Jon Arryn sat at the head as Hand of the King. "And I
expect us to act like the Lords we are."

The room continued to quiet, and Ned could see nothing but this insignificant lordling in front of
him. Ned broke the silence, "I will not stand here as someone spreads false lies about my son."
Jon Arryn rubbed his temple, "We do not know what the truth or lies are, and that is what we are
here to figure out, but first, Lord Hornwood, how is your niece fairing?"

Halys was sitting a few paces away from Ned and shakily got to his feet, he opened his mouth to
speak and stopped himself, and then started, "She hasn't woken up yet Lord Hand. The masters
aren't sure if she ever will." The grief then morphed into rage suddenly, his voice grew strong,
"Whoever is responsible will lose their head by my sword and my sword alone!" Halys shot an
accusatory look at Ned, and Ned coolly returned it. Lord Hornwood's gaze then shifted to Lord
Rykker as he took his seat.

Jon Arryn spoke once Lord Hornwood had sat down, "I understand your anger Lord Hornwood
which is why I have called this meeting to determine what occurred last night before any more
bloodshed occurs. That is why I have gathered all you lords as witnesses to see the King's Justice
be done." Ned surveyed the room as every house in attendance for the wedding was there. Ned
even noticed Selwyn Tarth sitting at the far end, looking conflicted.

"As you know, guards discovered Robb Stark and Jon Snow near the unconscious bodies of Ser
Lenfred Rykker and Donella Hornwood. Lady Hornwood was bleeding from the head, and her
dress was torn. Ser Lenfred's face had a myriad of bruises and cuts and a wound on the side of his
head as well. Jon Snow's hands were covered in blood, and he had a couple of wounds. As you
have heard, Lady Hornwood has still not awoken but is alive. Ser Lenfred, as I have been informed,
has in fact awoken but seems to have a limited ability to speak due to losing a few teeth, a broken
nose and a dislocated jaw that has been put back to rights."

Ned only glared at Lord Renfred as he rose, "To that end, my Lord Hand, my dear nephew's hands
work quite well and has written his statement of events." Lord Renfred approached Jon Arryn and
handed him the parchment. Jon Arryn read it, and Ned saw his eyes widen.

"Ser Lenfred swears this is the truth?" Jon Arryn asked.

"Every word."

"This swears by Ser Lenfred's honor as a knight that he and Lady Hornwood were infatuated with
each other, and he intended to ask for her hand. He also says they left feast early to spend some
time together alone. Ser Lenfred also accuses Jon Snow of being jealous and making his jealousy
of their affection known, and that was the reason Ser Lenfred and Henly were targeted in the
melees. He also says that he was with Lady Hornwood last night, and they were enjoying some
time together when Jon Snow attacked Lady Hornwood with a tourney sword. Ser Lenfred
intervened and defended his soon-to-be betrothed from any more attacks. He said he tried to fight
valiantly, but the... that Jon Snow brought the tourney sword down, and that was the last thing he
remembers."
Ned roared from his seat, followed closely by the other Northern Lords except Lord Hornwood.
Murmurs were heard from the lords of the crownlands and the Vale, and soon insults were hurled
when the staff of Ser Vardis Egen's spear pounded for silence.

Lord Arryn looked troubled, and Ned could not hold his disdain for this farce of a trial. Jon would
never do something like this, and he would die before anyone harmed his son. Lords and Gods be
damned.

Lord Arryn spoke again, "These are serious accusations of assault, and we are here to determine
the guilt of Jon Snow and see how he answers these charges. Bring him here, so I, and I alone may
question him."

"My Lord, these charges are absurd!" Ned shouted out. Lord Arryn stared at Ned, and he
recognized that stare from his time at the Eyrie, but he was not a child any longer.

When Jon Arryn saw he would not relent, he clenched his teeth and said, "If these charges are
absurd, we will find out soon enough." Ned scowled as he sat down and saw Lord Renfred smirk at
him.

After a few minutes, Jon was led into the room, Ned had sent his men to guard him and to make
sure his wounds were clean and that a change of clothes and food was brought to him as well.
Unfortunately, it looked as though Jon hadn't slept. Jon was marched to the front of the hall, and
Jon looked at him with wide eyes, and Ned only nodded, trying to convey any support he could.

When his son stood towards the front, he was stopped as Jon Arryn addressed him, "Jon Snow, you
stand accused by Ser Lenfred Rykker of an unprovoked attack upon himself and Lady Hornwood."
At that pronouncement, Jon turned around to look for something, and then he locked eyes with
Lord Renfred, and Jon scowled. "What is your response?"

Ned watched as Jon collected himself, "I didn't touch Lady Hornwood," Jon's voice was still weak
and rough, and Ned struggled to hear him. "That I," Jon coughed for a bit then was able to
continue, "attacked Ser Lenfred I don't deny."

Lord Renfred jumped to his feet, "He admits to it, my Lord, he is guilty."

Lord Arryn stared at Lord Renfred then returned back to Jon. "Why did you attack Lenfred
Rykker?"

Jon coughed again, trying to clear his throat, but it still sounded raw. "He was attacking Ella."

"What do you mean?" Lord Arryn asked.

Jon described how he was in the training yard during the feast and how he had heard a noise, "I
went to see what it was and saw Lenfred up against the wall pinning a woman, Ella. He had a hand
against her mouth and held her other two hands in his. He yelped in pain and withdrew his hand,
and Ella spat on him. Lenfred then slapped her, called her a whore, and started choking her and
then...and then he hit her head against the wall again and again as I ran over to them and yelled at
him to stop."

"Lying Bastard!" Renfred yelled out, and the hall once again descended into shouts, and Ned
turned to see Halys's eyes narrow. When it quieted down, Renfred spoke again, "My nephew is an
anointed knight, you'd take the word of a bastard over someone who has taken his knightly vows to
the Seven?"

Ned stood and addressed Lord Arryn, "You would take the word of a rapist over my son!?"

"You withdraw that vial accusation!"

Lord Arryn's voice boomed. "Enough! I am the King's Justice in this matter, but I cannot find the
truth with these interruptions. Clear the hall, Ser Edmure, Lord Bolton, Lord Manderly, Lord
Massey, and Lord Grafton may stay as witnesses. Everyone else out!"

Ned moved to gather his son, but he was stopped by Arryn guards. "Lord Hand, I need to retrieve
my son."

"I have not finished questioning him, Lord Stark." Ned stared at Jon Arryn cooly at these words,
but he knew the Hand of the King would not be moved from this point. However, after a few
moments, the Hand's expression relaxed, "But when I am finished, I will have him brought to
you."

"I appreciate it, my Lord Hand. I will leave two of my men as well outside of the hall to escort him
back, just to make sure nothing-" Ned looked to find Renfred staring at him, "unfortunate
happens."

Jon Arryn stood there, anger in his eyes about the implication. Ned ignored him and looked at his
son. Jon was scared, but there was something beneath it. Ned tried his best to give another
supportive nod, and his son gave a small nod in return, and Ned left the great hall to find his other
children.

Half a day passed as he sat with his other children in their rooms. Robb was inconsolable, and the
story he told Ned made him worry all the more. "He was sobbing and bleeding Father, as he
continued to hit the knight. I've never seen that look in his eye, it was like Jon wasn't there anymore
and when he was there he looked so sad trying to wake Ella. He didn't do it, Father, he must have
been protecting her, I know it." Ned had sat there in silence, Arya and Bran were in tears, and
Sansa was just quiet, but Robb's words chilled him.

He is not his grandfather, he is not his grandfather, any young boy would do the same . Ned tried
to convince himself If it was Harrenhal and Ashara...Ned stopped himself, not willing to start
thinking of the past. Especially at the moment like this, that needs all of his attention.

Ned sighed, the two weren't even comparisons. Ned was trueborn, and Jon was a bastard, he would
get no benefit of the doubt. He will not die, not like this .

Ned was lost in his thoughts when there was a knock at the door, and Jory poked his head in and
nodded, "Lord Stark, Jon's here." Ned shot to his feet as Jon entered the room, but his siblings got
to him first. Arya and Bran wrapped their bodies around him, and Robb embraced him fiercely.
Sansa stood to the side of them with a concerned expression. Jon's exhausted demeanor started to
get overcome, and Ned was now sure he indeed had not slept.

"Lord Stark." The deep voice interrupted the moment, and Ser Vardis Egan stood there. "I
apologize for the disruption, but Lord Arryn asked that I bring Lord Robb to be questioned." Robb
let go of his embrace and looked wide-eyed at Ser Vardis, then to him and then to Jon. Jon
wouldn't meet him and looked at the floor.

"It's okay, Robb," Ned said, "just tell them the truth, you will be okay." Robb gave him a nervous
nod. "Ser Vardis." The knight turned to him, "Robb will be escorted by four of my men, and Jory
here will sit in on the proceedings."

"I will allow the escort Lord Stark, and the Lord Hand may not welcome anyone else into the
hall."
"Tell the Lord Hand that I insist that Jory stays in the hall with my son," Ned said in such a way to
make it clear to the knight it wasn't a suggestion. Luckily the knight understood.

Robb left the room under the escort, and Ned turned to his other children. "Arya, Bran, allow Jon
some rest, it has been a long day for him." Bran released him, but Arya only clung to him further.
"Arya," Arya only squeezed harder, but Jon lowered himself and whispered something in her ear,
and Arya only nodded and let him go. Jon mussed her hair, and Arya gave a watery smile as she
left. Sansa and Bran followed behind her.

Ned made sure they were alone before he spoke, "Jon, what did they ask you? Why did it take so
long?"

Jon gave a cough to clear his throat and told Ned about meeting with the five Lords, the question's
Jon Arryn asked. His son told him the answers he gave.

"How did the Lords react? What did they say?"

Jon stood there for a moment, "I...I don't know. They didn't seem convinced." Jon took a few
moments, "Well, Lord Manderly nodded a few times, Lord Bolton didn't say anything, Lord
Edmure was...I do not know. The others just asked questions, I didn't really pay attention."

"It's okay, go get some rest." Jon only nodded and started to head to his room when Tomard
opened the door. "Lord Stark, Lord Hornwood is here to see you."

"I am here to see the boy!" Halys said as he made to push aside the burly guard. Tomard grabbed
the Lord Hornwood's shoulder, who looked at Tomard with simmering rage.

"Its okay, Tomard, let him in," Tomard removed his hand, but Halys violently shook him off, "As
long as he keeps control of himself." Ned stared at the usually amiable Lord who stalked into the
room, his eyes never leaving Jon. "What can we do for you, Lord Hornwood?"

Lord Hornwood looked as if he would boil over at any moment. He took a deep breath, but it
seemed to have no effect on his countenance. "Ella hasn't woken up yet. The maester was able to
stop the bleeding by stitching the wound, but he said there is swelling. He said.." Halys took a deep
breath and looked down and rubbed both hands through his hair. "He said she may never wake. He
looked up and straight at Jon. "Tell me now, boy, no, swear to me now that you did not hurt her."
Before Jon or Ned could speak, Halys nearly shouted, "And I swear to the old gods that if you lie to
me, I will hunt you to the ends of this world and the next."

Ned stood up, his hands were shaking. "Lord Hornwood if you-"

"Father, it's okay." Jon said quietly, "it's okay." Jon took a deep breath, then started to cough to
clear his throat. "We danced that night." Jon raised his head slowly, his voice was weak like it was
sore, but there was resolve behind it. "We danced, and we talked. She asked me again to ask my
father for a keep, that I was a tourney champion and he wouldn't deny me." Jon looked at Ned, "It
would be all I could ever want, but I wouldn't put my father in that position."

Jon shifted his attention, "She then told me she would tell you that she wanted to marry me and no
one else." Jon dropped his head in his hands. "I told her...I told her that I was going to leave the
North, to gain favor, and come back and try.." Jon looked uncomfortable, "To convince you, my
Lord, I was worthy. She got angry, I got angry, and I left the hall and went straight to the practice
yard." Jon swallowed with difficulty. "What we said to each other probably hurt us both, and for
that, I am sorrier than I can ever say." Halys started to scowl, but Jon continued his voice took a
commanding tone, "But I swear on the honor of House Stark, on what little honor I have and on the
Old Gods, I did not hurt her and I would never hurt her." Jon took a breath and continued, "but I did
hurt Lenfred, and I would not have stopped if my brother did not arrive."

Halys scowl remained, and he stayed silent, studying Jon's features for any hint of a lie. Halys
grunted once, "I asked the Rykker's the same, and they would not allow me to see Ser Lenfred, but
they swore the same oath. One of you is an incredible liar."

"Jon would not lie, my Lord, not about this," Ned said.

Halys turned to look at him, "He told many people he intends to join the Watch, maybe the boy is
doing what he can beforehand. He even attacked young Theon Greyjoy unprovoked," Ned's stoic
demeanor soured. "However," Halys turned to Jon, "I don't think that is the case now." Although
no smile appeared, the tension in the room lessened. Halys then addressed Ned, "Lord Stark, I
don't think Jon hurt Ella, but I needed to know, and I need Ella, I need her to wake up and tell me."

"What has Lord Arryn told you?" Ned asked.

"He told me that he will ask questions today and let me know his decision tomorrow, then
announce it to all soon after."
"If he says Jon is guilty, will you speak in his defense?"

Halys looked pained, "I don't think I can Lord Stark. He was handing out the King's Justice and
asked me not to interfere."

Ned's blood began to boil, "He said what?"

"He told me that the King's Justice must be impartial and that his witnesses from the other region's
representatives, as well as House Manderly, are there to witness it done without bias," Halys said
and then left Ned alone with his son.

Jon looked relieved at Lord Hornwood's departure and leaned his head back against the wall. After
a few moments, he put his head in his hands and rubbed his scalp.

Jon broke the silence, "I'm sorry." His voice was still very hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, father," Jon repeated, his young eyes glued to the view of the harbor.

"Jon, what happened to Ella was not your fault," Ned said, trying to soothe the boys consciously.

Jon looked up at him with something like rage in his eye. Ned was transported to another time,
with another Stark with that same look. Jon's upper lip snarled briefly before relaxing back to
normal.

Ned spoke again, "Jon, it wasn't your fault."

"I should have been there sooner! I shouldn't have said what I said to her! I should have-" Jon
stopped and coughed violently, trying to clear his throat and slouched against the wall looking at
his split knuckles of his hand. "I should have stopped hitting Lenfred after…" but Jon leaned back
again against the wall.
Ned looked at his boy. His hair out of sorts, bags starting to form under his eyes, and still in the
same shirt and jerkin he had been in for nearly a full day. The jerkin's top two laces were loose and
almost entirely undone, as were the shirts beneath it. Ned moved towards his son to fix it when he
saw it.

"Jon, what happened?" Ned asked.

Jon coughed again and shook his head, Ned persisted, "Jon, what happened to your neck?" There
were bruises on his neck. They were dark blue and wrapped around to the front.

Jon seemed to relent, "Ser Lenfred."

Ned felt a rush of hatred for the entire line of House Rykker, hatred in a way he hadn't felt in nearly
fourteen years. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" Ned asked, and Jon looked confused.

"I did, I showed Lord Arryn and the other Lords," Jon said and Ned's blood boiled over.

Ned got up and marched out of the rooms and through the New Castle until he arrived at the Great
Hall. The household guards of House Arryn stood there, blocking the entrance.

"I need to see the Hand of the King," Ned demanded.

The guard didn't move, "I'm sorry, Lord Stark, the Hand is not to be disturbed."

Ned stood there and spoke again, "I need to speak with him now. So go in there and tell him I am
here to speak with him." The guards looked at one another and decided to do what he said. They
were not gone long before they were back with Robb. The guard handed him a scroll, and Ned
unfurled it and read the hastily written words.

Ned,

I will meet you in the morning. I have to appear unbiased, and meeting with you will undermine
this.
Do not disrupt me again.

Ned crumpled the paper, ready to push the guards to the side when Robb grabbed his arm.
"Father," his son pleaded, "You can't." Ned ground his teeth, then turned and left the entrance to
the great hall and nearly ran into Ser Wylis.

"Ser Wylis," Ned said as he nodded then saw green hair trailing behind, "Lady Wylla."

"Lord Stark." They both answered. "Lord Robb," but only Wylis greeted his son. Wylla just stood
there, refusing to make eye-contact while Robb only nodded in response. Ned looked at Wylis, his
own confusion mirrored on his friend. An awkward pause enveloped them, and with a nod, they
just moved past each other. Ned didn't have time to fix whatever issue there was between Robb and
Lady Wylla, that was for another day at another time.

The rest of that day and the following night were the longest Ned had endured in at least a decade.
Ned had tried to sleep a few times but was unable to, and he refused to leave his children's rooms.
Ned didn't know what would happen, all Ned knew is whatever was decided, Jon would be
protected from the noose. Damn anyone who disagreed. If it came down to it, Ned would demand
trial by combat. It had been a few years, but he would kill whoever challenged him. I could write
Robert, Robert was impulsive, and if Ned asked Robert would pardon Jon. Yes, that is what he
would do. Write Robert, then a trial by combat, if all else failed.

Sleep continued to elude him into the hour of the wolf, but thankfully Jon and his children found it.
Ned eventually left them and went to the solar in his own chambers, his anger at the Hand, the
man he considered another father left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ned closed his eyes, trying to stop
the stream of thoughts that ran endlessly past him.

Ser Lenfred would get away with this one way or another, Ned could feel it. The Rykker's had
friends in the south, friends at court, and they had a port and influence as well. Being a house of
turncloaks and cowards makes good politicians. Ned had met Ser Jaremy on the way to the wall
and a handful of times since. He was a decent man, stayed loyal to the end. His nephew, though,
abandoned the prince at the Ford, and rode with Tywin's host during the sack and was rewarded
well for it. Renfred was a devious shit, but he could play the game and was paid. Now he had
money, money, and influence with both the Lannisters and the other houses of the Crownlands,
something the North was lacking, something House Stark was lacking.

Not for long . A thought with the voice of Ned's father came unbidden to his mind. Ned's eyes
opened. He had the medicine, the one Howland gave him. House Stark would soon gain a decent
amount of wealth. But it will take time, too much time. Ned closed his eyes again, trying to think,
it would take a few years, and although it would be a good source of coin, it may not be enough.

How to transport it ? The north had some merchant ships at White Harbor, and a few cogs in the
west, but they did not even have proper shipyards. Any ships they needed to be built were done so
in White Harbor or would have to be purchased in the south.

And how to protect them. The north didn't have a navy, they had...Ned had to think...fifteen war
galleys. They needed more, they required ships and a fleet. But how?

Wood , we have wood. Ned thought. We would soon have gold as well. Ned's thoughts picked up
as he moved around the solar to the map of the North that was on the wall. The north lacked many
roads, but they had rivers. The thoughts came quicker now, and he would need help, lots of help
from people he didn't like, it would take a few years, maybe even a decade, but the North could
become a power again.

The North would remember House Rykker.

 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned

Light streaked through the window, and Ned awoke in a chair in his solar, and there were pieces of
parchment with messages written on them. I must have fallen asleep. Ned's weary eyes shot open,
and he jumped to his feet.

It must have been early still as he only had a couple of guards outside of his family's chambers.
After checking on all of his children, he made his way through the New Castle. As he turned down
the corridor towards the Merman's hall, Wylis Manderly, looking as tired as himself intercepted
Ned.

"My Lord," the heir of White Harbor greeted him with a bow.

"Ser Wylis," Ned replied. "Where is the Hand?"

"In his chambers, I'll take you." Ned nodded and turned around to leave the way he came, but
Wylis soon caught up to him. "Lord Stark, I wanted to speak with you about my daughter Wylla."

Ned sighed, knowing this would come up sooner or later Ned decided to head this off for now,
"Ser, I don't know what transpired between your daughter and my son, but I promise to talk to him
once this current business concludes." The response he expected didn't come, and after a handful of
steps, Ned turned to Wylis. The man's face scrunched in confusion, and it seemed he was searching
for something to say.

"Lord Stark...I…." Ser Wylis struggled with his words. "I was only going to say that my daughter
was the next one after Lord Robb to come to the scene. That lady Wylla knew lady Ella well
enough, and she doesn't think Jon hurt lady Ella, Wylla told the hand as much. House Manderly
stands behind you."

Ned nodded his head and put a hand on his shoulder, "Thank you, Wylis, you've always been a
friend."
Wylis gave him a small smile, but then frowned, "What did you mean about your son and my
daughter?"

Ned cursed himself, "Not now, Wylis, later, I promise." Wylis seemed to accept that answer
tentatively as they made their way to the Hand's rooms. When they arrived, they were greeted by
Ser Vardis Egen.

"Lord Stark."

"Ser Vardis. I am here to see the Hand of the King."

Ned heard movement from behind the door, and Ser Vardis entered the room quietly. After only a
few moments, he reappeared and opened the door and motioned Ned inside. Jon Arryn looked
older than Ned had ever seen him, tired as well, far more tired than when they had met only a
handful of days ago. Ned thought back to when he was a boy at the Eyrie; even then, Jon seemed
old. Though Ned wasn't a boy any longer, he was a Lord Paramount of the North. He was the Stark
in Winterfell. He was a father.

Jon Arryn offered him a chair, and before Ned sat, he spoke first. "What is your decision? What is
the King's Justice?"

"Careful Ned." Jon Arryn said cooly. "Do you have any idea of the position your...natural son has
put me in Ned."

Ned felt his blood boil, "Position? He is a boy that tried to save a girl from being raped or worse!
Jon was nearly murdered, trying to save that girl. Did you not see the bruises on my son's neck!?"

"Yes, and before you shout any louder, the bruises mean nothing only that there was a fight."

"It means that Lenfred was trying to kill him!" Ned roared back.

Jon Arryn shook his head, "Lord Rykker told me it was in self-defense after the boy blindsided his
nephew and the Lady, and it was the only way to drag your son off of Lady Ella."
"Lies!" Ned shouted. "Jon is a boy who saw a girl harmed by a drunken southron fool and decided
to intervene!"

"No!" Jon Arryn slapped the table before he calmed himself a bit. "No. What he is Lord Stark, is a
bastard found with an unconscious woman and an anointed knight he was beating to death."

"So, my son's word means nothing."

Jon sighed, "No, what I am saying is if he were any other bastard, he would be hanging from the
gallows as we speak."

Ned allowed some tension to unknot himself. "So, he is free to go?" Jon Arryn stood there in
silence, and Ned's anxiety returned.

"No." One word, one word, and the knots were tied back into place.

"No?"

"He has a choice, Ned. He can lose his sword hand or go to the Wall." Ned started to breathe
deeply. "Ned, I know this isn't ideal."

"Ideal," Ned said quietly. "Ideal!?"

"Ned I-"

"No. I do not accept this; I am writing the King." Ned said, getting up to and moving to the door
finding his way blocked by Ser Vardis.

Jon Arryn spoke then, "You will not write the King."

"Yes, I can, and he will side with my family."

"Will he?"

"Yes," Ned said with uncertainty.

"The Rykkers are important at court. Robert even likes the Rykker twins." Ned ignored the
implication in his mind

"He will do this for me," Ned said.

"Yes, but it will sever the connection with House Rykker, and thereby severing the connection to
many of the Houses of the Crownlands. Which will alienate trade from King's Landing."

"Would you rather sever ties with the North?" Ned asked.

Jon sat there, uncomfortable, before settling himself on something, "You can't Ned, even if you
really wanted to. You need our grain for winters."

Ned felt his face flush with anger, "You think I will allow this to happen when I can change the
outcome? I will march down to Kingslanding and ask the King myself."

"Ned, enough!" Jon said, "Why quarrel when I have done the boy a favor?" When Ned didn't
respond, Jon continued, "Do you think me a fool? No, I have heard the whispers, Ned, especially
after the incredible display during the squire's melee. Young Jon wants to head to the Wall, and I
was able to give him that instead of taking away his life."

"This will do the same! I was going to give him a choice, Jon, and you are taking it away from
him!"

"Ned, he is a bastard. Talented yes, but a bastard still. Would you grant him a keep? Would you
keep him at Winterfell when he has grown?" Ned was silent for a moment, so Jon continued, "The
Tully's would never allow it, hells Ned, your bannermen would never allow it."

"You don't know that," Ned said weakly.

"Don't be naive, Ned; I taught you better than that."

"The north is different. We protect our own, bastards, or trueborn."

"He was going to end up on the Wall one way or another. It is just happening a few years earlier
than you thought."

"No," Ned said again. Jon's eyes hardened.

"No? Ned, he nearly killed a knight, the Rykker's are only allowing this as we are decreasing their
taxes for a few years. Renfred was where you were not an hour ago, threatening worse before we
made this deal."

"It implies my son is guilty of something!"

"He is guilty, Ned! Everyone I talked to said they saw the blood on his hands!" Ned was quiet but
scowling as Jon Arryn gave a deep sigh and sat back into his chair, "Ned the throne is not as secure
as you think. Rosbys, Stokeworths, Mootens, Velaryons, Masseys, and Celtigars all surround
Kingslanding, and the only house that helps quell their unease is House Rykker. The rest have all
seen their power slowly diminish at court and throughout the realm. These events might not ignite
the flame, but I will not add more tinder than necessary and cut out our only ally of our own
region."

"And the North bears the brunt. The North won him that chair, Jon, the North suffered more than
any other, and what did we get from the fall of the Targaryeans? Three dead Starks and countless
dead Northmen." Ned said quietly. "We have fought his grace's wars, we have come when he has
called, our peoples' blood, our young men's blood has been spilled for him, and we have not asked
one thing."

"It is your duty to the King," Jon said defensively.

"Aye, and what did you give the other Lord's that answered the call? What did you give to the ones
that didn't?" Ned asked. Jon was silent, but Ned knew his foster father was angry, bringing up what
was talked about not a week ago.
A half a minute passed in silence before the Hand spoke again, "Ned, I cannot let your son walk
free."

"And I cannot let him suffer for protecting a daughter of the North."

"Then let him serve at the Wall." Jon Arryn asked, no pleaded.

Ned thought for a moment, thought about his plan, and he needed the south to want what the
North, to see them and need what they had, he needed time. "Exile," Ned said.

"Exile?" Jon asked

"Exile. Send him across the Narrow Sea."

"Ned..." Jon just shook his head, "He is more likely to die there than at the Wall."

"But he will be free," Ned said.

"He could never return Ned. I mean it, never." Jon said, but Ned could tell he was winning him
over.

"For a few years."

"Ned, I mean it, it would have to be in perpetuity," Jon said sternly.

Ned stared at him and scowled, "For a few years, Lord Arryn, when this blows over, I will send for
him. As you said, I could write the King and get what I want at any moment. Make no mistake, I
am only doing this as a favor to you," Jon went to speak, his brow furrowed but Ned spoke first. "I
will wait three years, Jon before I send the letter."

Jon sat there in silence, "Twenty years, and we increase the crown's taxes by five percent."
Ned stared at him and countered, "Seven years and three percent." House Stark can bear the cost,
especially with medicine, even more so if his other preliminary plans bear fruit.

Jon Arryn sat there, weighing the options before he let out a sigh, "Very well, now excuse me,
Ned, I have to have a difficult conversation with Lord Renfred."

"And I have to have one with my innocent son." Ned spat out and left the solar.

Ned started to make his way towards his Family's rooms when a few of the Hand's words came
back to him about Jon's safety. Ned needed to ensure he went somewhere with protection. With
protection.

"Alyn."

"Yes, Lord Stark."

"Find Tormo Fregar and his brother Tamir and bring them to my solar."

"Milord?" Alyn asked.

Ned turned around quickly, "Now, Alyn, do not ask me again." Suitably chastised, Alyn bolted
away from Ned as he walked back to his family's chambers with Jory at his side.

Ned quietly opened the door to his boys' rooms. He found Robb asleep with Bran next to him. Ned
smiled at his two boys, both of their auburn hair disheveled with a book open at the foot of the bed.
Ned looked for his other son and found Arya asleep in Jon's bed. Ned looked around the room and
found Jon standing next to a window overlooking the White Harbor.

"Jon," Ned said loudly enough for it to carry, but quietly to try and keep his other two asleep.
However, Jon did not seem to notice and continued to stare out the window as Ned approached.
"Jon," Ned said again, a little more concern coming through, yet Jon still didn't respond. Ned
reached his boy and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Jon jumped and looked at him in confusion before comprehension set in. Jon had the beginnings of
dark bags under his eyes, his hair was out of place, and his skin was looking a little pale. "Father."
Jon finally said.

"Did you sleep?" He asked.

Jon only gave a nod, "A little." He turned back to the window, and Ned followed his gaze. The sun
was just now making its way up the horizon. A glimmer of the waves in the water shone and
reflected onto the white walls of the harbor. It was a beautiful scene that drew them both into a
peaceful moment. One Ned would have to ruin.

A long pause turned into an uncomfortable silence as Ned didn't know what to say. Didn't know
how to tell his boy what was going to happen to him.

"Am I going to the Wall?" Jon asked suddenly.

"No," Ned said just as fast. "No, you won't be going to the Wall."

Jon turned to look at him, Jon's face looked relieved, and Ned felt his face fall at what he would
have to say, to crush what hope his son was showing him.

Jon's face fell as well after a few moments while Ned struggled to find the right words, alas, Ned
couldn't find anything to soften the blow, "Exile."

Jon's sadness deepened, "To Where?"

"Anywhere, just not….just not here, in Westeros," Ned said. "Braavos, I hope. I am going to speak
to Tormo, if not you can go anywhere you can-"

"I didn't do anything wrong," Jon said. "I, I was protecting someone." Ned felt his chest tighten.
"You believe me, right, Father? You said you believed me."

"I did, I mean, I mean, I do!" Ned sputtered.

"Then why let them do this? Why not stand up and demand that they-" Jon trailed off as it seemed
he landed on something.

The room went quiet again, Ned couldn't handle it, "It is only for seven years Jon, seven years in
Essos and then you can-"

"It's cause I am a bastard," Jon said, not looking at him.

"Jon you can travel the world then-"

"If I were Robb or Bran, it'd be different," Jon spoke to no one in particular.

"Jon," Ned spoke.

"It's true! I am just a bastard. You can sacrifice me because what do I matter? I am not your son,
not in any way that matters!" Jon's voice broke as he finished, and Ned's heart tightened, fighting
the guilt and anger warring inside him.

"Jon!" Ned shouted, not caring if his other children were awake now, he needed his son to stop and
listen to him. It seemed to work, although the anger was still in Jon's eyes as he glared at Ned. Ned
let out a deep sigh, "Gods forgive me, Jon, gods, forgive me." Ned pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I have loved you since the moment you were put in my arms, I have tried to raise you with honor,
but…" Ned stopped for a breath, "Aye, to others, you are still a bastard." Jon's brow raised. "You
are right, Jon, if you were Robb or Bran, I would go to war. I would still go to war for you,
remember that, but my bannermen wouldn't." Jon's face flushed red, and there was rage there, and
it Ned knew it threatened to overtake his boy.

"I understand, Lord Stark," Jon grit out.

Ned felt his frustration rise, "No, Jon, no, you do not. They wanted your head. They wanted you to
go to the Wall. Seven years Jon, seven years in Essos." Jon was about to counter, but Ned put his
hand up, "This is not a punishment Jon this is an opportunity. An opportunity to see the world and
what else is out there, many in Essos will not care about your birth." Ned saw Jon's snarl turn to
something less extreme. "Now listen to me, Jon, and listen well, learn all you can when you are
gone, make a good name for yourself, because when you return, I will have need of you." Ned
turned to see, as he expected, his other children aside from Sansa staring at him and Jon in silence,
"Robb, Bran, Arya, little Rickon, and even Sasna will need you. The North will need you." Jon's
face was now a little pale, and his young face showed his nervousness, but Ned continued, "You
will be House Stark to the rest of the world, you may not have my name, but you have my blood."
Ned stopped then, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

When he opened them, Jon was staring back at him. His eyes, while tired, were firm. The rage still
swirled like a storm in his son's eyes, and Ned couldn't blame him. Seven years away from family.
Then Ned would bring him home, and Ned's plan worked out as he hoped, there would be a place
for him.

Ned nodded then looked to Robb, Bran, and Arya. Robb was trying to be firm and resolute, but
Arya and Bran were weeping. "Say good-bye to your brother, children. He will leave tomorrow
morning for Braavos." Ned turned to leave the room. He had too many people to meet with before
the day was done. First Braavos, then the North.

---

Tormo was already in his solar by the time that Ned had arrived, and unfortunately, so was his
brother. No, enough of that thinking, he may be protecting Jon for the foreseeable future. The two
Braavosi nodded at him as he took his seat.

Ned was tired and thus impatient, so he spoke first and got straight to matter at hand, "Tamir, you
said to me not long ago that I know nothing of Braavosi and your...martial employment." Tormo
softly smiled while Tamir started to snarl, but Ned continued before it could the snarl was fully
formed. "You are not wrong, my mother's father was a sellsword, but he and my grandmother didn't
talk much about it, but I know he served in the disputed lands and somewhere called the Golden
Fields. However, I do not know much about Braavosi sellsword companies though I acknowledge
that the Müqeddes Cinler is known for its ability on the battlefield." Ned motioned him with his
hand, "Speak Tamir as I have a long day and perhaps longer conversation with your brother."

Tamir looked at his brother and, at his urging, started, "My Lord, as, as you may or may not know,
Braavos is a city of merchants, though they still need men to defend it. However, as with any good
Braavosi, they want to make their fortune even if it is with the sword, not goods. Everyone knows
that guards' pay, while steady, is usually poor, so the city of Bravos would lose its best fighters as
do most cities around the world."

Ned started to shake his head, but the sellsword captain continued, "However, the Council of
Braavos and the Sealord are no fools, they need men to fight for them, to fight for Braavos. So any
sellsword company created by and housed within Braavos must swear to return to Braavos if called
upon and paid upon their return." Ned nodded; it was a greedy honorability if that was such a
thing. "That said, my Lord, the Müqeddes Cinler are one of the few companies contracted directly
by the Council Braavos. We fight where the Sealord tells us to fight, so we must have at least a
quarter of our force in Braavos at all times unless sent forth by the Sealord, and they pay us a
handsome retainer of sorts to do so."

Ned nodded again, "You said a quarter, where does the rest go?"

Tamir smiled then, "To make our fortune!" The smile lessened, "If the Sealord does not have a task
for our men, we are free to contract with whomever we please. To test our men, keep them sharp
and well paid."

Ned set his stoic mask in place, "Aye, well, you were right, Captain Tamir, I knew nothing of that."
Ned turned attention to the elder brother, "You came here asking for timber, I can give it to you, at
least those within my lands, which are considerable. I will also speak to other Lords and those
timbers that we do not need or use, they will sell to you as well. You say Braavos has a thirst?
Well, while summer is here, we will try and quench it."

Tormo merely kept the same half-smile, "Well Lord Stark, that is incredibly generous of you, why,
must I ask, this change?"

"You are not a fool, Tormo." Ned gave a weary sigh, "Jon is to be sent to exile, for seven years, I
would send him with you when you leave on the morrow."

Tamir spoke up again, "If he would want to spend some time around soldiers?"

"He will be given his freedom to do as he wants. If he is to join a company to test his steel, so be it,
if he wants to become a scholar, provide for that as well. Regardless, continue to provide tutors for
him wherever he is to go. I would only ask you to give him what he wishes." Ned smiled then,
"within reason, of course." Tamir smirked then while Tormo continued to give his half-smile.

"No," Tormo said, the half-smile fading slowly.

"What?" Tamir and Ned said at the same time.

Ned continued, "Is this not what you wanted."

"Come, Tormo, the boy is interesting, and you can see his promise as much as I, you said as
much." Tamir pleaded. This information was new to Ned, but Tormo only lifted his hand to stop
his brother from revealing more.

Tormo Fregar continued, "You are correct, Lord Stark, this is what I wanted, but that was before
agreeing to trade with the North would anger the Lords of the Narrow Sea. Timber is important, I
will not lie, but I do not wish the risk of losing my contacts of trade with more...profitable ports of
your kingdom."

Ned tried to fight the flush of anger, "They would not be so foolish."

"Lord Rykker has already told all that will listen that those who trade with the North will not be
welcome to dock at Duskendale. That alone is not a large loss, but with Duskendale comes
Driftmark, Maidenpool, Stonedance, and possibly a handful of other harbors. If I lose the North, I
lose timber it is true, but I would risk one center of trade. White Harbor against all the others? No, I
cannot do that." Tormo finished with a shrug.

Ned clenched his fist and only further solidified his resolve. That didn't stop his mind from racing.
How would he be able to convince his lords if they lose this trade deal, his plans for a fleet needed
this coin if it were to become a reality? But then a thought occurred to him as a smile formed on
his lips. Lord Rykker had done them a favor. The foolish Lord of Duskendale had done something
to ease his pathway to bring the North to him; he insulted their pride. If the incentive for gold did
not do it for them, defending their pride was something he could use to rally his lords. Ned just
needed to get Tormo on his side. Luckily for Ned, he had another incentive.

"Tormo, you once mentioned you had ambitions, I can only imagine what they truly are, but I
know it will cost coin and influence," Ned leaned forward, "I can give you both," Ned said, and
Tamir laughed, and Tormo gave a genuine smile.

"Lord Stark, your forests are an envy of my mine. It will not carry-" Ned interrupted by putting
Howland's clay jar onto the table. "What is this, Lord Stark?"

"Medicine."

Tormo lifted a brow, "Oh? Anything interesting that it cures."

"Greyscale," Ned answered, and Tamir chuckled, but Tormo just studied him.
Tamir eventually quieted, "I have been to many places in this world, and many healers claim to
have powders and poultices, spells and prayers that can cure greyscale."

Ned turned and looked at him, "You may laugh, Tamir, but one of my bannerman that I trust above
anyone has guaranteed this cures greyscale. The scars are there but return to a more normal hue. He
also says any open wound, sore or lesion would be cured as well, just mix with some clean water
into a thick paste and apply."

Tamir's smile slowly turned to disbelief, "You're serious?"

"I am," Ned said.

Tormo only stared at the jar, "I am not saying I believe you Lord Stark, but this will make you
wealthy, what does this have to do with me?"

"The north does not have the merchant ships, let alone the galleys to transport and guard this to the
places it needs to go, nor do I think we have the ships to ensure the payment returns." Tormo
nodded, and the half-smile started to turn into something more genuine. "Not yet, at least, that will
change as I plan to build shipyards and a respectable fleet."

Tormo was still nodding, "That would take a few years, possibly more."

Ned nodded in return, "Possibly more, possibly seven years."

"An interesting number," Tormo said.

"Seven years, I am willing to sell this directly to you, for you to distribute to the world as the North
starts to build a fleet to do it themselves, or at least until we can get it to the other major ports of
Westeros." Ned took a breath, "As to beyond them, if we are not capable…"

Tormo sat there thinking, "That is if this does as you say."

"You doubt me?"

"I do not doubt you think it works, but the world will need proof." But a broad smile came to him.
"What do you know of Ferrego Antaryon?"

"The Sealord?" Ned asked, and Tormo nodded, "Not much, he is wealthy, powerful as all Sealord's
are."

"You need to be better informed of what happens outside your realm. Ferrego has two fully grown
children from his first wife, who has passed on. His second wife gave him a son as well. This boy
has been confined to his rooms because he was paralyzed in an accident when he was six years
old."

"I am sorry to hear that but what does this have to do with this cure?" Ned asked.

Tormo leaned forward, "What most know, but few are willing to speak aloud, is that the boy has
Greyscale in his legs, has had it for nearly two years and has, last I heard, reached his mid-thigh."

"And you propose?"

"Send this as a gift to the Sealord. He would grant a generous boon if it works as you say, and if it
proves fruitful, then we can enter into this venture." Tormo finished.

"And Jon?" Ned asked.

"I will house him until we hear, one way or another about the Sealord's son."

"And if, for some reason, this medicine does not work as I claim?" Ned asked.

"Well, Jon will have to do what all men do. Make his way," Tormo said.

Ned didn't like this answer but started to nod when Tamir interrupted. "He is free to join the
Müqeddes Cinler regardless. We protect our own." Ned nodded in thanks but was inwardly worried
about Jon going down that path, but if it were his son's choice, he wouldn't stop him.

"Good," Ned said as he shook Tormo's hand. "The first shipment will be in White Harbor in a
month's time. The timber will start to follow soon after."

Tormo nodded, and they spoke for a few hours more about terms, price, and shipping. They also
spoke on shipwrights for the different vessels Ned wished to build. Overall it was a productive
meeting. However, it all hinged on whether the Sealord's boy was cured, or else this was all for
naught. It would take a couple of months before he would know, and he trusted Howland, but
Ned's anxiety of Jon's future rested on this cure, and it only deepened his unease.

After Tormo left, Ned asked Tamir to stay behind. Once the captain sat where his brother was a
few moments before Ned spoke, "Tamir, we may not see eye to eye, but I recognize that you care
for my son."

Tamir tried to give a gesture of indifference, but a smile came to him regardless, "He is a talented
boy, and there is a drive to him. Quite shy, but yet I enjoy his company."

"I am glad," Ned stopped for a moment, "Try to keep him safe."

"We soldiers live dangerous lives, Lord Stark," Tamir answered. "But I will push him to become
the best warrior I can. Aside from that, I cannot promise much else."

Ned nodded, it would be up to the gods to keep him alive. "That is all I could ask." Tamir smiled,
and Ned dismissed him.

Without a firm commitment from the Fregar's, Ned only had one Lord to speak with,

--

"Lord Stark, if what you tell me is true, this could…"

"Impact the North forever Lord Manderly I am aware, more than anything it will be vital for White
Harbor to prepare as it will increase trade through your city-"
"Threefold, possibly five." Lord Manderly said. "Lord Stark with this much gold…"

"Will be invested back into the North Lord Manderly, that is why I need your help."

"Invested? What do you mean?" Lord Manderly asked.

Ned took a breath, "I have promised to only sell the medicine to Tormo Fregar of Braavos, and he
will distribute it to the rest of the world."

Lord Manderly was aghast, "Lord Stark! How..how could you do this? You have given him the
ability to control it all, it will cost us-"

"Some gold in the short term, I am aware Lord Manderly, but the North is not equipped to do this."

Wyman Manderly looked affronted, "I think you give us to little credit Lord Stark we have plenty
of cogs."

Ned gave Wyman a dubious look, "Even if that were true, do we have the galleys to defend
them?"

"We could repurpose other vessels."

"Aye, but then how much could we send out at a time?" Ned countered. "I know what men think of
me, stubborn, honorable, and unmovable. It is true I am not a merchant and trade has never been
my strongest skill,"

"Lord Stark no one thinks-" Lord Manderly started, but Ned stopped him.

"And I know that you are not the fool you pretend to be, or else I would not have you here."
Wyman closed his mouth and leaned in his chair.
"As I was saying, I am not a merchant, but I am thorough. I gave Tormo seven years, and at the end
of those seven, the North will need to be prepared for trade, or else we may need to extend that
deadline further, I am sure. But more than anything else, I want the North to be protected by the sea
in the West."

Lord Wyman studied him, the intelligence in his gaze now overtly apparent, "So we need to build
them, well my shipyards are few, but I think we can start building galleys and cogs."

"Aye, and you will. However, we need more yards."

"I agree. I think there a few spots where the Harbor can accommodate."

"Not here, Lord Manderly," Ned said.

"I don't understand, Lord Stark."

"If we only build in White Harbor, it will take the ships nearly what, four months, six months to
get to the Saltspear? Not to mention they have to make it through the stepstones and past the Iron
Islands."

"But Lord Stark White Harbor is the most established place to concentrate on this work." Lord
Manderly said.

"You are the only true naval presence in the North Lord Manderly, it makes you one of my most
powerful vassals. You have what? Twelve war galleys?" Ned asked, and Wyman nodded. "And at
Widow's watch? Two? And at Flint's fingers? Three." Wyman nodded again, though it was clear he
wasn't happy. "We need shipyards in the west, Lord Wyman. Regardless, you will still gain more
wealth and power than any of my vassals."

Wyman gave a soft smile, "I am aware."

"Which worries me, Rickard will feel left out, and Roose will bristle."

"Most like."
"So I need you to offer Wynafryd to Harrion Karstark and a very generous dowry," Ned said,
bracing himself.

Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor and Protector of the White Knife's mouth, became
thin, his cheeks reddened, and his gaze intensified. "You are my liege Lord Stark, I have and will
always be loyal, but you do not get to control my granddaughter's betrothal. You go too far."

Ned kept his face impassive, "I know, I know I do, but the changes to the North will not be viewed
favorably by all, I have plans for Roose to appease him, but the Karstarks need something as
well."

"You have son, offer him," Wyman said through gritted teeth.

"I can't Wyman because I value your loyalty more."

---

Jon

Exile.

That was the only thing Jon could think about. Not packing his meager possessions. Not Bran and
Arya trading turns to ask questions and crying. Not Robb trying to cheer him up nor Sansa saying
her awkward good-bye.

No, the only thing he could think about was he was going into exile, all because he was a bastard.
Because his father wouldn't fight for him, and that is what hurt more than anything. Well, that and
that everyone would think he was guilty of what was said about him. That he was no better than
any other bastard, that he had no honor. Jon was starting to get angry again.

Robb was saying something, "You'll get to see some of the wonders Lomas Longstrider talked
about the Titan and Braavos, and I heard that Sealord has a monkey with purple eyes!."
"Aye," Jon grumbled.

"And I heard Braavosi women love Northerners…" Robb poked his side, but Jon shoved him off of
him. "Jon, what the hell?"

"You wouldn't understand," Jon grumbled.

"You don't know that I could understand," Robb muttered.

Jon rounded on him, "No! You don't, Robb! You're the heir, you're the one that matters, I am just
shit on the boot of House Stark, to be scrapped off and disposed of."

"Jon-" Robb tried to reach out to Jon, but he pushed it away and headed for the door.

"I need to grab my armor and shield."

"Jon, wait!" but he didn't, with Tomard behind him, he made his way through the New Castle and
down to the armory where his things were stored. When he arrived, he found Larence waiting for
him.

"You're here, finally!" Larence shouted in delight as a traveling bag was on his shoulders, "I knew
you would have to come to get your armor, and I wasn't allowed to see you."

Jon gave a small smile, "Aye, you're right, I do, what are you doing?" Jon said, pointing at his
things.

Larence smiled then, "I'm coming with you!"

"No, you're not," Jon said without hesitation. Larence's eagerness dimmed, and Jon felt guilt at
causing this.

"Why not?"
"Because your place is with your family."

Larence frowned at this, "My brother is an arse and Lady Donella," Larence swallowed, "Lady
Donella doesn't want me at Hornwood. My father doesn't really care."

Jon understood the feeling well, "What about Ella? She cares for you, and she needs you now."
Larence frowned at this, and Jon pushed forward, "Has she awoken yet?" Larence looked down and
wiped at his eyes and shook his head.

"The maester isn't sure still, he doesn't think she will die, but he doesn't know if she'll wake and if
she does," Larence choked, "They say she may be simple or need to learn to do everything again."

Jon's breath became ragged as he leaned against the wall of the armory. Trying to blink away the
tears. He turned to Larence and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look up at him. "Larence,
listen to me. I would enjoy your company, but you are needed here."

Larence looked away in shame, "What can I do?"

"Be there, Larence, be there for her since I cannot."

Larence gave a worried look, "Father is sending me to Deepwoode Motte. I think I won't be able to
be in White Harbor or Hornwood."

Jon thought for a moment, "How would you like to be fostered at Winterfell?"

Larence's eyes went wide, "W-Winterfell?" The boy asked.

"Aye, I'll ask my father to take you as a ward, you'll be allowed to train with Robb and Ser Rodrik
Cassel."

"I...I am not.." Larence started to say but stopped.

"Trueborn?" Jon asked, and Larence nodded in agreement. "My father will do this much for me, at
least," Jon said bitterly.

"Are..are you sure I would be welcome."

Jon shrugged, "Robb will take care of you, just behave." Larence readily agreed, then Jon's eyes
went wide, thinking of something. "One more thing I need to give you."

"What?" Larence said excitedly. Jon pulled out his shield with the laughing weirwood and handed
it to his friend. "J-Jon, I can't take this!"

"You can and you will, it's a good shield, dented a bit, but it will protect you."

"What about you?"

"There are no Weirwoods in Essos. Plus," Jon smiled, "I think I'll need to find another one that is a
bit bigger."

Larence reached for it and grasped it like it was made of glass, "Thank you, Jon."

"Just remember to keep it up, or you'll get your head rung like a bell."

"Like you did?"

"Aye," Jon said, "Like I did. I'll miss you, Larence."

"You too, Jon."

Jon rubbed his head, "Now go on and unpack before your father catches you." Larence eyes went
wide, and he ran off with his new possession.
Jon went inside the armory and found his steel helm.

"Of all the Westerosi I have met, you Northerners are always so serious, as cold and stubborn as
that giant wall you wanted to go to."

"There is an honor to be found there, Tamir," Jon replied, still staring at his helmet, it needed a
polish. "And that choice was taken from me."

"Good thing too." Jon turned around and glared at the Braavosi. "Now, you get to come with me,
and I can finally teach you how to fight like a proper warrior."

"What?"

"As you northerners are so fond of saying, 'Aye.'" Tamir said the last word with an exaggerated
burr that sounded even odder on his foreign tongue.

"I am to be exiled."

"Oh, most definitely, straight to Braavos." Then Tamir flashed a smile, "To be supported by my
brother. Maybe to be a 'squire' of sorts, or maybe to show us 'foreign scum' what proper warriors
you Northmen claim to be." Tamir explained.

"You're lying," Jon said, his nerves easing and excitement growing.

"I am not familiar with your Knightley procedures, but I don't believe lying to a squire is not one of
them," Tamir smirked.

"What if I don't want to train with you or be whatever the Braavosi equivalent to a squire is?" Jon
asked.

Tamir blew his lips, "Then you are a fool!" When Tamir saw him frown, he rolled his eyes, "If you
are a fool, which I know you are not, then you live in my brother's manse or travel or whatever you
wish. However, I will not be like one of your Westerosi knights and make you a servant. You will
train with the company initiates, possibly join me on a campaign or two, and have a few adventures
without my supervision."

"Why?"

Tamir grew serious, "Because your father is going to make my brother the richest man in Braavos,
it may even make him the next Sealord of Braavos."

Jon's eyes went wide, "How?"

"Timber, some sort of Greyscale cure a bannerman found and complete control of shipping both."

"My father has a greyscale cure?"

"So, he claims." Tamir countered.

Jon took a moment to process all of this. Suddenly what his father told him made more sense; going
to Braavos seemed to make more sense as well, though the bitterness was still there. Jon felt
himself nodding.

Tamir suddenly grabbed his helmet from him and studied it, "I understand the desire to see, but I
think even I could get an arrow through this slit. Still, it should be good enough for the Demons."

"You'd let me join?" Jon asked,

Tamir laughed, and Jon's face flushed, "We are unparalleled in our training and adaptability in all
of Essos. We only take those that can prove themselves with spear, shield, sword or ax, bow, knife,
pike, and unarmed combat." Jon deflated a bit, he had never trained with a spear or pike, his knife
was only used at supper, and he was an average archer on his best days. Though he did know he
was good with the rest.

Tamir must have noticed because he spoke again, "Do not worry, Jon snow, you may not join us
yet, but you could get there. Plus, the men I speak of are the portion of the army that I am the
captain of. We have men that are only archers, infantry, or scouts. They put an emphasis on certain
weapons, but even they must still be proficient in all. They don't make as much money, but they
 can always try and become one of the best." Jon didn't know what to say to that, but Tamir
continued, "They are good men, but they are not the finest, and you, Jon Snow, could be even
better even myself." Jon smiled at that.

"Well, that won't be too difficult."

"Oh? Is that so?" Tamir smiled, and he and Jon fell into companionable silence.

"Well, maybe my exile will not be so bad." Jon shrugged, and Tamir slapped his shoulder in
agreement.

Gods, Jon was naive then.

----

End of Part 1.

Chapter End Notes

So when I came up with this premise I didn't think the first act would take this long,
but I enjoyed writing these scenes and characters (in my own limited way) so much
that twenty thousand words became thirty and thirty became fifty and so on. I
appreciate everyone that has decided to read it thus far but as we go into Jon's
adventures in Essos, know it may take a little longer to get the chapters out. I have a
bank of about forty thousand words already, but I like to have that size of the gap in
case I feel like I need to change something to make it flow or retcon something that
makes the story make some sort of sense.

I have an interlude chapter that takes place a few years down the road. I can add it or
skip it until it takes place in the story, what do you guys think?
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon

"Steady backfoot, Toli! Pivot! Block! Strike! Protect man next to you, Toli!" Jon did as he was
told, but the shield was too late, and Evrett was struck in the padded helm by the wooden practice
spear. "Dead!" Evrett staggered back. Jon was left facing three members of Demons on his own,
with a spear and shield. After a few weeks, his skill with a spear had improved, but it was still only
passable at best. His nickname, however, didn't seem to fade. The first of day training he was so
quiet, Haros said, "Lyka hae iā tolīmorghon." Soon it was shortened to Toli, and that is what
everyone called him, and him trying to correct it only made it worse.

Jon blocked the first strike, glanced at the second of his shield, but the third one caught his leg,
then the next his shoulder, and he saw the last coming towards his head.

It stopped short as Black Rat, one of the temennals or captains of the initiates, shouted, "Dead!"

Jon sighed and got back to his feet. Evrett was struggling a bit, and the Braavosi Haros was winded
and out of breath.

Black Rat looked at his charges, focused as ever with no emotion, and Jon wondered if he even had
a soul. "Toli," Black Rat pointed at Jon, "Your shoulders are still weak, but you improve, focus on
building strength. Evrett, you need precision, you need patience, spear is not sword, do not need to
hit every time. Haros, you have talent, but work together, three spears but one shield. You three be
the one shield. That is enough for today, Bhanar waits for you with bow." They were dismissed,
and Jon looked at Evrett, he was a terrible archer, and Jon was middling at best, but Jon felt they
were improving.

The young knight was his only friend, and he was hardly what you would call a friend, but being
eighteen and the only other Westerosi anywhere close to his age, they spent most of their time
together. The rest of the initiates tolerated him at best, and at worst, hated him. They hated him for
being young and living in the Fregar manse and having tutors when he was done training. They
tolerated him because he was a skilled fighter. Tamir did what he could, but he had to train his own
men, and oversee the trials for any felt they could be part of the elite of the company. Jon thought
it would be different, but he should have known better.
The seventeen days it took to travel from White Harbor to Braavos were difficult, and the journey
apparently took much longer than it was supposed to as a persistent storm raged for five of those
days. Jon had never been so nauseous in his life, and the Braavosi sailors mercilessly mocked him
for it. Jon's only consolation was that both Evrett and Bronn, a self-proclaimed killer who had seen
some of the seediest places in Essos, didn't have the stomach for the churning sea. Jon didn't like
him much, but at the same time, Jon enjoyed Bronn's quips a good deal. Regardless, Jon couldn't
avoid him as he was joining the Müqeddes Cinler, as was Ser Evrett.

After the five days of hell, Tamir, Arridos, and Medvjed awoke the three of them at sunrise and
brought them to the top deck to train. Tamir took one of them and trained with the sword, Medvjed
took another and trained them with the spear and Arridos took the last and taught them with the
knife. When Jon asked why, Arridos simply told him, "If you are disarmed, do you want to stand
there and die? Or do you still want a chance?" Jon acquiesced the point and took up a stance to
prepare. After three hours of sparring with minimal chances to catch their breath, they took a quick
break and switched to fighting with no weapons for another hour, followed by other exercises that
Tamir told him would strengthen him. Jon, however, was convinced it was to kill him, Evrett
seemed to be in agreement with Jon. By the end of the first day, Jon and Evrett couldn't move, and
his lungs felt like they would crumble to dust.

Bronn, on the other hand, seemed to bear it better. Sure, he was almost as out of breath as Jon, but
he endured it with the experience of a seasoned soldier.

The rest of Jon's day was spent with a tutor in Valyrian. Luckily, his father had forced him to have
a handful of lessons, so it wasn't completely foreign to him, but the tutor told him he had the
vocabulary of a toddler and that his Northern accent made it sound like he was speaking Ibbenese.
Jon didn't like the man much, he just couldn't say it in Valyrian. Jon could, however, ask someone
for directions, how much something was and where is the nearest brothel, all taught by Bronn, who
said these were essential to know for any man traveling to Braavos.

By the end of the journey, Jon was able to get through some of his training, and instead of being
constantly sore, he was only in pain when he moved. His tutor also said he now had the vocabulary
of a ten-year-old, and if someone spoke slowly, he would have a vague understanding of what they
said.

He was just getting comfortable with the routine when they had arrived in Braavos. They were
greeted by a roar, stopping Jon from thrusting his spear and drawing his eyes towards the horizon.
Medjved had struck his shoulder for his lapse in attention. Jon didn't even feel the blow and instead
stared at the Titan as the magnificent structure drew closer and closer, towering over the channel
into the lagoon. Jon couldn't take his eyes from it, and as they sailed underneath, the numerous
holes and spitfires became evident, and Jon decided any ship that was foolish enough to attack
would be destroyed in moments.
They arrived at the Chequey Port, where they were boarded by customs officials to inspect their
wares. Jon, Tamir, Tormo, and their retinue parted ways from Arridos, Medjved, Bronn, and
Evrett, and left the Chequey Port on one of the Fregar's private sloops that were waiting for them.
It had all been a blur as they traveled around the greater of Braavos. Their destination was in the
eastern part of the lagoon. It took nearly a quarter of the day as they were unable, by law, to sail
near the Sealord's Palace.

The Fregar manse was on its own island that must have been at least a sixth of the size of
Winterfell. The most significant differences were that the walls were short, and it looked more like
a home than a fortress. Jon assumed the men guarding the wall were all mercenaries of some sort.
The Manse was luxurious but not ostentatious, but Jon didn't see much of it as he was shown his
quarters right away, and the feather bed called to him.

From there, his days became a routine. Wake, train, eat, learn, eat, sleep, repeat.

Jon's reminiscing came to an end as his arrow missed the mark completely. Jon braced for the
tongue-lashing, "Toli ao dovodedha, beqes bartōro gundja hol. Ao sramte emagon ossēntan mirri
issaros!" Jon only understood the last of it as he was trying to process the meaning as quickly as he
could. Finally, his brain caught up, and Bhanar spoke in Valyrian again, "You're done with the bow
today, Toli, get ready for the sword with Relgos." Jon sighed, this was his least favorite part of the
day, he loved the sword and the shield, but gods he hated Relgos.

"Come Toli," Evrett said, "If we hurry, we can get a scrap to eat before Relgos beats us bloody."

"Evrett, gods, not you too?" Jon asked.

Evrett shrugged. Then a smirk showed, "Honestly? I think it rather fits." Jon rolled his eyes. Then
quickly punched Evrett's shoulder. Evrett only chuckled, "Aye, the name fits indeed, not only are
you as pale as one, but your punches are just as soft."

"Uume mdogo," Jon muttered, though it was loud enough for Evrett to hear.

The young knight only tilted his head, "Come off it Toli, I can barely speak Valyrian, what did that
mean?"

"Wasn't Valyrian." Jon answered, "It's the only bit of Sumer Tongue, I know."
"What does it mean?"

"Guess," Jon smirked as he said it. Evrett had no answer, "Medvjed said it means 'fuck you' in
Summer Islander. Evrett's lip curled, then his mood shifted a bit.

"Something you learn in that manse you return to every night?"

Jon blew out a breath, he knew it would come to this, it always came to this. "No." Jon said simply,
"Not yet."

A long pause enveloped them both, Ser Evrett then spoke up again, "They say the Sealord's son is
walking again, they say that the Sealord is gifting your father ten war galleys and twenty merchant
cogs as a gift."

"Aye," Jon had heard this is as well, except it was from Tomero and Tarem, Tormo's two sons.
Both of them were now fast friends with the youngest of Ferrego Antaryon, who, for the first time
in years, was allowed to spend time with other children near his age. Tamir had been taking them
every couple of evenings to play with the boy who up until a few weeks ago had been bedridden
and isolated. It had been for both the protection of others and to keep it a well-known secret. Jon
had not been allowed to go, at least, Tamir said he did not need his own 'Ghost' to haunt his steps
during those visits. Jon couldn't believe that his nickname was being used by Tamir as well.
Regardless, the Sealord's son being cured of greyscale was going to make the North wealthy; it was
going to make his father wealthy. Jon fought the bitterness as long as he could.

"Lucky little shit," Evrett said as he put on the padded gambeson and found a shield, "heard he still
has the scars though," Evrett continued.

"Aye, but apparently they aren't grey and cracked, just a dark red blotch with deeper red lines. Still,
though, he's alive."

"Ugly, though."

"It doesn't seem to bother you," Jon japed.

Evrett smiled then, "Lady Ahrola thinks my new beard is quite handsome."
"You pay her to say that."

"I pay her to suck my cock, not that you would know what you pay whores for. Being a young boy
of one and three." Evrett shot back.

Jon's face blushed, "I am one and four now,"

"Oh? Nearly a man, in one year, let me buy you Lady Ahrola and make it official." Evrett said.

Jon was about to respond when a low, deep voice boomed out in Westerosi, "Arseling!"

Jon sighed. 'Toli,' he could ignore, even understand, but he had been nothing but obedient, diligent,
and better than every other initiate within ten years his age. At least, better with a sword.

"Thank you for finally gracing us with your presence Arseling!" Jon looked around, the other
eighteen initiates were still filing in, some of them just getting the training armor on while Jon had
arrived ready to train. "Since his high and mighty Arseling has shown up late, he is the first in the
gauntlet."

Jon studied Relgos, he was obviously Westerosi, but Jon was unable to place from where. His skin
was tan and weathered from many years in the Essosi sun, and traveling through Essos had done
wonders for hiding his real accent.

Jon held the knight's gaze, distracted by the scar that ran down the outside of his right eye to his
chin. "Aye, Ser," Jon said. Fuck . The gauntlet was a test of endurance. Each initiate had to last as
long as you could against the odds. It was supposed to train you to last until one of your fellow
soldiers could come to your aid. Thirty seconds was a decent performance, one minute was good,
and two was great. Jon could usually last thirty seconds or so, once it was even a minute. Being
only fourteen and going against men that were anywhere from six to ten years his senior, he
thought it was good, but Relgos said if he fought in a real battle, no one gave a rat's shit about his
age, they would kill him all the same. Jon sighed, his limbs were fatigued, and this was his last
session of the day, to go through the gauntlet would cost him. Luckily he had one more day of
training until his day off. One more day, I can make it through one more day, no matter how sore I
am .

"Aye, he says! Hear his uncultured barbaric tongue, yet he fancies himself lordling." Relgos spat
out, once in Westerosi and then in Valyrian. "Circle up. Haro, Vimeras, and Sylvar opposite of the
Arseling." The two Braavosi and the Half Pentoshi-Lyseni lined up opposite of him. Jon readied
his sword and shield for the onslaught, but Relgos stopped him, "No shield," Jon dropped his shield
and held his blunted sword in his right hand, Jon crouched staring at his foes. Haro held ax and
shield, Vimeras, two short swords, and Sylvar was allowed a spear and shield for this exercise
which bothered Jon. "Wait." Relgos said, smirking at Jon, "In this scenario, you have lost both
shield and helmet." Jon sighed again and removed his helm, "Oh? You think you are too good to
lose a helmet boy?"

"No Ser," Jon said.

"You're godsdamned right boy, how do you think I got this scar." Jon opened his mouth to retort
but closed it.

"Nothing to say, Arseling?"

"No, Ser."

Relgos turned to the three others, "If you saw a man with no helm, where would you strike?"

The three looked at each other, fearing a trap when Sylvar spoke up, "His...head?"

"Exactly," Relgos said and turned back to Jon, "Go for his head. Arseling, defend yourself."

"Relgos!" Tiberio shouted in Valyrian. Tiberio was the serkerde-olvan , or commander, of the
training captains. The man was known as a harsh taskmaster, both on the initiates as well as his
training captains.

"Yes, sir?" Relgos asked.

"Every initiate is trained with a helmet on, I will not remind you again!"

"Yes, ser," Relgos said with gritted teeth. He turned to Jon, then walked over and picked up the
helmet then shoved hard into Jon's chest. "As the captain-general said, wear the fucking helmet,
Arseling."

Jon started to put on the helmet when Relgos shouted, "Attack!"

The three rushed as him, and Jon struck first at Sylvar and his spear, deflecting and ducking the
blow from Haro while slipping past Vimeras. He felt a blow from Sylvar's spear to his side, and
Jon turned when he felt another hit on his left shoulder. Jon lifted his sword as Vimeras came down
with two and Jon blocked and kicked out pushing Vimeras back but Sylvar struck again forcing
him to his knees. While Jon deflected the ax, Vimeras had returned to his feet and kicked Jon's
side, and he sprawled to the ground. Sylvar's spearpoint to his neck.

"Arseling, that was pathetic, you are dead five times over! Again!" Relgos shouted. Jon got to his
feet and staggered back, but before he stood up straight, Relgos shouted, "Attack!" Jon ducked and
weaved and parried, but after half a minute he was on his knees again. "Arseling, that was weak!"
Jon stayed on his knees catching his breath, his body sore. "Again!" Relgos shouted and Jon forced
his way up, and the three came again, Jon lasted a minute. "Again!" Jon lost. "Again!" And he lost.
"Again!" He lost. "Again."

"Again."

"Again."

Jon lost count, but he was drenched in sweat, his body screaming in pain, and that prick continued
to say again, round after round, but Jon wouldn't break.

But while he didn't break, he couldn't win. He had gotten one on the ground a couple of times. His
face hurt as he had taken the front of a shield a few times. His legs were bruised, as were his arms
and torso. Everything hurt as he found the ground one more time.

Relgos spoke again, "Weak, boy. Not one victory. A weak Arseling from a weak family." Jon
snarled, "You angry Arseling, weak and angry make a poor combination." The training field was
quiet, but Jon just felt his blood pumping through his ears, his face, his arms, and the pain in his
body dulled.

Jon growled as he got to his feet, he looked at his opponents and had to shake his head. For some
reason, the three of them had crossed war hammers across their chest. A fire burned through him.
"Again." Jon spat, some blood coming with it.
Relgos smirked, "Attack."

Jon noticed that the three attacking him were tired as well, and they hesitated for a moment, and
Jon capitalized and struck at Vimeras, who blocked with one sword and hit with the other. Jon slid
and grabbed the hand and twisted the wrist, and threw him in one motion into Sylvar and disarming
Vimeras of one of his swords. Jon spun and blocked Haro's ax and slid both swords up to the blade
and wrenched it away with the little strength he had disarming Haro, but Haro's shield smashed
into his side, and Jon allowed himself to be moved towards Vimeras and Sylvar.

He parried the spear with the short sword and parried Vimeras's short with his longsword. Jon
moved and struck out with his gauntleted-fist, connecting against Vimeras's helm, and Jon brought
both swords down against Vimeras's back, forcing him to the ground. Jon spun and parried the
spear. Sylvar thrust towards his waist, and Jon forced it down and trapped it with his two swords,
and Jon slammed his foot on the pole of the spear, splintering the dull steel from the wood. Jon
was hit then with a shield by Haro, and Jon continued his momentum and rolled, absorbing the
blow to create space.

Jon got to his feet as Sylvar threw the broken spear. Jon dodged it and charged the two men who
only had shields. Jon lashed out against Sylvar, who blocked the blow but was forced backward.
Haro tried again to lash out, but Jon moved and pushed it open with one strike, and came down
with another on the shoulder. The next blow connected against the helm, and Haro fell to the
ground. Sylvar was staggering up from his knees, and Jon kicked the shield, and Jon brought both
swords down, and Sylvar was forced back down to his knees.

"Dumbar!" Sylvar said, No more . Jon turned to face Vimeras, but the man only stayed on his
knees, breathing heavily. Jon sagged as he felt his exhaustion hit him. But looked up at Relgos
defiantly.

Relgos looked at him again, and Jon smirked at this arsehole. Relgos lip twitched, "About time
Arseling, these pieces of shit are worthless fighters." Relgos then moved his head and Jon felt steel
at his throat. Vimeras was holding a dull knife to Jon's throat. "However, you still managed to fuck
up." Relgos then nodded, and the steel disappeared, "If you have a chance, KILL THEM, do not
show them mercy as they will stab you when you turn." Relgos then turned to the group that had
been watching, "Let Arseling be an example, you can have all the skill in the world, but if you do
not practice killing, you will die. Something Arseling has yet to learn."

Then Relgos's normal appearance returned, and he turned to Jon, "So until you start practicing
killing someone when you face a man and they are trying to kill you, hesitation to do so will end in
your death. Until you have killed a man, don't think yourself a warrior, Arseling!"
Jon frowned, Relgos turned to the other initiates gathered, only then Jon noticed that yard was
quiet, and of the three hundred Demons in the compound's yard, many had stopped to watch him.
Relgos turned to the rest of the initiates, "Your time is up, Arseling," Relgos pointed at Evrett,
"Everyone pair up, practice parries and counters. Practice killing today." Relgos turned and seemed
to finally notice the rest of the men watching. "Skoros issi ao vaoreznuni qrughs jurnegēre rȳ,
jiōragon arlī naejot gūrēñare ao mundagon qogralbars." The other men started to practice with
sword and shield while Jon caught his breath.

Eventually, Jon found his feet, and the only one left unpaired was Relgos. Jon was tired, and his
arm burned, and his body was covered with bruises, but Relgos mercilessly attacked him and
pushed Jon to the brink of complete exhaustion. Finally, their time was up, and Jon dropped to his
knees, but Relgos slapped him on the side of his head with his dulled blade.

"Go arseling, you are expected in your ivory tower."

"Aye ser," Jon responded.

"Snow!" a commanding voice shouted. Jon looked towards the sound and straightened himself
when he saw that it was the Serkerde-genel or the Commander-general of the Müqeddes Cinler,
Gaspari Fregar.

The man must have been past his fiftieth name day but looked more distinguished than even Jon's
father. His son, Omero, was a captain within archer's ranks, and his massive archer's shoulders and
back made him seem a little larger than his father, although he was probably an inch or two
shorter.

Jon bowed and responded, "Yes, Commander?"

"Get changed, we will ride together to Tormo's," The general responded and turned back to speak
to his 3 captain-generals and a handful of their captains.

Jon didn't know what to say, he was friendly with Tamir and had met Gaspari once when he came
for the first day and Omero a couple of times since then. Still, he had no idea what they would
need to speak with him about.

Evrett came to his side soon after, "Looks as though you impressed the Commander, probably will
make you a sergeant immediately."
"That or tell me I am not allowed to train anymore."

"It would make us all look better," Evrett said off-handedly.

Jon gave him an incredulous, "Feel free to take my place in the gauntlet. After pike work, unarmed
combat with that Moraqi, knife skills with the mad Pentoshi, spear-work with Black Rat, and bow
work with that giant Islander. Spending the better part of an hour in the gauntlet and the rest of the
time getting personally beaten by that sadistic and vengeful fuck was a damn treat."

"And you made everyone else look like incompetent shits."

Jon stopped and looked at him, "Was I supposed to give up?"

Evrett raised his hands, "Look, all I am saying is that the other initiates do not like being upstaged,
not in front of their future commanders and not by someone like you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what that means," Evrett said, some bitterness seeping into his words.

Jon stopped and looked at the knight. Jon was only fourteen and not quite a man, yet he was of a
height with this newly made knight from somewhere in the Vale. "No, I don't."

Evrett looked at him, shook his head, and gave a humorless chuckle. He gave Jon one last look,
"Go, the Serkerde-genel is waiting for you, milord."

Jon's temper started to rise, but he fought it down and said nothing and turned to leave the large
training yard. He debated whether to wash with the men or wait until he was back in his rooms
within Tormo's manse. Jon decided to wait and stripped off the training equipment he had on,
giving the quartermaster a nod on his way out of the armory where the company blacksmiths,
bowyers and fletchers were all arguing. Jon then made his way through the compound to the small
docks.
Much like Tormo's manse, the compound of the Hallowed Demons was its own island, with
barracks, training yard, common hall, and a suitably sized cluster of small homes for the higher
officers and even their families if they chose to. Usually, it wasn't very full as many of the officers
had their own homes within the greater Braavos or spending their weeklong shifts at one of the
forts that guarded the smaller entrances into the lagoon. And while the barracks had enough beds
for a thousand, most spent their off-days within Braavos, so rarely were the barracks at capacity.
More rare is the entire company of two thousand in Braavos at one time.

The law of Braavos stated any mercenary company contracted with Braavos had to have a quarter
of their troops within Braavos at all times to fill the city's barracks. However, the company still
needed to bring in more coin, so many crews of men were sent on smaller contracts while other
troops of men were sent on more comprehensive ones. Currently there were four troops of men on
contract and nearly nine crews as on various ships acting as escort. Two of the troops were on the
Braavosi Coastline defending small towns from Dothraki raiders. Another was escorting ships of
the Iron Bank to Volantis and King's Landing, and the last was just returning from a town within
the Braavosi hills that had not paid down the loan from the Textile Guilds.

Jon had been training for a month, and already half of the initiates that Jon had trained with had
joined a crew to fulfill contracts or take a shift at one of the forts. Jon tried not to let it bother him,
but he felt he was far better than most of them. He thought he was owed the chance to earn on a
contract.

Jon passed the common hall and noticed Medvjed, who caught his eye and got up from where he
was eating to join him.

"Rytsas Tolī," the summer islander said and continued in Valyrian, "Feeling a bit sore?" Jon just
shot him a glare. He liked the man better when they could hardly understand each other. Case and
point were when the man smirked at Jon's glare before continuing, "It's because Relgos is testing
you."

"Testing me?" Jon said with indignance, "The man is trying to kill me, I can barely stand right
now."

"That may be, but did you see the yard?"

"Aye, people enjoy watching a bastard son of lord getting his arse kicked." Jon felt childish as he
said it, but he didn't care. He wanted a hot bath then a long nap.

Medvjed just clicked his tongue in response, "You are not the first son of a Westerosi lord, and
very few have ever received the attention Relgos gives you."

"So he just hates me for being me," Jon sighed, "Of course."

"Relgos fought for the dragons, I understand that your father helped take them from the throne."
Jon looked up in surprise, but Medvjed continued, "Still, we have received Northman, valemen,
and men from your stormlands since. He keeps his hate in check and ensures everyone is prepared
for battle."

Jon gave a humorless chuckle, "If I keep doing the gauntlet like that, I won't make it to even fight
in a battle."

"If you keep doing the gauntlet like that, you will change battles."

They passed the entrance gate and nodded to the initiates who drew the evening watch. The
initiates didn't acknowledge Jon and looked away. Jon and Medvjed continued their way to the
edge of the island. The waterway separating the compound from the other islands of Braavos was
maybe a hundred feet wide. Jon studied the many types of boats, canoes, gondolas, and small
cutters passing and transporting the goods and populace of the Free City of Braavos as the sun
passed its zenith.

"You really think so?" Jon finally asked.

Medvjed stood there, thinking for a moment, "Possibly. I have not seen someone as young as you
fight so well." Jon smiled at the compliment, but then Medjved slapped him on the back then
grabbed him by the scruff, "But you have years until you could beat me."

Jon shrugged him off, then put up his fists, and Medjved did the same. Medjved struck out, and Jon
ducked, both with determined faces on. Then the summer islander gave a soft smile, and Jon
grinned widely, "Two years, and you'll be flat on your back."

"Bold words for someone so young," Medjved then snatched out quickly and slapped Jon on the
side, and Jon groaned as he connected with one of his many bruises. "See you in the morning
Toli."

"I thought you were on duty at the Northern fort?"

Medjved waved him away, "That's next week." Then he waved, and Jon said to him a farewell and
turned back to the city.

Jon breathed in the salty lagoon air, and he heard in the distance the roar of the Titan, welcoming
another ship into the Secret City. It was a peaceful moment, and Jon realized how little of the city
he had seen, but for the six weeks since he had left White Harbor, his life had been training, both
martial and intellectual. Jon was starting to think about seeing the Moon Pool, or visiting the Iron
Bank or at least exploring any number of the hundreds of isles. Jon thought about enjoying it with
someone, and a sense of loneliness started to creep in, his mind wandering to Ella, praying she was
healing. Jon needed to get better than he would have been-. Jon was thankfully interrupted before
his mind took him someplace dark.

"Snow." Jon turned to see three men walking towards him.

"Commander Fregar, Captain Omero, and Captain Tiberio," Jon greeted the men. Jon watched
Tiberio because although he trained the initiates, he was also the one who signed off and assigned
new Demons to their proper crew.

The other two gave a short greeting as well. The three Demons and Jon waited only a few minutes
until a well-made gondola came closer, and the oarsman propelling the boat shouted out a greeting
in Valyrian. "Ah, young master Snow!" Vierto was a jolly man and the one who came to bring Jon
back to the Fregar manse each day, and he never failed to improve Jon's mood.

"Aye Vierto, a fine day?" Jon responded.

"A fine day indeed!" Vierto seemed to notice the others as well, and the smile dropped from his
face, and he immediately straightened up, released the oar, and placed his right hand in a closed fist
over his heart in a salute. "Commander Fregar!"

Jon turned in confusion at the Commander, who seemed to give a small smile. "Vierto, it is good to
see you again, my nephew still treating you well?"

"Yes, Commander, not many people will employ an archer missing two fingers on his draw-hand,"
Vierto responded as the group got into the gondola and left for their destination.

"Damn that Qohorik cunt," Omero said.

"Ah, it is in the past, I now have a fat wife and a happy life."

"You always were too cheery, Vierto," Tiberio responded.

Vierto smiled, "And you were always a bore, how the initiates handle your glum demeanor is
beyond me."

Tiberio waved a hand at him, "We teach them to kill efficiently, not how to make japes."

"Why not both?" Vierto responded, and the group laughed, and Jon smiled softly.

Tiberio noticed, and his face soured, "Is that funny boy?"

Jon went red and looked away, responding, "No, Serkerde."

"Enough Tiberio." Gaspari scolded. "He is already punished enough by Relgos; he does not need it
from his serkerde as well."

"He is not a true initiate Commander," Tiberio responded, "Only a boy pretending to be a warrior,
everyone knows it."

"He trains with us, so he is an initiate. Only he is young, yet he is still one of the most talented
young men I have ever seen." Jon perked up with pride.

"Talent is not the only thing that makes a Demon," Tiberio said. "And most of the others have
actually taken life and fought in a battle." Jon kept a respectful facade but couldn't help but feel
hurt at the words. Still valid, though, the back of his mind betrayed him.

Gaspari looked at Jon then Tiberio, "You are right Tiberio, but those things can be taught and
proven, but that was the reason I wanted to talk to Tormo, with you too, Snow."
"Yes, Commander," Jon replied.

Gaspari sighed, "Tiberio has a point, Jon Snow, you are a good fighter, and I see why Tamir speaks
highly of you as you have much promise. But that other initiates do not like you, and worse, many
do not respect you."

"Cause I'm better?" Jon spat out.

"Because you think that you are one of their betters. You do not eat with them, wash with them,
spend off days with them. You train, leave for a private room and decadent meals and feather beds.
All the while, they live in a cot, waiting for their next assignment, shift or prepare for the contract."
Gaspari said.

Jon frowned a bit, knowing it was true. Gaspari put a hand on his shoulder, "You are not the first
son of a Westerosi lord, and you will not be the last, but those that raise high do not do so on skill
alone but with respect from the other men," Gaspari leaned back, "and dammit boy, you make that
difficult."

Jon's eyes shifted to Omero before they quickly returned the Commander, but he was caught, and
Jon looked away embarrassed.

Gaspari looked at Jon and nodded, "Do you know how it is I came to be a temennal?"

"It is true, Omero is my son and a temennal within the archers. It is also true I started this company
at the age of twenty-five, with only fifty men. It is also true I was the brother of a merchant. But it
is also true my grandfather lost most of our wealth and my father did terrible things to try and get
our respect back and he squandered what was left of both our wealth and respect. My brother and I
scrapped and fought for everything while my older sister was married to an old man for enough
money to allow us a start at our ambitions. I killed my first man at fourteen and by the time I was
fifteen I had left to sell my sword and seek fortune, and my brother, gods rest his soul, started his
path to become the ruthless merchant that you see in my nephew, Tormo. I have done great and
terrible things to drag my company to something worthy and feared enough to secure a contract
with the City of Braavos to have this island to train and find constant work for my men."

Gaspari took a deep breath, "Desperation makes hard men, and my brother and I have passed that
to our children. Tamir, Tormo, and Omero here earned everything they have, I would not have it
any other way. We gave them the tools to succeed and each of them has taken it and done
something with it. Omero and Tamir did not sleep in Tormo's manse while they were initiates, and
they do not now. Their men respect them because they know them." Gaspari emphasized the last
bit harshly and Jon could only nod at the grizzled veteran of a hundred battles. "The men want to
like you, Jon, they want to respect you. You are the one making it so hard."

The words cut deep, "Aye, sir, I will heed your advice." Jon followed it quickly, "Thank you, sir."

"We each can see it, Jon. Tamir, myself, Tiberio and even that whoreson Relgos. We can each see
something in you." Gaspari said with a pointed look at Tiberio. "Even if they would never admit
it."

It was quiet for a couple of minutes as their short journey was nearly over. Gaspari tossed Vierto a
coin, and Vierto smiled and saluted again as they entered the manse, servants came and gathered
their things, and Jon made his farewell to go to wash and rest.

"Snow, after I dine with my nephew, I will call for you. Be ready by then." Jon nodded and left.

He washed, changed, and prepared for his lessons when a servant retrieved him. Jon entered
Tormo's office, and Gaspari was sitting across the desk, and Jon could feel the tension in the air.

Jon gave a salute to the Commander and bow to Tormo.

Tormo pointed to the empty chair, "Sit." Jon did. "My uncle has come to ask something of me, but
I have informed him the decision lies with you." Jon turned to the Commander, whose impassive
face gave nothing away. Tormo continued, "Lord Stark told me to give you whatever within
reason that you wanted, most of all is a choice to do what you wish. This...proposition my uncle is
going to offer you is something I do not want you to do."

"What is it?" Jon asked, turning to the General.

"A wealthy merchant wants to relocate his family to Pentos to open up part of his spice trade in that
city."

"Foolish man," Tormo said off-handedly.

"Regardless," Gaspari continued, "He wants to purchase the use of a squad of my archers as
protection. However, it costs a bit too much for him, so, for what he offered I volunteered five
initiates, four archers and a Cavuş to lead them. I want you to be one of the initiates."

Jon raised his brow, "Why me?"

"Because," he paused, "You are young, and you fight well, but more importantly, it should help
you with the other initiates and the other men."

Jon nodded, "And the Cavuş?"

"A man named Brachen and not technically a Cavuş. Tough, fair, loyal but not the brightest man,
he has been a Cinler archer for six years, and this is a chance for him to prove he is ready to be a
Cavuş and lead a crew himself."

"Then why include initiates?"

"Because most crews have a mix of seasoned soldiers and those that still piss grass and it will be
something he must get used to if he will lead. Also, he cannot read yet, so I need someone to go
with him that can." Gaspari finished looking at Jon.

Jon looked at Tormo then to Gaspari. Jon finally noticed the similarities between the two, but more
than anything, both of their eyes betrayed little. This would be a chance to ingratiate himself with
the men. To show them, he was not a spoiled by-blow of a Lord. If Jon decided to become a Cinler,
this could help.

Jon nodded, "Aye, I'll go."

Gaspari smirked a bit, while Tormo nodded then spoke, "I will send a messenger with one of the
ship captains sailing the north's new war galleys to inform your father."

"Bah, there will be no need, this will be a short trip, no more than a few weeks. Just guard the
family until they are settled in their manse, and then return."

"Regardless, uncle, Lord Stark wanted to be informed of any movements of his son as per our
agreement."

Gaspari nodded, "It goes well?"

"The first full shipment arrived not two days ago," Tormo said, "and apparently there may be an
outbreak of Greyscale in Lorath."

"Lucky that," Gaspari said.

Tormo only glanced up before returning to his parchments "For us both, I will need a troop of your
men to escort the shipment and see it arrive at the council of Princes in Lorath," Tormo said.

"And the pay?" Gaspari said.

"Plenty. Also, I need you to send Tamir with them."

"Any reason why?" Gaspari asked.

"Yes, he is spending too much time with the Sealord's daughter," Jon smirked at that, but a frown
from Tormo stopped it immediately.

"Hah, very well." Gaspari then turned to Jon, "Go, gather enough to fit in a small traveling bag, and
you will return with me so I can outfit you with proper equipment. Remember, at sea, don't wear a
plate, find yourself a good coat of mail and shield."

"Aye Commander," Jon said, "but I will pay for it, and pay for the outfitting of my fellow initiates
if they need it."

Tormo rolled his eyes while Gaspari smiled and nodded, "Go, Snow, you leave at first tide
tomorrow."

"Jon," Tormo said, "I have one more thing to bring up to you." Jon nodded, and Tormo continued,
"I have heard whispers from some of my...unsavory friends that there was a bounty put on your
 head."

Jon sat there, shocked, "A bounty?"

"Aye, lucky for us, few know what you look like, fewer still are foolish enough to do anything
about it as we know all that would try," Tormo said.

Gaspari spoke next, "Who would be bold enough to try and kill the son of a Lord."

Jon scowled, "House Rykker."

"Most likely," Tormo said, "There is no way to know for sure, but know that you are safe in
Braavos. Still, it would be wise not to use your real name anywhere outside of the Lagoon."

"Regardless," Gaspari said, "He still looks like a Northman."

Tormo studied Jon, "Not as much as the few others I have seen. Still, if we are wise about your
name and you are cautious, you should be fine." Tormo waved him out, "As I said, I'd rather you
not accept, but since you have, you should know of all the dangers you face."

"Thank you for the information Tormo," Jon said, "I'll be as cautious as I can be."

Gaspari clasped his hands together then rubbed them, "Good, go now, Jon, or should I say Toli?"

Jon bit his tongue, I guess Toli it is.

Chapter End Notes

As you can see I skipped the interlude chapter. With the amount I have been planned
on writing it probably won't show up for a few hundred thousand words.

So as far as languages go, I'll do my best to say what language they are speaking,
however, if it is written in a non-English language just assume Jon can't understand all
of it.
 Chapter 17
Chapter Notes

The Starks and the North begin to adjust.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Ned

He and his family spent the better part of two weeks in White Harbor. Bran and Arya consoled
each other as Sansa spent much of her time in the company of other ladies, chaperoned while
speaking with the heirs of the North. Robb spent the rest of his time training in the mornings with
the sons of the North and sitting in on meetings with the other lords as Ned started the first steps to
transform their homeland.

Ned worried about Robb, what had happened to Jon reshaped his son's focus, and his son seemed
to want to leave any semblance of his childhood behind at White Harbor and started to push
himself hard in all aspects of being the next Lord Paramount.

The Wolfwoods' Lords were tentative at first until Ned told them how much wood Braavos asked
for, and the coin would be coming to them. Ned also asked for a son or daughter to stay at
Winterfell and befriend his children. Gregor Forrester volunteered his eldest, and Leobald asked for
Beren to spend time with Bran, both of which Ned agreed with, while the more minor lords said
they would send some in the next couple of years.

Karstark had been frustrated by the wealth about to pass to House Stark and Manderly. Still, the
promise of Wynyfred Manderly and a large dowry for his heir, the allowance to expand the small
dock at the entrance of the Karlon's River, and permission to sell timber the best he can, mollified
him for now. Ned had also suggested having the wedding in Winterfell, which Rickard perked up
at as it meant his House wouldn't spend as much coin. Ned also asked his namesake to join them
and be a companion to Robb, and Rickard had been quick to agree to allow him too.

The Ryswells were difficult, and Lady Dustin was far more so. Eventually, the Ryswells saw the
merit and relented enough to try and convince Barbary Dustin to allow the start of the preliminary
process of construction of the shipyard at the mouth of Torrhen's River near a small fishing
village.
Ned also convinced the Glovers and Mormonts to commit to expanding their small docks and told
the Mormont's to work on building a smaller shipyard as well. Ned promised he would try and set
aside coins for the Mormont's to help them. It was a good gesture but both he and Maege knew it
was a futile hope to expect any significant progress to be made in the next few years.

Lord Umber and the mountain clansmen were the most difficult to deal with, but Ned promised that
he would expand the Winter Town for the clansmen to bring more of their people down during the
winters, which was appreciated. Ned also implored any of them to send any of their own south to
either work in woods or help build the shipyard, which was less warmly received. Still, Ned knew
it wasn't enough and asked his mother's cousin for a ward to grow up with his sons, and so young
Theo Flint would be sent in the next couple of years, this was not reciprocated by the others, but
Ned knew this endeavor would take time.

Greatjon was more challenging to deal with, but Ned asked for Harmond or Smalljon to spend
some time in Winterfell so they would know what else Ned had planned and give their input on the
direction. The Greatjon informed Ned that Smalljon had taken an interest in Edin Waynwood and
was traveling to the Vale to court her, but when he returned, he would come to Winterfell. Until
then, Harmond would take his place. Ned had agreed but knew he needed to make a few more
gestures to ensure that his lealest supporter remained so. Lucky for Ned, though, Greatjon was
walking away with a large purse, and Ned prayed to the old gods he spent it wisely.

Lord Hornwood had no issue with his role, and Ned offered to pay for healers from the Citadel,
Braavos, and even Myr, which Halys was thankful for. Ella still hadn't woken by the time Ned had
left, and many whispered she would never wake. Ned offered to foster Daryn, but Halys told him
that his son would head back to Hornwood to run his lands while Ella healed in White Harbor.
"However, my Lord," Halys had said, "Take my bastard. He's a good lad, but he doesn't get along
with his brother, and my wife will not have him here with me." Ned knew he was friendly with Jon
and readily agreed to it.

The last was Lord Bolton. The Lord was quiet after Ned had revealed his plans, but Ned knew he
was unhappy. Ned was loath to do this, but it had to be done. His father's voice came to him then,
never let the Lords know your real intention, give them hints, and allow them to fill them in the
details themselves. Ned hated that advice, there was no honor in deception, and it only caused
issues with the honest men of the North, but Roose wasn't honest. He wasn't. "Lord Bolton," Ned
started, "your son is nearing ten and six correct?"

"Ten and five," Roose corrected.

"My son is only ten and four, and I have invited sons of other lords so that they become close and
build ties with the houses he will lead one day. House Stark and House Bolton may have a history,
but they have been the bedrock of the North for a thousand years, and I would like our sons to
become close and build a trust to secure the next generation." Ned finished, and it even seemed
sincere, and Ned genuinely wanted it to be sincere.

Roose took a few moments to study Ned, and the pale eyes bore into him before he began, "Ah, it
is a good thought, though there are other ways of building trust, ways that are more...permanent."
There it was.

"There are," Ned agreed, and Roose betrayed no feeling one way or another with the curt
agreement. Ned cursed himself, but pushed forward anyway, "and as a father, I would like to get to
know any potential good-son."

"And if I had a daughter, I would feel the same." The corner of the pale Lord curled slightly, "Alas,
Domeric is to stay with the Redforts until he is knighted, but afterward, I am sure he would enjoy
getting to know your...family."

Ned successfully fought his urge to scowl, "I am looking forward to when we have a chance to host
him."

"As do I, my lord," Roose finished.

With placating Lord Bolton, Ned finally felt confident he could return to Winterfell.

The journey had been dull, and his children, except Sansa, were avoiding him whenever they
could. Robb stayed mostly with Arthur Glenmore, Larence Snow, Eddard Karstark, Harmond
Umber, Cley Cerwyn, Theon Greyjoy, and Robar Royce, who wanted to remain in the North for a
while. Ned agreed as he and Yohn had always gotten along, but Ned knew it was more likely that
Winterfell was near where Lyla Condon was. Still, Ned saw that his son was deftly navigating
throughout the entire party of travelers and ingratiating himself with the older boys. He is an innate
leader. Ned was proud of his son, and happy the things that were so difficult for himself came
naturally to Robb. Ned, although busy, had noticed that Theon was only on the periphery of the
group of Northern boys, which worried him a little.

Sansa seemed to be getting along with Mira Forrester, who would, in the next couple years, go to
Highgarden to be a maid to Margery Tyrell, and so they spoke of southern things. Most of which
Ned had no patience for but knew his daughter loved. Sansa had also tried to engage in
conversation with the Manderly girls, but both seemed a little solemn.

Arya had not spoken to him since Jon had left, spending her time with the Mormonts and ignoring
any censure for propriety and failing to act like a lady. Alas, there was not much he could do and
allowed her some happiness in spending time with Dacey and Alysanne, who entertained her with
stories of Bear Island and Jory and Lyra who would let Arya shoot their bow when she thought
Ned wouldn't know.

Bran had been slowly returning to his jovial self as he played with Beren Tallhart, even receiving
instruction from Leobald on being a proper warrior. Ned frowned, in a couple of years, it would
soon be time to foster him somewhere.

Still, Ned felt something had shifted. No, Ned knew something had changed, and he only hoped
that time would heal it. He looked to find his other child out of habit, guilt seeping in. Seven years.
Ned told himself. Seven years and he returns home, and I can finally do right by him.

--

After a couple of weeks split between being on a barge or a horse, Winterfell rose on the horizon.
Soon, Ned greeted his wife, who was smiling brilliantly at him, and he smiled back, glad to see her
again. He embraced her, "There is much to speak on," he told her, and she only nodded. He then
turned his attention to little Rickon, who tried to act like a little lord, but soon the facade broke, and
his youngest boy jumped into his arms and wrapped him around the neck.

His children also gave their greetings to their mother and youngest brother. As soon as Bran had
greeted Rickon, Rickon looked around at the strangers, and his smile started to fade, "Where's
Jon?"

A hush fell in the courtyard, and Ned turned to Rickon to talk to him when Catelyn started first,
"He is no longer allowed to be here Rickon, you will not see him again as I told you before." Ned
felt a flash of anger and confusion at his wife, but Arya beat him to it.

"That's not true!" She nearly shouted as she stormed off.

"Lady Arya, it is uncouth to interrupt your mother." Septa Mordane spoke as she followed Arya,
who had stormed off into the keep.

Ned turned to Robb, who was scowling at his mother. Ned spoke up before a larger scene could be
caused, "Robb, escort our guests to their chambers." Robb turned his scowl at him, but Ned stared
at his son until he relented, "Poole, make sure to make sure our guests' things are taken to those
rooms, and make sure the feast is prepared tonight for our return."

"Yes, my lord."

"Brandon," Ned looked to see Bran heading off with his friend Beren, "Take your brother," Bran
rolled his eyes as he grabbed Rickon's hand and led him away.

The yard started to clear with the movement of people, horses, and wagons being unloaded with
goods and supplies. Ned began to move towards the Great Keep and looked at Catelyn, "Come,
there is much we need to speak on." It was in a harsher tone than he meant, and Catelyn nodded
and followed.

They arrived at the entrance of the solar when Luwin appeared, "My Lord, there is substantial
correspondence that needs to be replied to. Also, there is a man from House Peat here as well with
a message from Lord Reed."

"Lord Reed?" Catelyn asked.

"Very good, Luwin, I need to speak with my wife for a while. I will attend to them when I am
able."

"Yes, my lord," Luwin bowed and left the solar.

Ned took a seat behind his desk and looked at Catelyn. She seemed lighter than usual, and Ned
found that discomforting. There was much to discuss, and his raven to Catelyn had spoken mostly
of preparing chambers for Lords. Most of whom were set to stay for an extended period. Where to
begin?

"Ned," Catelyn spoke. "Why are so many lords here? Why have we received more ravens in the
past few weeks than in all the months prior?"

Ned took a deep breath. "I will not have you speak of Jon like that again, understood?"

Catelyn looked incredulous, "Like what my lord? Is he not exiled in perpetuity?"

Ned studied her for a moment, "Edmure."

"Yes, my brother filled me in on all the details of the trial, and how lenient his sentence was for
what he did," Catelyn mentioned.

Ned's fist struck the table with such force that Catelyn jumped in fright, "That useless…I swear to
the gods if I found out he had a hand…" Ned muttered and trailed off. He looked Catelyn in the
eyes, bored into them as he spoke, "Jon did nothing wrong and will return to the North in seven
years."

"Ned!" Catelyn cried out, "I know the boy is your son, but how could you say that! What if he tries
to do something like that to Sansa or Arya!?"

"What did Edmure say he did?" Ned asked, and Cat told him, and Ned controlled himself the best
he could as he gripped his desk so hard his hand went numb.

"Listen to me as I will not repeat this again, Jon stopped Ser Lenfred Rykker from raping Ella
Hornwood, and the anointed knight was the one who beat the poor girl's head into the wall. Jon
nearly beat the man to death and is serving his punishment while the knight returns to a keep." Ned
finished.

"Is that what the boy told you?" Catelyn asked.

"Aye, and it is what our son said when he found Jon and what Wylla Manderly said as well. The
knight was drunk, had accosted Ella earlier in the feast hall, and Jon had defeated Lenfred in the
melee a few days before, and his brother a few days before that! And the only reason I had to relent
to exile was that Jon Arryn wanted his hand or the wall for doing what was right! So do not speak
of Jon as he has to bear the brunt of responsibility for the North's weakness," Ned finished, out of
breath and weary.

Catelyn glared at him, but slowly nodded her head. Ned exhaled and relaxed back into his chair.
"So why are all the Lord's here? Do...do you intend to call the banners?" Catelyn asked.

"No," Ned said. "They are here because the North is going to change and the Lords of the North
fear change, so they will have to be walked through it all and be placated every step of the way.
Which, to an extent, I have done with major houses."
"Ned, what changes?"

So Ned told her everything, of the cure and what it could do, the Reed's loyalty and offer, the deal
with the Braavosi and the Sealord's son, the plans to rebuild the North's navy, even his meeting
with Lord Manderly and Roose Bolton.

"Betrothals, Ned! Our children are so young, they cannot be betrothed yet."

"Robb is fourteen and nearly a man, and the betrothal to Wylla Manderly will be announced when
Wynafryd and Harrion Karstark are married within the next year. As for Sansa...we need to placate
Roose, he has sway over Lady Barbery, and House Ryswell and the mouth of Torrhen's River is
the only place we could build these shipyards."

"Ned…"

"And we will have to rebuild the Moat somewhat, and I will gift it to Bran. I think when he comes
of age, maybe have him marry Howland's daughter," Ned thought out loud. "And Rickon, I can
give him a small holdfast on the stony shore, though it may be a long time before it is built." Ned
was rambling, he caught himself and stopped talking.

"Ned. Love, look at me?" Catelyn pleaded, and Ned focused on her. "Why the Manderlys? And
surely Sansa would be happier in the south? And Bran is such a good boy, why marry him to a
Reed?"

"Because a Stark has not married into another northern house in two generations. My grandmothers
were both Flint and Locke, hardly the most influential Houses, and the generation before was
married to Blackwood, then a Royce. My father's ambitions caused doubt and insecurity within the
North, and if we are to make the North into something better, we need our vassals to support us."
Ned shook his head, "No, we need to be tied together with blood," he finished, a little nettled.

Catelyn took a deep breath and finally nodded in agreement, "Well, we will need to start expanding
the sept to fit more people if we are to invite other lords."

Ned nodded, only half listening, "It is not for at least two years…wait, the sept?"
"For Robb and Wylla to be wed," Catelyn gave an incredulous look.

"They'll be married in the godswood, there is plenty of space...did you think he would wed in a
sept?"

"I thought since he was my son, I would have a say where he would marry."

"If Robb is to rule the North, he needs to be married in front of the Old Gods," Ned said with a
finality that meant an end to the conversation. Yet it continued.

"We did not wed in front of a tree," Catelyn muttered, and Ned felt his frustration rise.

"No, we did not get married in front of the weirwood. A heart-tree that has been in Winterfell
longer than your house has existed." Ned knew it was a petty dig and calmed himself before
continuing, "and the Lords of the North still whisper about it, if it wasn't a time of war it would
have been unconscionable."

Catelyn moved her jaw back and forth and stood, "I see that I am to have no part in the decision
making even though I have raised the children."

Ned glared at her, "I do not want to quarrel any longer, I will see you at the feast."

Catelyn left, and soon after, the man from House Peat of the Neck arrived and simply handed him
a letter.

Lord Stark,

The first shipment should be with young Landry and is ready for White Harbor. I will not renege
on our deal, but none of my kin will set foot in Winterfell for what you have done, or didn't do for
'Jon.' You were not the only one that made an oath to protect him, and never did I think I would
have to protect him from you.

The shipments will arrive soon and will come every two or three weeks from here on out.
If any changes need to be made, speak to Landry, and he will inform me.

Until he has the freedom to return to Westeros, do not contact me.

-Lord Reed

Ned frowned at the letter, trying to justify the accusations to hold the guilt at bay. Ned crumpled
the parchment and threw it in the fire, there was work to be done.

--

A few weeks had gone by, and he already saw the gold from the first few shipments of the
medicine fill their vaults. Tormo had written about the Sealord's son, and as a gift, they were
receiving ten new war galleys and a few merchant cogs. Ned gifted the cogs to his lords and gave
half of the galleys to the Manderly's, and the other half he ordered to sail to the west and gave them
as a gift to the Flint's to guard the Saltspear.

Builders from House Ryswell and Dustin had scouted locations near the fishing village for the
shipyards at the mouth of Torrhen's River, and Ned had yet to hear back of any place that would be
acceptable and accessible, but the work was moving forward.

He had heard from the Lord's of the Wolfswood, and the construction of lumber mills and areas of
good timber had been found, and they were starting their process of sending wood to White
Harbor.

Everything seemed to be going as well as could be expected, but as Wyman and the other Lords at
Winterfell reminded him, they would soon run out of men to work. Ned had already picked men
from his lands who wanted to make extra coin, and they had been sent into the woods, but soon
they would need more, how much more he did not know, but it would be more than the North
could spare.

These worries took up much of his time, but it almost paled in comparison to the concerns his
children continued to give him.
Arya had all but shunned her mother and sister, with Septa Mordane continually looking for her.

Robb had become a demon in the yard, practicing for nearly two hours with his group of lordlings.
Then Robb spent the rest of his time either studying with Luwin or coming to speak with himself
some ancient tome that contained a rumor of a mine or a design of a ship from Brandon the
Shipwright's time. Unfortunately, he was not doing the one thing Ned hoped he would be doing,
which was getting to know Wylla Manderly, who spent most of the time with her sister and Sansa.
Wynafryd had unfortunately not taken the news that she was to be the future lady of Karhold well
but seemed to enjoy the company of other girls that were here. It wasn't his fault, Ned thought,
Wyman and Ned had decided to keep the betrothal between themselves, still, even Ned had noticed
that Robb and Wylla had still been stiff and uncomfortable around one another. I should tell him,
but Ned decided to not risk Karstarks knowing until Wynyfryd and Harrion were wed.

Sansa was surprisingly doing quite well but kept pestering him to join Lady Mira when she
traveled south to Highgarden in a year's time. Brandon and Beren Tallhart had become fast friends,
and they spent most of their time they were not in lessons exploring with Rickon hot on their heels.

Ned smiled, thinking of his youngest child, but frowned again. Rickon continued to ask where Jon
was every so often, less and less now, but it was still there, and every time it happened, silence
would ensue. Robb had taken it upon himself to talk about his exiled brother, or so Ned was told,
as his children did not speak about Jon in his presence. Not that he had enough time to spend with
them outside of meals. Guilt started to seep in, but Ned pushed it aside, going over the logistics that
Lord Cerwyn had provided for the movement of first timber bound for Braavos.

He was interrupted by a knock.

"Come in," Ned said. He was surprised to see Wyman as they were set to meet after midday. "Lord
Manderly, I thought we were not set to meet until later with Lord Cerwyn."

"Aye, but a messenger arrived from White Harbor with a message from Braavos." Panic started to
arise, and Ned hid it as he grabbed the outstretched parchment and dismissed Wyman. He had only
received one letter from Jon, nothing substantial, but cursory, though he guessed his own, were not
much better. He did see a bundle of notes for the siblings. Ned took Tormo's first. Ned read
through it, Lorath had a breakout of Greyscale, and he would be increasing the purchase price and
therefore increased the amount he would pay for the next few purchases. He also said that the
magisters of the other Free Cities have heard, as had the Southron Kingdoms about the Sealord's
son. Good. Let them know what the North has, let them pay exorbitant prices for his goods for
once. Ned continued reading, Tormo said pirates were becoming a problem around the Stepstones,
that he had lost three ships in the past year alone. Tormo wrote that the Sealord was in
communication with Volantis and the Master of Ships, Stannis Baratheon, to sweep the stepstones
of piracy within the year most like, but Tormo wasn't sure. Ned finished the missive when a small
page of parchment laid behind it. Ned opened it, and a separate message was on there. Ned felt
 himself frown as he finished, Why would Jon agree to guard a merchant?

Ned took a deep breath. He was panicking for no reason, he was with nine other men, handpicked
by the Commander of a mercenary company, Tamir's own uncle. It was just to Pentos and back.
Ned did the math in his head, the whole trip would take two weeks, three at most.

By the time Ned had read the missive, Jon should be on his way back by now, he probably is in
Braavos already. Three weeks and he would have word of Jon's safety. Three weeks.

Ned felt uneasy and dread come to him. Gods. Seven years of this. Ned got to his feet and left his
solar. He walked out of the Great Keep and made his way into the godswood. As the quiet and
familiar scent of earth filled him, and his anxiety started to lessen. He made his way to the heart
tree, its massive trunk, and branches filled with blood-red leaves. He knelt in front of the tree and
prayed, but guilt only increased within him, and Ned opened his eyes. He felt faint and returned
quickly back to his work.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks again for everyone commenting, reading and kudosing. We'll get back to Jon
next chapter.

Also, I have been receiving some comments about grammatical errors that Grammarly
is missing and that I do not spot until I've been informed by you guys, and let me tell
you, it's quite embarrassing. If anyone is interested in Beta'ing comment or PM me
 Chapter 18
Chapter Summary

Jon rides on a boat.

Jon

The weather wasn’t severe, but the light rain and choppy waves had soured his stomach, and even
though it had been clear skies and smoother sailing the past few days, Jon had not felt well enough
to eat. However, Brachen commanded him to do so, so Jon complied. He was starting to regret it,
though, as he was trying not to vomit that breakfast back up over the side of the ship.

“Gods Toli, if you didn’t want your rations, I would have taken it off your hands,” Sylvar joked
and patted him on your back.

“How are you not nauseous from that slop?” Jon asked. Sylvar just shrugged and handed him his
shield, “Come, Brachen said we are to guard the family’s cabin.”

“What about training?” Jon asked.

“When we are relieved at sunset, we have two hours, what do you think? Sword and Shield?”

Jon shrugged, “Didn’t know you were so keen on getting your arse kicked.”

“By a sickly-little shit like you, Toli?” Slyvar mocked but was smiling, so Jon returned it. “Come,
Evrett and Haro are waiting for us to relieve them.’ Jon agreed, and they walked from the prow of
the ship to the merchant family’s cabins. The Pearl’s Kiss was a good-sized merchant cog and had
a crew of forty-five, most of which were sailors who had all but ignored the ten mercenaries on
board. The captain, Draquero, was a warm man in his early thirties, with a well-worn face from
many years of sailing. He was currently steering the ship with Brachen next to him, speaking on
something important, no doubt. Jon passed the four other Demons that had come with them, who
were currently laughing and joking. Jon tried not to feel aggrieved as all of the guard duty had been
done by the initiates, training, as Brachen put it. Jon didn’t complain, he just tried to get to know
his fellow initiates, and it seemed to be working, albeit it slowly.
They arrived, and Evrett and Haro sagged in relief, “Thank all the gods you are here if I had to
spend another minute listening to that family squeal at one another I’d…” Haro started before
Brachen came up behind them and interrupted.

“Be as vigilant as ever Haro, not all assignments will be guarding someone, but they will be this
dull from time to time.”

“Yes, sir.” Haro saluted, tapping his chest. Evrett still knew little Valyrian, and Jon could see he
had trouble following any of it. So he just mirrored Haro as well and started to follow him when
Evrett stopped and leaned to Jon, “The mother has been arguing with the eldest daughter all day,
and the two sons keep trying to run off or try to play with our swords.”

“And Marcelino?” Jon asked about the merchant.

“Quiet most of the time, sometimes gambles with the cook,” Evrett shrugged, “With a family like
that, I would too.”

Jon nodded and took his position on the right while Sylvar took the left post. It was tedious work
indeed, and Jon and Sylvar mostly spoke about their lives as Jon tried to do with whoever his
partner was that shift. The overnight post was the most difficult, staying awake as the ship
approached silence, and there was little light had the mind trying to play tricks. Today, however, it
was mostly arguing. Jon did his best to tune it out, but it was the eldest daughter, nearly fifteen,
complaining about the boy she was in love with. While the two brothers, one a year younger and
the other, a year younger than that, egged her on. Thankfully the youngest daughter was only nine
and was not part of the conversation. Two hours went by, and the sons, Jorcho and Rentarro, bolted
out of the cabin with the youngest girl, Lintras, in tow.

The wife, Tirashia, ran out behind them and looked at Sylvar, “Mercenary, follow them and make
sure they are safe.” Sylvar gave a quick salute and followed the young men. She sighed and turned
to Jon, “You. My daughter and I would like some fresh air, I am sure you can handle that?” Jon
nodded, and Tirashia sighed and grabbed her daughter, and they marched to the upper deck of the
ship, near the helmsman. It was a clear day, and the mother and daughter seemed content to ignore
each other, and Jon looked at the endless expanse of the Narrow Sea. In reality, Jon knew they
were only three or four days away from Pentos.

“Mercenary.” The daughter, Ilarana, was speaking to him. “Mercenary!”

“Yes, my lady?” Jon responded.

“What is your name?” she asked, and Jon was not expecting that so looked to the mother who was
pointedly ignoring them both, so Jon chose to answer. Sort of.

“Toli, my lady.”

“Toli?” She said, giggling.

‘Aye, my lady.”

“That is a stupid name,” She laughed and turned away.

Tirashia seemed to be paying more attention than he thought, for she rounded on her daughter,
“Ilarana, apologize that is incredibly rude.”

“It is a stupid name!”

Tirashia opened her mouth, but Jon lifted his hand, “It is alright, my lady, it is not the best of
names, and I am paid to protect, not to get offended.” Ilarana smiled at him, then triumphantly
looked at her mother.

“Still, I apologize for her lack of manners. It is not for lack of trying,” the mother said, and Jon just
nodded in thanks. However, Tirashia looked at him for a moment, “You are not Braavosi.” It was
not a question.

“No, my lady.”

“Westerosi?”

“Aye. The North.”

Illarana spoke up then, “I heard a woods witch potion from the North cured the Sealord’s son."

Tirashia shook her head, “It was a gift from the Stark of Winterfell.”

“So I heard as well,” Jon said.

Ilarana spoke up again, “I heard that Lord Stark had a son that beat a girl and her lover to death out
of jealousy,” Jon froze and tried to stop the blood draining from his face, “Toli, did you hear of
that?” She turned to him, smiling, but it wavered when she saw his face.

Tirashia interrupted her without looking at them, “Ilarana do not be one for the gossip of kitchen
maids and sailors. Tormo Fregar said that the boy saved the girl and beat the knight that was
hurting her, and Tormo may be a son of an up jump criminal, but he is not a liar,” Tirashia
finished.

Ilarana was just staring at Jon, studying him, and Jon was starting to get nervous. Tirashai spoke
again, “Toli, correct? Toli, what do you think? I am curious what someone from the North thinks
of their lords.”

Jon was silent for a moment then opened his mouth to speak when someone shouted, “Lōgor! mele
se timpa bayraq! Elil lōgor sərkərdə!” The man in the crow’s nest continued to call out, and soon
the captain was shouting orders and pulled out a Myrish eye and looked starboard. Jon did as well,
and he could make out only a small dot.

“Toli, what is going on?” Ilarana asked.

Marcelino arrived with Brachen and the first mate. “It is a ship, my dear, there seems to be
smoke.” the merchant said.

“Then we should help and make sure everyone is okay,” The young girl said and looked at Jon,
who looked somewhere else, not wanting to say anything.

The first mate, a quiet man named Rebryllo, spoke up, “Could be a trap captain, although it would
be unusual for a pirate this far North.”
Draquero continued to look through the Myrish eye, “Its Braavosi, some smoke, but it is not
spreading, so someone is there, it does look like it is sagging into the water. What do you think,
Marcelino?”

The merchant just stared out and said nothing when his daughter spoke up, “Father! We must!”

Marcelino looked at his daughter, and Jon knew he was conflicted, “Captain, I believe we should
offer aid.”

“Brachen, what do you think?” Brachen looked surprised and then looked at Jon, and Jon's eyes
widened, and then, he felt something wasn’t right, but Jon just shrugged. I am not a çavuş, and this
is his decision.

Brachen looked back to the captain, “It is not for me to say, but we can kill whatever is there if it
tries to attack.”

Jon sighed, Brachen gave no answer or opinion and put the choice into their hands. Brachen was a
good archer, and so were the other four that were with them. Of the initiates, they were all a fair
shot with a bow but were far better with arms. All five, including Jon, were untested. The captain
searched the surrounding horizon, then looked back to the ship and sighed, “Get the sailors ready,
Brachen get your men prepared as you will board the ship and search for survivors.”

Brachen turned to him, “Get the others Toli. You will lead the initiates to search the ship, me and
my men will stay on deck to make sure everything is clear.” Jon nodded and left to gather the men,
a sense of foreboding following him.

--

As the ship drew nearer, he could make out three men making the smoke, and then another two
joined them from below deck. Draquero shouted out a greeting, and one man returned it. The
captain shouted out another question, “What happened to your ship?”

The man yelled out again, “Storm a few days back blew us into some rocks, we couldn’t see them.
Plugged up the hole, but lost a good group of sailors.”

“Valar Morgulis,” Daquero shouted back, and the man nodded his head. “How many survivors?”
“Twenty! Ten in bad shape lost most of our food to spoilage and ran out of the water!”

The captain nodded, “Brachen take your people and ten of my men and help those injured back
over, we have room for them, but it will be tight for the next few days until we reach Pentos.”

The sailors raised the sails, and threw over hooks as they pulled themselves parallel, planks were
put over the side as Jon and Brachen led everyone over. Brachen ordered them to leave the spears,
shields, and bows. Jon kept his dagger and sword on as he wasn’t too keen on one of the sailors
stealing it. Jon and the others didn’t have time to take off the mail under his tunic and being hot
this early, and he wasn’t looking forward to carrying men over to the Pearl with the weight he
already had.

The man who had shouted out to them looked worse for the wear as his clothes were in tatters, and
his skin seemed pale. He reached out to a Brachen, “Thank the gods, thank the gods you are here.
Yimar is nearly dead, and I promised his mother I would return him home. He is my cousin and
gods I thought we would lose him. Come, come, let me take you down to them.”

“Toli, take the initiates and ten sailors down below, get the injured men and let’s go.”

Jon nodded but pulled Brachen to the side and whispered to him, “Does something feel wrong,
Brachen?” The man just shook his head, and Jon sighed, he was in his head, there was nothing to
worry about here.

Jon allowed one of the other men to guide the fifteen of them down below deck. Jon whispered to
the other initiates, “Something feels off, hands-on your daggers.”

Evrett was sweating and seemed nervous, and the other three seemed to feel it, and they kept their
hands to their sides. Below deck was dim, with the only light coming from the entrance they just
walked down. Jon could still hear one of the survivors speaking with the four remaining Demons
and Brachen, and the clarity of speech became more muffled as they made their way to the injured
sailors.

It smelt like mold and death, and Jon had to fight not to gag from the stench as they walked
through what Jon assumed was the cook’s or healer’s quarters. There was old sand on the floor,
congealed together with dried blood. Jon saw more marks of blood on the small makeshift cots.
“How many died?” Jon asked out loud to himself.
“Too many,” someone said behind him, and Jon startled at the sound. Jon turned to see the man
who had a cousin named Yimar, standing behind him. “I forget this old lady creaks and cries with
old age and injury.”

Jon only nodded and continued to follow the line of men into the crews’ quarters.

The hammocks were all up, though most were empty but swaying with the rocking of the tides.
Shadows shifted and merged as the faint light of the three lanterns near the infirm were moving
back and forth in sync. Jon listened carefully at the wood flexing and shifting, and then he heard
the moans of the injured men.

Most were wrapped and bandaged heavily with soiled linens. A few sailors made their way over to
them to start and pick up the injured men that the survivor leading them to. The sailors went to the
ones that seemed worse off, the ones that weren't moving too much.

There were ten that seemed critically injured or desperately in need of care, and the ones that
seemed awake would be left for the next trip. The sailors had grabbed three of them and started to
walk towards Jon and the other survivor.

Jon turned to the leader, “Which one is Yimar?”

The man paused for a moment, “Sorry?”

“Yimar, your cousin?” Jon asked.

“Ah! Yes, he is that one over there,” Jon turned his head.

“Sails!” Someone above them started shouting, and Jon turned back to the man behind him and
saw a glint of light reflected in the palm of the man’s hand.

Reflexes, born from intensive training, forced his left up down to block the strike and stop the
knife which tore into his tunic and scraped against the iron rings of mail on his left shoulder. Jon’s
own knife was already through the man’s jaw, passed the mouth, breaking the bone of the skull
and piercing the brain. It happened so fast, Jon didn’t even think, as the man’s eyes were wide in
surprise. Jon killed his first man. He stood there, staring at the man for what could have been
minutes but were mere moments. Jon felt the blood flow and covered his right hand. He ripped out
the knife with some effort and what must have been either tongue or brain. Jon’s blood was
pumping through his body, and Jon turned to the rest of the men.

“Tele! Ossēnagon zirȳ! Trap!” Jon yelled and turned to see Haro stabbed through his throat and
Evrett struggling against his man, the sailors were screaming in pain and fighting their attackers,
and the lantern was knocked over alighting a hammock. Jon saw the supposedly injured men
stabbing the sailors, and Jon jumped towards the man that killed Haro. The man looked up, but
was not quick enough to stop Jon’s knife from going through his throat, Jon stabbed twice, and
bright blood sprayed over the cabin. Jon grabbed the knife out of the man’s limp hand and threw
his own at the man who had stabbed Evrett in the chest. The blade buried itself in the man’s arm.
Jon ran over and finished the attacker off with his knife.

Another man with a bandage over his eye came at him, and Jon blocked the fist and kicked the
man back when someone else tackled him, Jon hit his head on the deck but brought the knife up
and stabbed his attacker in the stomach. Once, twice, three times. The man tried to wrap his hands
around Jon’s throat, and Jon felt panic, but Jon kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing the man
over and over again, and the pressure on his throat let up as the smell of blood and shit threatened
to overwhelm him.

Jon forced the man off of him and tried to get up but slipped on the blood. Jon looked around
wildly at the bloodbath, most of the attackers were dead, and one was trying to crawl away while
bleeding all over the floor. In anger, Jon unsheathed his sword and stabbed the man through the
back of his skull.

He had killed a man. He just killed multiple men without a moment's hesitation. Adrenaline was
pumping through his veins. Jon felt sharp, alert, and the violence he incurred on these now dead
men made him feel...

Jon turned to survey the others, and the smell hit him in full, and that feeling of battle evaporated
into nothing, then transformed quickly into horror.

Haro’s throat was a bloody mess, and Sylvar had a knife through his eye, and his other was open
wide but lifeless. Vimeras was bleeding badly from the leg, and all but three sailors were dead, and
the three bore one injury or another. Still, they were finishing off any of the attackers that were still
somehow alive and begging for mercy. None came.

Jon knew the sailors had their own knives, and he thought they had suspected a trap as he had. One
of them was an old Summer Islander who just gave Jon an approving nod. Jon swallowed and
nodded back to the man. The smell of smoke wafted past him, and Jon saw that the hammock was
alight.
They were looking at Jon, and Jon tried to think about what to do. He heard shouts from above and
men yelling. Jon looked around and saw Evrett looking at him with wide eyes, blood flowing out of
his chest and mouth. “Vimeras, get the sailors some Evrett’s, Sylvar’s and Haro’s weapons and get
them up on deck and help Brachen. Now!” Jon yelled the last bit as Vimeras nodded shakily and
limped through the cabin, the smoke starting to overwhelm him. Jon sheathed his sword and
dagger and crouched next Evrett.

“J-Jon,” Evrett stammered out, “J-J-Jon, I think,” He swallowed, “I-I think I’m dying.”

“Shut up, I’ll get you out of here.”

Evrett started crying and coughing blood up, “I don’t want to die,”

Jon grabbed him and hoisted him onto the shoulders as Evrett cried out in pain, “Shut up, Evrett,
you’re not going to die.”

“I-I do-don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.” Evrett sobbed out as his blood fell down Jon’s back.
Jon followed the others and made his way through the crew's quarters, coughing as some smoke
filled his lungs. He saw one of the makeshift cots in the cook’s quarters and laid Evrett down.
Evrett was breathing shallow fast and grabbed something hanging around his neck. “P-p-ple-please
Jon, I d-don’t w-want to go.” His eyes widened in panic, “I wa-wanna g-go home, I wa-nna go ho-
home. P-please.” The blood garbled in his throat, and Jon could only stare as his friend’s eyes
were wide with terror, and Jon just grabbed his friend's hand. Evrett coughed up more blood,
choking while his lungs filled, and Jon was helpless as tears prickled.

Then the light left Evrett, and his only friend stilled.

Jon felt numb as he closed his friend's empty terror-filled eyes gently, then grief and rage starting
to overcome him. Jon stood and took one more look at Evrett and grabbed his sword and
unsheathed it, and moved to exit onto the deck. Their way was blocked by one of the sailors that
was now lying dead at the bottom of the steps. Two bolts protruding from his chest. The last three
men just looked at Jon for guidance, fear written on their faces. Jon peeked his head above the
stairs to observe the deck.

Something whirled past his head as a quarrel buried itself right above him, and Jon ducked back
below deck. The smoke was making it difficult, but Jon had seen two of the Demon’s archers dead,
as well as the other three men that had lured them there. Jon thought quickly as the three others
stared at him, Vimeras and two other sailors were looking pale and tired, and Jon knew they
needed to move soon. “There are crossbowmen up there. I do not know how many, but it looks like
it came from near the helm.” Jon was trying to think. “Is there another way up there?” Jon asked.

A sailor, the younger of the two, nodded, “Served on a ship like this, if we move through that
passage and up, we can get close, maybe underneath them.”

Jon nodded, “Vimeras, wait for our signal.” Vimeras gave a small nod, breathing heavily and
grimacing as he tightened a piece of torn tunic above the wound in his leg. Jon nodded to the old
sailor and then moved quickly with the younger one. They made their way through the petty
officer’s quarters, and climbed up, and slowly opened the door, and saw four men shooting with
crossbows. They were aiming at the Pearl’s Kiss and loosing quarrels at the remaining crew. One
of the men stood up to release when an arrow pierced the man’s skull, and the man fell. Jon looked
at the young sailor with him, waiting for the sound of the remaining men’s crossbow latches to
release. Jon unsheathed his dagger and held it in his left as they waited.

The sound of cords snapping forward went, and Jon and the sailor burst through the door. Jon
yelled as he swung his sword at the closest crossbowman and buried the blade in the man’s neck
and stabbed the next men in the eye with his dagger in two heartbeats. Jon turned to see the sailor
had killed one crossbowman, and then a bolt split his skull.

Jon wrenched the blade free and moved, but the last man was filled with two arrows. “Vimeras,
GO!” Jon shouted and turned to see Brachen and one of the archers aboard the Kiss, draw and
loose above him. Jon's eyes widened when he caught five more crossbowmen on the upper deck,
and Jon jumped to the side and rolled as two bolts missed him by a hair’s breadth, one even popped
the mail on the side of his torso.

Jon got to his feet and climbed up the stairs when two men rushed him with axes drawn, crossbows
discarded. Jon stepped back down the steps, forcing them to advance towards him on equal ground.
Jon looked briefly to the right. Vimeras was trying to get back to the Pearl’s Kiss but had been hit
with a bolt-on his already injured leg, so he was dragged roughly across the gap.

Jon parried the first swing, and stabbed his knife through the man’s armpit but was unable to tear
the blade free. Jon moved to put the injured man between himself and the next attacker. Jon head-
butted the wounded man and threw him into his uninjured counterpart. Jon advanced, slashed and
cut the throat of the second man and kicked the ax out of the first man’s hand and stabbed down
through chainmail piercing his heart. Jon took a deep breath, the adrenaline pumping through his
veins again as was that feeling.

Jon took a deep breath, grabbed one of the axes in his left hand, and then moved back up the stairs
to the remaining three crossbowmen. Two were dead, and the last had an arrow in his leg.
“Rehm! Kostilus nyke yalvarmaq ao!”

Mercy? Jon, filled with rage, went over and buried the ax between the man’s eyes, Jon took a look
and thought of his friend, dead below deck and spit on the corpses of the slain at his feet.

The main deck was smoking now, the fire must have spread, and Jon looked around for any other
pirates.

“Toli!” Brachen yelled out. “Toli! If you are alive, get back over here. We need to leave!”

“I’m here! I’m here!” Jon yelled as he made his way down from the upper decks.

Jon coughed and moved his way back onto the planks and fell onto the deck of the Pearl’s Kiss,
sucking down air, unable to breathe. Jon sought out his fellow fighters and sailors, and some were
injured, but many were dead or dying. Jon slumped to the ground and looked at his hands. They
were covered in blood, and they were starting to shake with fear as the elation of battle was
wearing off. Jon turned to the deck and vomited.

“Toli!” Brachen grabbed his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. His Cavuş then coughed and
wiped the blood from his mouth, “Toli, we need to disembark, three more ships are coming.” Jon
looked where Brachen was pointing, Jon’s heart sank when he saw one oared galleass and two
ships with a combination of triangle and square sails, with three masts each bearing down on them.

“Where the fuck did they come from?” Jon asked.

Brachen coughed again then spat blood onto the deck, “I am not sure, but it doesn’t matter.” Jon
finally looked at Brachen and saw the bolt buried into his left side, at least four inches deep. Jon
looked back up to his commander, who was grimacing, “You and Vimeras are the last ones left, I
don’t have long,” Brachen coughed, slumped onto Jon and tried to steady himself, “Gods dying is
painful.” Jon started to move him to sit, but Brachen waved him away, “Go to Rebryllo, the captain
is dead, get your orders and get us out of here.”

Jon looked around, there were only fifteen sailors left, including the cook and Rebryllo, Jon rushed
over, trying to stop his hands from shaking. Rebryllo looked at him with fright, Jon looked at
himself, he was covered in blood and Jon was now acutely aware of it starting to dry and stick.
“Mercenary, follow Fyro, do exactly as he does.” Jon nodded then heard the first mate, now
captain, yell out, “Get the planks off and sails down, cut the planks loose! We need to move, move
now!” Jon followed Fyro, the old summer islander sailor who helped Vimeras back over onto the
Pearl's Kiss.

Jon only now noticed Fyro was tattooed over his face, but now was not the time to ask of such
things, and Jon just followed Fyro. They helped get the mainsail down as Vimeras hopped on one
leg, and with one arm uninjured. Vimeras worked swinging his sword like an ax to get rid of the
planks and ropes tying them to the now burning ship. Soon they were moving, but it was slow, too
slow. Jon continued to work, but everyone turned to see the three ships. They were slowly growing
in size, and the galleass was ahead of the other two, oars dipping into the water, slicing through the
sea, each stroke bringing them closer to their doom.

It was a valiant attempt by the remaining crew, but it would be minutes, not hours before they
were overtaken.

Jon continued to work, pulling ropes, tying knots as he shadowed Fyro. Fyro, however, kept
muttering, “Sio tena, Sio tena,” Jon didn’t recognize words but knew it was the language of the
Summer Islands. Jon wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when he looked back at the galleass
it was close enough to see the figurehead, the damaging ram was below the water, waiting to
puncture their hull and drown them all.

“Get down!” Rebryllo shouted, and Jon slammed to the deck with Fyro as three scorpion bolts flew
through the air and one embedded into the deck, another skewered a sailor, impaling him into the
mast and the third took a man at the leg.

Jon looked on in horror, and Fyro grabbed him, and Jon allowed the old sailor to lead him below
deck, and suddenly the sky was full of crossbow quarrels. Jon saw Rebryllo hit twice in the chest,
Brachen was already dead but was hit again, and Vimeras was struck in his shoulder. Fyro
followed him down and turned him around. “Take off mail.” Jon didn’t understand, but Fyro
grabbed at him and started to take off his mail hauberk, his helmet and everything else until he was
in a bloody tunic and breeches, “Kill soldiers, keep sailors, make a row.”

Jon shook his head, “No, I will not be a slave, I will die a warrior.”

Fyro shook his head, “You young, can escape, me old, they kill.”

Jon shook his head again, but Fyro was giving him food, “Eat. No food for a time.” Jon tried to eat
the stale bread and ration of salted beef and had to force it down as Fyro placed it in his arms.
Suddenly, the sound of bolts falling stopped, and Jon knew their attackers were close. Jon stuffed
the rest of the food in his mouth. Fyro then gave him a cup of watered ale, and Jon swallowed quite
a few servings, then looked at Fyro, who put on the bloody mail, helmet and scabbard. Jon put a
hand on his arm and gave him a confused look.

“Too old, to be slave again,” Fyro simply said and then pushed Jon to the ladder to the deck.
“Raise arms, surrender,” Fyro instructed, and Jon climbed the ladder to see the galleass was less
than two hundred feet away. Vimeras was bleeding heavily, and all but two of the sailors were
dead or dying. Jon just knelt and put his hands in the air and shouted, “Obūljarion, surrender!” Jon
waved his hands and cried out the same thing over and over again. Two crossbow bolts were sent
to his feet and skittered down the deck, and Jon scrambled backward to the amusement of the
pirates who jeered him.

The pirates hooked the ship and drew the galleass close, soon planks were put down, and pirates
streamed over, boarding the Pearl’s Kiss. Jon looked to see the rough-looking men, a mismatch of
persons, some could have been Westerosi, but most had to be from the Free Cities or beyond. Jon
continued to yell surrender, and the other two sailors that were alive did the same thing. One of the
men prodded Vimeras, and his injured comrade, barely moved. Then the man poked again, and
Vimeras raised his dagger to slash the leg, but the pirate only tore his throat with a knife.

The man who looked in charge studied his sailor, who was almost stabbed and laughed, “That is
why we make sure they are dead!” The man spoke Valyrian with an accent different from Braavos,
but Jon was not sure which. The man motioned to the rest of the pirates, and they started stabbing
the dead and dying sailors, ensuring their death and then scavenged for any valuables. Once
relieved of their possessions, they were thrown overboard. The other pirates chuckled, and then the
man in charge looked at him. He was an ugly man, with a broad nose that had been broken, and
had a scar that took part of his lip, although his brown beard was grown to try and hide it. The man
looked at Jon, “You boy, is there anyone else on board,” Jon stayed silent, but the bearded man
struck him. When Jon looked up again, he was hit twice more, and Jon felt his nose crack, and
blood streamed down his face. “Anyone else?”

Jon nodded, “A few crew,” Jon wheezed and spit out blood, “below deck, and a merchant and his
wife and four children.” This made the man smile, “The whore houses in Lys love children!” The
man yelled out to his men. The pirates whooped in agreement.

One of the men shouted out, “Not until we all get a turn!”

The man in charge laughed out loud to that, “Take the wife, virgin child slaves get four times as
much, then you can buy as many turns as you want!” This got a loud laugh, and the man who he
assumed to be captain, pointed to five men, and they went to the cabins. He indicated with his
finger to six more, “Go find the rest of the crew, kill them all.” Jon gulped, and the man came over
to him and the other captured sailors, one of which had a bolt in his calf that Jon had not noticed.
The man in charge looked at all three of them, “My name is Ventarro, I am the captain of this
small fleet, and my two caravels will be here soon enough. You are now my slaves, my slave
master will determine if you are worth being-” He was interrupted by shouting below deck and
from the cabins as well as the wife, sons and daughters were all dragged out, and Jon noticed the
blood on Marcelino’s wife’s dress. “The merchant?”

“Tried to stab me, knifed him,” one of the pirates said and shrugged.

Ventarro sighed, “Very well, the spirit of the contract is fulfilled at least, Salhar understands these
things happen.” Only three of the six came up from below the deck.

“What happened to you?” Ventarro asked.

“Crazy old fucker in mail attacked, killed Sil and Vyn, I took his head. The cook and three others
were hiding, killed them all, but one killed Wym.”

“Could none have been captured?”

The three men shrugged, “You told us to kill ‘em all.”

“I did, didn't I?” Ventarro gave a quick laugh, “Very well, where was I?” Ventarro asked, but Jon
knew no one would interrupt him. “Yes, my slave master, Ryjar, will determine if you should live,
Ryjar!”

A thin, tanned man with a well-groomed beard and black mark on his cheek came out of the galley
quarters with a calm demeanor and made his way to the Pearl's Kiss. The man had mismatched
eyes, one black and one milky white, and looked at the captives and then the captain. The captain
nodded, and Ryjar moved first to the sailor with a bolt in the calf. He took a quick look at him and
drew his knife and cut his throat. The sailor fell forward as the blood drained from him and onto
the deck. Ryjar motioned with his hands, and two sailors grabbed the body, dragged across the
deck as blood still trickled out of the neck, and threw him overboard.

Jon saw Ventarro speaking to another pirate and pointing to the hull, soon ten pirates were below
deck again, and Jon was sure they were looking for valuables.
The children wailed, and Ryjar ignored them and moved to the next sailor and eyed him, “Oar.”
The sailor was shaking and then thanking the man profusely and was hit across the face by a
pirate, then led away onto the galley. Ryjar then moved to the wife and nodded to the pirates that
held her, and they spread her arms wide. Ryjar cut and tore her dress away, and her nakedness was
exposed, and Jon looked elsewhere, trying not to let fear saturate his being.

The pirates all cheered and jeered the woman, drowning the sobs of all of Marcelino’s family. Jon
continued to close his eyes, and Ryjar was silent for a long while before he spoke, “Cheap whore, a
field hand, nothing expensive, but still worthy of being sold.” Jon opened his eyes but wished he
didn’t as the captain was looking lustfully at Tirashia.

“Take her to my cabin then! You boys can have her after!” A cheer went up, and the woman
sobbed harder, and Jon’s last bit of grief and rage was finally overtaken by fear.

Ryjar did the same thing to the daughters but spent more time looking and studying their bodies
and Jon felt bile rise in his throat, while the pirates cheered wildly. “Lys would pay good money
for these girls, unspoiled, of course.” A groan came from the men, but the girls cried all the same.

The captain kept a jovial smile, which made his face more horrendous, “Quiet your moaning, these
two will increase our bounty, and for your ‘sacrifice,’ the first whore in Lys is on me.” This got a
loud cheer from the men.

Ryjar went to the two boys and looked at both of them, he pointed at the eldest, Jorcho, “Oar, most
like, if we can’t sell them in Lys.” Then he looked at the boy, Rentarro, “Whore, maybe, still, easy
to sell if we want.”

“Oar til then?” the captain asked.

“Not if we can avoid it, he might die,” Ryjar said as he made his way to Jon. Ryjar studied him,
then felt his hands, his shoulders, and prodded him and checked his teeth. “He would have been
pretty enough for a whore house, but you broke his nose.” The captain smirked at him, and Ryjar
continued in his impassive observation of Jon, “How old are you?”

“Ten and six,” Jon lied.

“Hmm, he is a soldier or has trained as one. Make him a galley slave for now, maybe sell him if we
break him or to the Pits if we don’t,” Ryjar said to Ventarro.
“Soldiers have spirit, they are tough to break,” Ventarro said.

For the first time, Ryjar’s expression changed, but only slightly and Jon felt his blood chill, “My
friend, you know I enjoy a challenge.”
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Robb

Robb watched as Theon hit dead center at fifty paces with his bow.

"Good shot," Robb said offhandedly as he looked past Theon where Eddard Karstark and Rodrik
Forrester were dueling with axes and shields. Asher Forrester, who had just arrived with Mira to
visit their brother, and Arthur were paired next to them, both of them smaller than the grown men
but attacking each other fiercely. Harmond sat there speaking with Rodrik and the other Stark men,
most like arguing over the use of a greatsword vs. a longsword. Robb smiled at his newfound
group of friends then focused back on his old one, who loosed another arrow that hit a finger's
width to the side of the center.

Theon turned his head, "My arrow always hits the mark, Stark." Theon laughed at the rhyme, and
Robb rolled his eyes at the poor attempt. Right then, the kennel master's daughter walked by,
looking at Theon, then turning quickly away and smiling. "I won't miss my mark tonight, either."
Theon laughed, and Robb smiled lightly. Robb took a quick look around the yard and didn't see
green hair that caused his nerves to fray like an old rope. He didn't know why she made him feel so
anxious and insecure, and seeing that she was nowhere near, he thought he could relax, so he
turned back to Theon and his bow.

"Careful Theon, we don't need a bunch of Pykes running around Winterfell." Robb japed, but
Theon frowned a bit.

"Aye, got rid of one Snow and replaced him with another, don't want to add more bastards," Theon
said. Robb felt his anger rise, this was the first time he had spent alone with Theon since he'd come
back from White Harbor, and even with Jon gone, Theon still wouldn't stop.

Robb had enough. "We didn't 'get rid' of Jon, and as soon as I am Lord of Winterfell, he'll come
back, and I'll give him a keep for what he did."

"And what did he do? Try and bed a highborn girl and beat a man near to death," Theon shot back.

"Fuck you," Robb said without thinking.

Theon turned to look at him, "Fuck me?" Theon turned back and knocked an arrow and pulled it
back too fast and let it fly with anger. It went wide right, "Fuck me?" He repeated, "If Jon could
learn to get off his high horse and fuck a whore instead of pining for a girl above his station, he
would still be here."

Theon didn't get a chance to defend himself as Robb tackled him to the ground. They struggled and
wrestled, but Robb was able to stay on top. Robb raised a fist, and Theon's eyes went wide.

Robb stared at Theon, and the fear in his friends' eyes forced Robb to drop his fist to his side, and
he got off Theon, but his temper was still there. "He saved her Theon, I know it, you know it the
whole fuckin' North knows it. I was the first to find him, and as soon as I pulled him off Rykker, he
cradled Ella, trying to stop the bleeding."

"Aye, 'cause he was caught," Theon said as he tried to get up. Robb kicked him hard in the arm,
causing Theon to sprawl back on the ground. "What the fuck?" Theon said, grasping his bow arm.

Robb stood above Theon, grabbed him by the collar, Robb's nostrils flaring, "You know Jon, he
was always the best of us, bastard or no. You know he wouldn't do it. I know Jon wouldn't do it.
He didn't want to fuck a whore because he knew what a bastard's life was. That is why he would
never do what the Rykker's accused him of doing to a woman. Highborn or not. He was good, and
he was fucking innocent."

"Yet he was exiled, why would he be exiled if he was so innocent?" Theon asked the mocking in
his tone was subtle but noticeable.

Robb took a moment, then quoted his father, "Because life is not fair and the North needs to be
stronger." Robb stared at his friend and his temper flaring. He started to utter, "If you ever talk
about Jon like that I'll-," Robb trailed off, knowing if he completed that sentence, he could never
take it back. Theon didn't say anything either as he got back up off his ass.

They shared a look, and Robb felt guilty immediately, and he knew Theon did too, though neither
would ever admit it to each other. Robb had spent nearly all of his time with the sons of the
northern lords and ignoring Theon. It had affected their friendship, and Robb realized Theon was
taking it out on Jon. Robb knew he was doing the right thing by spending time with others, and
times like now, he felt validation for his choice.

Still, a strong friendship with Theon could potentially bring a generation of peace for the western
shores of the North, and that was worth too much to lose over anger, pride, and guilt, no matter
how valid. "Theon look-" Robb started to explain but was interrupted by Larence Snow, followed
closely by Arya.

"Robb I just got-" Larence said, covered in sweat and dirt.

"Robb, Robb Uncle Benjen-" Arya shouted at the same time as Larence. Robb put up a hand to
them so they both wouldn't continue talking over each other.

"Larence go ahead," Robb said, and Arya tried to kick Robb, but Robb dodged her leg. "Hey!
Larence was here first." Arya just sighed and then looked at Larence, who stuttered for a moment
before starting again.

"I just wanted to let you all know that Ella has woken up," Larence said, but he wasn't as excited as
Robb thought he should be.

"That's great news!" Robb said, and Arya agreed with him. Robb turned to Theon, who was
already back shooting his bow. Robb let the frustration roll past him, and he looked back to
Larence, "That's great news, right?"

Larence sighed, "She doesn't remember anything."

"What do you mean she doesn't remember anything? From that night?" Robb asked, tension pulling
at his voice.

Larence shook his head and cuffed an eye, "I mean she doesn't remember anything . She doesn't
know who she is, where she is...who...who I am." Larence looked to the ground, trying to hide his
eyes watering. Robb felt his elation dim, realizing she couldn't help Jon, then feeling guilty that he
felt that first instead of sympathy for his friend. "She also-" Larence took a deep breath. "She is
struggling to walk, or use her hands, even speak sometimes." Robb then felt his heart sink and
looked at Arya, whose eyes were watering.

"Larence…. I-I'm sorry." Robb said, and Arya gave Larence a quick hug and separated when
Theon whistled teasingly. Robb glared at his friend, who didn't seem to notice as he notched
another arrow.
Larence stood there, and Robb put a hand on Jon's friend, no, now his friend's shoulder. Larence
continued, "They say she is getting better, with physical stuff, just slowly, and Lady Hornwood is
with her, and they brought a maester from the citadel which is knowledgeable about these things.
My father says she should improve, but it might be a few years before she is back to normal."

"That's good," Robb offered lamely.

"And her memories?" Arya asked with little sensitivity, but in such a way, only a young girl could
get away with.

Larence chewed his lip, "Apparently, the maester says it could come back in time, or they never
will."

"You should go see her," Arya said, "I know Lord Manderly is leaving for White Harbor soon."

"Aye," then Larence looked sheepish, "I-I just thought you would want to know, so you could tell
Jon."

Robb smiled at the young man, "Aye, that's a good idea." Larence left, and Robb looked at Arya,
"What did you want?"

Arya brightened again, "Uncle Benjen is coming!" Robb pushed the sorrow away, and his
enthusiasm soon matched his sister's, and they both left, walking quickly through the yard when
his mother saw them both.

"Arya, Robb!" They both froze, both knowing that tone, "You are both filthy, go and bathe and
dress to greet your Uncle."

Arya whined, "It's just Benjen, he doesn't care."

Robb flinched and pushed Arya towards the Keep, "Yes, mother."

"Thank you, Robb," His mother said while eyeing Arya, who just stared back with defiance.
They walked through the Keep, and Robb spoke gently to his sister, "Mother just wants you to look
your best, no need to antagonize her."

"I didn't anagize her!" Arya shouted, but Robb laughed at her mispronunciation, which got him a
kick in the shin, making him stumble and lean against the wall.

"Gods Arya!" Arya was tearing and about to run off, but Robb just grabbed her arm. "What has got
into you?"

Arya was cuffing tears away, "I hate her."

"You don't."

"I do! She's happy Jon is gone, so is the septa, and Sansa. They are all stupid, and I hate them!"
Arya broke free and ran back to her room.

Robb just stared after his upset sister, trying to disagree with her, but something in the back of his
head knew there was a hint of truth.

Just then a man in Stark livery rushed past him in a hurry, Robb thought it was Jory but wasn't
sure. Robb followed the man and discovered it was Jory, who had led him to his father's solar. Jory
knocked and was let in, and Robb looked at Fat Tom, who was on duty. Jory came back out and
saw Robb and froze.

"Lord Robb."

"Jory."

"Your-uh, my lord is busy and wants you to get ready for your uncle." Robb nodded but thought he
heard something break in the solar. He looked at Jory, who refused to look anywhere near Robb.

A few hours later, he was in the yard as Benjen and a handful of Black Brothers came through the
main gate and into the main yard. Benjen was four years younger than his father, and his hair had
yet to gray, but he looked very thin, almost gaunt, and when he and his father looked at each other,
there was little warmth. He then saw Robb and his siblings, and his smile showed through, and
Robb smiled back, and Arya, Bran, and Rickon ran and embraced their Uncle shouting for stories.

"Hey, hey, hey, come now I was just in the Haunted Forest for four months tracking a band of
cannibals…" Benjen said, trying to sound menacing, which made Rickon cover his mouth while
Arya and Bran smiled.

"Then what happened?" Bran asked.

Benjen just shook his head, "I'll tell you tonight when we eat as it is a long story, first let me greet
your father and mother."

Benjen went over and gave a brief hug to his father and, somehow, a more brief hug to his mother.

Benjen came to Robb, and Robb smiled and grasped his uncle tightly, "It's good to see you
Benjen."

"You too, my boy, gods, you are almost a man. Spar later? It might be the last time I can beat you,"
Benjen said, and Robb smiled and agreed.

Benjen came to Sansa, who curtsied like a lady, and Benjen waved her off to engulf her in a hug,
which Robb knew Sansa secretly enjoyed.

Benjen and the Black Brothers greeted the other Northern Lords that were present before Benjen
came back to his father, and his father whispered something to Benjen. His father turned around to
Robb, "Robb, you come as well."

Robb was nervous as they walked through the Keep in silence, Benjen was glaring at his father
then looking away, then looking back. This repeated over and over again until they finally made it
to the solar. When they entered, his father spoke first, "Robb close the door, you will need to hear
this as well."

Before the door was closed, Benjen spoke, "Where is he?" His father was silent as his head
dropped. Benjen repeated himself, "Where is he, Ned?"
Robb spoke up, confused by his silence, "Jon?" Benjen turned to look at him, and Robb thought
that meant to continue, "He is in Braavos, with Tormo Fregar and is training with the Muqueddes
Cinler, the Holy Demons of Braavos."

Benjen started to scowl as he turned back to Ned, "You pushed him to Braaovs? To train with
mercenaries!" Benjen said, but his father still hadn't looked at Benjen, and Robb felt something
start to coil around his insides.

"He-" His father stopped for a moment, "Jon was sent to escort a merchant with ten other soldiers
to Pentos. It was supposed to be a quick journey for Jon to get experience..."

Robb's blood drained, and he saw Benjen's fist close and clench as he gritted out, "Ned, what
happened?"

"The ship never made it, it's...Others take me…." His father took a shuddering breath, "It's gone."

Robb staggered back in shock and Benjen put his head in his hands as he fell into a chair, "Tormo
Fregar is trying to find out what happened, but he is not sure, he said it might have been pirates or
just a bad storm." Robb felt tears well up in his eyes and looked at his father, who wiped his own
away. Benjen was shaking. "Robb, why don't you go gather your siblings, I need to tell them as
well." Robb didn't move as he felt something inside himself start to fade. His father may have said
something else, but Robb felt the rest of his body go numb. Robb didn't even feel the tears on his
cheek.

Suddenly his father was in front of him and wrapped his arms around him. Robb tried to keep the
tears at bay, to be strong like his father, like Jon.

They separated, and his father put both his hands on Robb's shoulders.

"Robb." Robb looked up to meet his father's grey eyes, "Go to the godswood, Robb. I'll-I'll tell
them later." Robb just nodded, and not knowing what to do left the solar trying to keep his
emotions under control. Theon came up to him in the yard, but Robb pushed him away, hearing his
friend mutter 'asshole.' Larence, Arthur Glenmore, and Eddard Karstark came to him, but Robb
waved them off as he entered the godswood. He got to the heart tree and saw Arya there, the hem
of her dress already dirty with mud. She held a stick, pretending it was a sword and hit the tree,
pretending it was a foe.
She must have heard his footsteps for she turned briefly and then focused back on her wooden
opponent, "Tell mother I am coming, I only come here cause she and the septa are scared of it."
Arya laughed, but Robb barely heard her and just hugged her fiercely, holding back a sob. Arya
yelped and tried to squirm away, "Er, Geroff me," Arya said as she successfully extricated herself
from Robb's embrace. She looked at Robb, who was now weeping freely, Arya looked at him
nervously, "Robb, what happened?"

Robb choked out, "Jon." Arya looked confused, trying not to comprehend it, so Robb continued,
"He was on a ship for Pentos. Its... he's... he's gone."

Robb saw Arya's eyes widen, then filled with tears. She tore away from him, and she sprinted deep
into the godswood, her cries echoing in concert with her footsteps. Robb couldn't find the energy to
chase after her and only kneeled in front of the heart tree, praying for Jon, hoping against hope he
was out there still. Robb couldn't control the tears as they wet the ground in front of the tree.

He wasn't sure how long he was there, but at some point, he heard footsteps behind him. Then a
high, thin voice started speaking, "You know, I think I prefer godswoods to septs. They always
were much too drafty, and the old Septon always tried to look down my sister's dress." Robb just
clenched, he did not want anyone to see him like this, especially not Wylla Manderly, she would
never let him hear the end of it.

Every time they spoke since the night of the feast, it had been awkward and disjointed, yet his
father and mother forced them to spend time talking with each other every couple of days. Now,
however, he could not be seen like this, not by her, not with tear stains and puffy red eyes.

"Go away," Robb said, curter than he intended.

"Uh," Wylla scoffed, "Looks like your manners are still as lacking as ever, I guess only fine ladies
such as Lady Royce get your best."

Robb felt his grief turn to rage, "Leave me, now!" Robb didn't turn but knew the face Wylla was
probably wearing, and the words she said next confirmed it.

"Oh, don't worry, I will, my Lord . Why my father insists is beyond me," she said, and Robb heard
her turn and started to walk away.
Guilt flooded him, mixing with grief and rage, and gods knew that he had not been the best host.
"I'm sorry, my lady," Robb's voice wavered severely as he wiped his eyes, trying to dispel the tear
tracts. The sound of her steps stopped, and Robb continued, trying to get his voice under control,
"I'm sorry, I just heard the news of my brother Jon." He heard steps get closer, then suddenly she
was kneeling next to him, her garish green hair and blue eyes were a deep blue and filled with
sympathy when she saw his red-rimmed eyes. "His ship-" Robb took a deep breath "His ship
disappeared in the Narrow Sea, they don't know where it is." Wylla placed a hand on his shoulder,
and Robb made no move to displace it, finding it comforting.

"It's a shame, he was much more courteous than you." She said, and Robb, despite his grief, gave a
choked chuckle and smiled at her. She smiled back. As they stared at each other for a long
moment. Robb felt the tears come back and looked away, trying to keep it at bay.

"He was always better at that then me, though he was shy as a maid if anyone tried to speak with
him," Robb said.

"I never understood that phrase, maybe it's because I was never that shy," Wylla said, and Robb
smiled again. "Though your brother could hardly look in my eyes when he greeted me."

"Aye, Jon never thought he was good enough," Robb said, "He was much better than me, but Jon
never wanted anything, he only wanted to go to the Wall to protect me," Robb said as tears
continued to well and Robb struggled to try to stop them falling. Wylla's hand never left his
shoulder, and then Robb felt her hand in his. He gripped it tight and placed the other on the heart
tree.

"He sounds like a good man," Wylla whispered, "A good brother."

Robb gave another quick silent sob, "I didn't realize how much I needed him or relied on him. I
thought he was going to be by my side, helping me do what my father does and now…"

Wylla wrapped her other arm around Robb's shoulder and leaned her head against his as he cried
again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew if his mother or the septa caught him, he
would be berated for how inappropriate this was. Robb didn't care, couldn't care.

Wylla sat back and removed her hand from his shoulder, but left the other where it was. Robb felt
the warmth of her hand still and wished it hadn't left. Then she spoke softly, "Tell me about him."
 They sat in silence as Robb was eventually able to gain control of his voice again and thought back
on Jon, "Did I tell you about the time Jon and I hid in the crypts?"

Wylla just shook her head, "We have never spoken long enough to get to that story." Wylla had a
small smile, and Robb knew it was gentle teasing, so he gave a little grin back.

"No, I guess we haven't." So Robb told her that story, then another. Then Wylla told him one of
hers, which was about her sister. They continued to talk for a long time. Sitting underneath the red
leaves and pale limbs of the heart-tree as the sky slowly started to darken, all the while, Wylla's
hand never left Robb's.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to everyone who has continued to read this! It is always fun to escape and
come up with stories in this world. As I have warned previously, Jon is going to go
through some rough times and I know that is not everyone's cup of tea in fanfiction so
if you stop reading this I totally get it.

I haven't been writing as much the past few weeks so I've been eating away at my
chapter bank. Hopefully, I'll have more focus this week!

I hope everyone has been keeping sane!

Feel free to comment on what you think, both good and bad. Also if you want to ask
questions, I am more than willing to answer any that I feel won't spoil the future.
 Chapter 20
Chapter Summary

Jon gets acquainted with his surroundings.

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon

"The Father's face is stern and strong," The voice sang next to him.

"Pull!" The cacophony of slaves yelled in partial unison.

"he sits and judges right from wrong."

"Pull!"

"He weighs our lives, the short and long,"

"Pull!"

"and loves the little children."

"Pull!"

Jon was going to kill him, The last hour had been fucking Songs of the Seven just like this, and it
felt like the songs were burrowing into his skull slowly.

He would do this now and again the cheeky shit. Usually, it was proper sailor's songs, but once a
day or every couple of days, he'd devote a whole turn to these fucking songs, and Jon felt the urge
to end it once and for all. His back was sore pulling for their turn, and his slave collar was itching
like hell, and Jon was going to kill him if this lasted any longer.

Jon's thoughts must have had no effect as they continued to pull because the older man just
continued to sing in rhythm with the drumbeat in front of him. The beating drum set the strokes of
the oar, and as it beat the older man, with his fucking smile next to him kept blathering about. Jon
glared at him, and the man just smiled back and sang louder.
"The Mother gives the gift of life,"

"Pull!"

"and watches over every wife."

"Pull!"

"Her gentle smile ends all strife,"

"Pull!"

"and she loves her little children."

"Pull!"

Jon looked to his left at the man with overgrown hair and beard, who was dirty and unkempt and
hadn't spoken a word in the three weeks Jon was chained next to him. Although he could make out
the men surrounding him well enough, it was dimmer than it should have been in the rower's cabin
as the sun was reaching her zenith. They never saw the sun directly unless it was in the mornings
and evenings, and he had the unfortunate experience to be in the third position for that day next to
the oar slit, or they were given one of their three breaks for food and water.

. Still, outside of the few hours around noon, it was dim enough that their guardian would have to
sometimes wield a lantern in one.

Jon studied the man next to him as they rowed. The man was probably five or six inches taller than
Jon, thin but with a muscled back, arms, and legs from long hours of rowing. Jon had even felt his
body adjust, but he'd noticed that any fat on him and even some of his muscles had started to melt
away, but being a galley slave would do that to you.

"The Warrior stands before the foe,"

" Pull!"

"protecting us where e'er we go."

"Pull!"

"With sword and shield and spear and bow,"

"Pull!"

"he guards the little children."

"Pull!"

Jon looked around again and saw one of the oarmaster's minions, the man Jon had nicknamed
'Arsehole' looking for someone to whip with the Belt. Traditional whips wouldn't do as they broke
the skin, and broken skin led to infection, and infection leads to one less man to pull an oar. So this
specially made Belt was there to inflict as much pain as possible, but leave skin unbroken.
However hard their work was, his masters needed them to pull oars and pull them well, so Jon was
a slave, but a comparatively well-treated one, or so the Septon next to him continued to claim

Jon noticed Arsehole was looking at him. Shit. Jon braced as the Belt slapped across his back, and
Jon grit his teeth through the sting of pain.

"The Crone is very wise and old,"

"Pull!"

"and sees our fates as they unfold."

"Pull!"

"She lifts her lamp of shining gold."

"Pull!"

"to lead the little children."

"Pull!"

The day he was chained to the oar, they had stripped him, washed him in cold seawater, and
wrapped a thin leather collar around his neck. That first turn at the oar nearly killed him. Luckily
the shaggy man chained to his left, who he later learned was Harald, motioned to copy him, and
Jon eventually got used to it, but at the end of his second turn, he was exhausted and couldn't
breathe through his recently broken nose. That was when the man who was chained to his right,
Cason, or rather Septon Cason, set his nose straight again. Or straight enough that Cason was
happy with it and Jon could breathe with more regularity.

Now, if only Jon could stop his damn singing.

"The Smith, he labors day and night,"

"Pull!"

"to put the world of men to the right."

"Pull!"

"With hammer, plow, and fire bright,"

"Pull!"
"he builds for little children."

"Pull!"

Jon's only solace was that as soon as this song stopped, his turn finished as well. Rowing non-stop,
Cason told him, would kill a man quickly and, more importantly, cost a fortune in water. If there
was one thing, a stingy man like Captain Ventarro avoided was spending his money unnecessarily.
Unless, of course, it was on himself. Ventarro's cabin aboard the larger of the two caravels, The
Parçalandi, where the asshole spent all of his time, was supposed to showcase his wealth.

Which meant here on the galleass, Gymus Arabasi , or The Silver Chariot, another captain, Emin,
was nominally in charge while Ryjar had actual control. So, that white-eyed fuck had every other
row of oarsmen take alternate turns rowing from sun up to sun down with an hour break at the sun's
zenith. Of course, if the waves were rough enough, they were allowed to stop, but that usually
meant that they were pushed to exhaustion prior, trying to outrun the storm. This had already
happened twice, and Jon would not look forward to it happening again.

Still, the breaks felt like godsends and three times a day; sunrise, noon, and sunset, the slaves
would be led up a row at a time to eat, shit, and piss, then led back down. The ship had twenty-four
oars total, so seventy-two slaves. Three to each row. Every day they would move positions, middle
to the outside, outside to the inside and inside to the middle. Since they rowed for a turn and took a
break, they moved slower, but the slaves didn't die, which Jon guessed was the intention. Also,
with three masts and large square sails, the ship made good time, or so he was told by Cason.

Luckily his midday break and meal of gruel, hard biscuit, and watered-piss were coming at the end
of this turn, and Jon was hoping that Harald wouldn't mind if he slept on him for a bit before their
next turn started again. Since he never spoke, Jon didn't feel the need to ask permission.

"The Maiden dances through the sky,"

"Pull!"

"she lives in every lover's sigh."

"Pull!"

"Her smiles teach the birds to fly,"

"Pull!"

"and gives dreams to little children."

"Pull!"
God's first week was brutal, but the only thing that kept him going was the hate and loathe as he
was to admit it, Septon Cason and his intolerable singing. Needless to say, Jon preferred the hate,
hate, and determination to escape and get revenge for Vimeras, for Haro, for Brachen, Sylvar, the
crew, and, most importantly, Evrett. Every time Jon closed his eyes, he saw his friend, blood
leaking from his mouth, asking him not to let him go.

Jon thought he was close, close to finding a way to kill 'Arsehole,' grab the keys, unlock himself,
kill the rest of the crew, lead a revolt and kill the men on the other ships. It was a long shot, but Jon
couldn't keep doing this.

Jon pulled again, then looked in front of him. Cason had introduced him to everyone around them.
Most only spoke a smattering of Valyrian, barring Harald and the Dothraki twins, as it was mostly
everyone's second tongue, so they still could communicate. There was Xano, a former archer from
the Summer Isles who was exiled and then found himself enslaved, who sat in front of Cason.
Then Larris, who sat in front of himself, was from Westeros initially but grew up in a village in Old
Andalos, but his father had debts and sold him to pay them off. Dolath, a thin Norvoshi, was in
front of Harald. They all looked at each other as they were readying to leave to shit, piss, and eat.
Jon turned around to see the Dothraki twins Rorlo and Ollo, and another Braavosi, Horo. The
Dothraki were quiet and spoke little else aside from their mother tongue, but Horo would
sometimes talk, though was often morose.

"The Seven Gods who made us all,"

"Pull!"

Xano looked at Jon and motioned his hands to hurry up, and Jon gave an involuntary smile, this got
him another hit on the back from Arsehole. Jon hissed as the leather made contact, and Xano gave
an apologetic look. He was the only other one that had moments of cheeriness aside from Cason,
but that was because he had only been here a few more weeks than Jon. Jon grimaced again on his
next pull as he could feel the bruise that was starting to form from the Belt.

There was no speaking when Arsehole was patrolling, except Cason's intolerable singing, which
their brutal beast pointedly ignored, and ignored anyone who sang along. However, when the other
one that watched them, the one Jon nicknamed "Not Arsehole," they were allowed to speak to each
other as long as they rowed. And as luck would have it, after the midday break, it would be Not
Arsehole's turn to patrol and beat them.

"are listening if we should call."

A few rowers mumbled along with the verse Septon Cason sang. Few of them could speak
Westerosi, but they had all learned the songs of Septon Cason as he had been rowing longer than
almost every man here. The other slaves, Jon assumed, enjoyed the more traditional sailor songs
far more enthusiastically. Still, even they would sing along to anything, especially if it signaled the
end of a turn.

"Pull!" This verse had a little more enthusiasm from the chained slaves.

"So close your eyes, you shall not fall,"

"Pull!"

"they see you, little children."

"Pull!"

Jon forgot his annoyance from earlier and joined in, humming the chorus, sensing the end of the
burn that plagued his fatigued muscles.

"Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,"

All the current rowers were singing now, and to his surprise, he heard Harald humming along with
him.

"they see you, little children."

"Pull!!"

They all shouted the last 'Pull,' and the drum signaled three times quickly to signify the end of a
turn. Arsehole turned to all of them, yelling in Valyrian, "Turn finished you useless sea-turds, the
first row up to shit, piss, eat and then back down with all yous." Arsehole finished his eloquent
speech, unlocked the first row, and pointed with the short cudgel he had taken from the loop in his
Belt, and the first row went up onto the main deck in silent obedience.

"Not a bad turn, wouldn't you say Toli?" Cason asked with too much contentment.

Jon got irrationally angry, or maybe it was rational. "I swear to even your gods septon. I will kill
you one of these days if you don't stop that false cheeriness."

Cason just smiled in return, "Well, seven's blessing on you anyway, Toli."
Jon turned to Harald, "How have you not killed him yet?" But Harald, silent as stone, remained so,
but Larris turned around.

Surprisingly the man decided to engage in conversation if it could be called such a thing, "I
thought about it for a long while."

"And?" Jon asked.

"" I'm a slave in this life, I won't be one in the next life," Larris said.

Jon frowned and looked at Septon Cason, "The Seven make you slaves if you sin?"

Cason smiled at that, "Yes." Then thought a moment, "Well, one of the seven hells has you serve
demons, so I suppose that could be construed as slavery."

Jon got even more confused, "Wait, are you assigned one seven different hells? Or do you travel
through all seven at different times?"

Cason laughed, "I asked that exact same question at the septry I served at for a time, and you know
what?" Jon just stayed silent, and Cason continued, "People disagree! Some High Septons said
they are forced to travel between the hells on their journey to the worst. Others said each one is for
certain sins, others say the hells are only for one to atone for sins and are welcomed into the Seven
Heavens after their penance is paid."

Jon just shook his head, "It's all a bit confusing."

"Well, did your septon not teach you this? You obviously grew up in Westeros, no?"

Jon bristled at the mention of his origin as he had tried to keep that secret, but he guessed at this
point the truth didn't matter, not amongst the slaves. "I grew up in the North, I worship the Old
Gods, the sean-déithe, in the Old Tongue."
Cason was about to speak when Jon heard an unfamiliar voice talk behind him, "An labhraíonn tú
an sean-theanga?" Jon turned to look wide-eyed at Harald, who for the first time spoke more than
two words, but the shaggy man was only looking at the row in front of him, and unfortunately for
Harald, he only understood a couple of them.

Jon tried to remember the lessons his father forced him and Robb to take on the Old Tongue, but he
wasn't sure exactly what all Harald had said, but caught some of it, "Cuid, beagán." Jon responded.
Yes. Little. That was probably two of the twenty-five or so words he could remember of the Old
Tongue. But Harald nodded a little back to him and Harald went back to being quiet. A Northman?
Or maybe a Wildling. Jon looked at the other rowers around him who were all surprised, Jon just
said out of habit, "Uume mdogo."

Xano started laughing loudly, too loudly, and Jon just looked confused and a little angry. Xano was
smiling brightly, and Jon and the other slaves stared at him in annoyance for disrupting their
wallowing with something as pleasant as laughter.

"What did you just say?" Xano asked in Valyrian and Jon repeated it, leading to Xano to laugh
again and Jon heard a couple of chuckles from some other slaves who Jon assumed could speak
Summer Islander. "That means 'little cock," Xano said, and a few more slaves laughed, and Jon's
face was red but found himself chuckling with the other slaves. It felt good to laugh, an honest,
genuine laugh. Even if he knew it was a fleeting moment and may never happen again, Jon
appreciated the small moment. That being said, If Jon ever escaped this galleass, he was going to
bury Medvjed in the ground for that little joke.

Soon, Jon was up on deck and had shit and pissed and was ready to eat. It was him, Harald and
Cason, along with the three others from across the aisle. Jon was finally given the inedible gruel
and stale, hard bread when Arsehole slapped his bowl to the ground, splattering the remaining half
of his watery sustenance onto the deck.

"Finish up!" Arsehole said, and Jon glared at the man then received a slap on the back from the
Belt, but Jon ignored the pain as he swallowed the stale bread as fast as he could not willing to risk
Arsehole's ire but rather the risk of choking to death.

"I'm going to kill him," Jon murmured later, "I think I have it figured out, and I'll kill him, and we
will escape."

"No." Cason said, "No, I've seen many men try to do it, but it ends in failure every time. The gods
have determined that our time for liberation has yet to come."
"Fuck your seven, they play no part in this. These men did this, and I will make them pay for those
they have killed." Then Jon whispered softly, "for those that they have raped," Jon said, and the
Septon grimaced as if he'd been struck.

" Those that seek revenge will incur the wrath upon themselves," Septon Cason quoted to Jon.

Jon was silent until they returned to their bench and Jon just looked at Cason, "You seem like a
good man, one of the few sections I have ever met that hasn't treated me like shit, so I say this in all
respect," Jon took a breath, " Fuck your holy text, I am getting out of here." Jon looked away, then
let his anger carry him away, "And what the fuck do your gods have to do with anything. I'm a
bastard, they've never given a shit about my ilk. So why would they give a dusty fuck now?"

Cason gave him a patronizing smile that irked Jon further. The Septon tried to place a manacled
hand on his shoulder but was stopped short of doing so by Jon's glare, "The holy texts never speak
ill of bastards, they do not speak much of them at all actually. Which leads me to believe either the
Seven view us all as bastards, or bastards are viewed the same as everyone else."

Jon's lip twitched upwards, "If only you could tell that to my father's wife."

"Well, Toli, whatever gods you believe in, I'll pray to them you don't do something fool-hearted or
reckless," Cason said.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jon said, and they sat in silence as the other rows were taken up and back
down.

Soon the drum signaled their start, and Jon tried to get comfortable enough to sleep as he continued
to hear the words, "Pull!"

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"The fuck ya think ya're doing?" Not Arsehole spoke.

Jon opened his eye to see Not Arsehole five rows in front of him where the sailor that Jon was
captured with, Jyntyro or something like that, was sitting. The sailor's hands were off the oar.

"I said, what the fuck do ya think ya're doing?" Their guard asked again.

"I-I c-can't," Jyntyro sputtered.

"Can't what?"

The sailor looked wide-eyed, "I-I can't, I need, I need to get outta here! I need to get outta-" He was
cut off with a slap of the Belt across the face.

"Yous sit here and help them two move the oar back and forth."

"No, no no no no no no," The man was moving his head back and forth then looked down and
moved the chains back and forth, trying to wrench himself free. The next blow clipped him in the
back of the head, and the man tried to tear off the collar around his neck in panic.

"I said, shut ya fuckin' mouth and row!" Non Arsehole bellowed out, then delivered another
massive blow, then tried to whip him again, but the sailor caught it as it painfully wrapped around
the arm, and Jyntyro wrenched it free.

"No!" the sailor screamed, "I NEED TO GET OUT," he finished, delving into hysteria and
whipped the Belt and clipped the face of Not Arsehole making him stumble back into a few of the
other rowers who were now ignoring the oarmaster's beat of the drum. Not that it mattered as the
oarmaster himself looked on in shock. No one was pulling now in order to watch what was these
events unfold. "I NEED TO LEAVE I NEED TO LEAVE!" The sailor was whipping the Belt like
a madman, hitting himself as often as 'Arsehold.'

"I NEED TO-" The sailor had been so hysterical that Jon didn't even see Arsehole pass them all
and swing his cudgel with two hands and connect with the side of the sailor's head. The sailor
slumped down, and Arsehole raised his cudgel again and brought it down again, then again. Then
continued as the sound of bone breaking, flesh flattening, and blood splattering was all that could
be heard. Every slave stood still as their oars as Arsehole continued to slam the cudgel down.

"Remylo, enough!" The man stopped with a jerk of his body at the sound of the voice. Ryjar was
standing there, surveying the scene. Arsehole or Remylo apparently stopped the beating and turned
to face Ryjar. The beast had blood splattered all over him, and worse was the smile the man wore.

"Wipe that smile off your face," Ryjar said, then looked at Not Arsehole, "What happened?"

"Little shit cracked, wouldn' row," Not Arsehole said weakly, the man in some pain from the blows
Jyntyro had delivered.

"Well, he cannot do much of anything now, can he?" Ryjar said with annoyance.

Remylo used the cudgel to point at the sailor, who Jon could hear take small, irregular and ragged
breaths, something pink showing from the hole in his head. "Da fuckin' slave whipped Jesmyl, was
screaming like some daft gull. Wha' was I s'pose to do?"

Ryjar just jutted his jaw out and pinched the bridge of his nose, "We have other ways of dealing
with slaves who disobey."

"But 'e hit 'im!" Remylo said.

"And you have killed him, rendering him fucking useless," Ryjar raised his hand, "Speak again,
and I will chain you in his place." Both of the guards quieted, and Ryjar marched on, "Now.
Dispose of the now useless cargo, and make sure to get all the other bits of him as well." Ryjar
turned, "You are lucky we have the merchant's young boys to take his place. If you kill another
slave without my leave to do so, I swear to the Merlin King I will send you to his watery halls after
removing bits of you piece by fucking piece!" Ryjar stalked off, and the drumbeat started again.

Jon turned to Cason, "What happened to him? The slave?"

"Broke." Cason shook his head, "And so unlucky about how, poor man. Seven guide him on his
journey."

"What do you mean 'how?'" Jon asked.

Cason turned to him, "We all break, son. Most just stop caring, turn to apathy, show no emotion,
and become living dead. Others become a bit mad like our poor fellow here. Others break down in
tears, others get angry, or they go through them all at once, or it comes to them at separate times."

Jon shook his head, "I will never break."

Cason gave him a sympathetic smile, "You will, son, you will."

"You haven't," Jon pointed out.

Cason's face lost its cheeriness a bit, "I've been broken long before I pulled this oar."

Jon looked confused. Yes, they were all slaves, but Cason, Cason, didn't seem like any of the other
slaves pulling an oar. The empty gaze Cason gave Jon unnerved him, and Jon tried to think of
something to get the old Cason back.

The merchant's eldest son Jorcho, must have come from one of the other ships as he was marched
in. The poor boy, who looked as if he'd lived in pig shit, sat in the empty seat and grasped the oar
that was covered in blood. The rowers started again, and the chants of 'Pull' were heard as the
drum started its beat.

"Did your holy text really not speak poorly about bastards?" Jon finally asked.

Cason sat there in silence, then blinked a few times before asking, "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"
Jon repeated the question, and Cason's eyes lit up again when he answered, "Not the ones that I
have seen."

"There are different versions?" Jon asked.

"Who copies books?" Cason asked.

Thrown from the question, Jon took a moment to respond. "Maesters? A Septon probably, right?"

"Aye, and what if a septon came across a passage they didn't agree with? Or what if his High
Holiness wanted to make a change to the doctrine? Or a Lord didn't like a certain passage for
causing guilt?" Jon wasn't sure how to respond to that, so Cason kept going, "The Faith of the
Seven has been around for a thousand years or more, and a thousand small changes and probably a
thousand larger ones have come since."

"So...the Seven's teachings have changed."

"Probably, maybe, who truly knows? That is why I was in Old Andalos."

Jon was confused, "Why?"

"Because that was where the Faith first came to be. There are still a few septries there, older than
any in Westeros. Some of which currently do not recognize the High Septon as the mouthpiece of
Seven."

"Heresy," Larris grunted in between pulls.

"Yes, of course," Cason said, winking at Jon. "Still, the oldest records of the Seven-Pointed Star I
found had interesting differences from the one I had brought from the Vale."

"Like bastards?" Jon asked.

"Like bastards." Cason said but then adjusted, "Adultery, yes, it is a sin, of course. But the bastard
it creates, well it says "the fruit of adultery is blameless before the Seven and the responsibility of
the child lays with the ones who had sinned.'"

"That….is not much help," Jon responded.

Cason chuckled, but Larris interrupted him. "Blackfyres," Pull, "Prove," Pull, "Bastards," Pull,"
Are sinful." Jon tried not to get irked by that statement.

Cason thought for a moment, "That was fought for power, as have many wars. Most of which are
fought between non-bastards. The Dance of Dragons? True-born siblings and the only one with
honor was a bastard." Larris grunted in disapproval, and Cason looked at Jon, apologetic,
"Blackfyres really gave bastards no chance, didn't they?"

Jon just shrugged.

Cason continued, "Some of the best men I have met are bastards, some of the biggest bastards
weren't. Men are men, no matter how they are born. Some are good, some are bad, most are both."

Jon thought about the men he had cut down, his failure to save his crew of men, of Evrett and
Brachen, how he stood by while Fyro took his place in death and how he couldn't move, stricken
with fear as three women, no, one woman and two children, were being defiled. Am I a bastard of a
man? Jon quickly shut those thoughts from his mind knowing that some sort of darkness laid in
wait there ready to take him. Jon changed the subject, "what about slavery?"

Cason smiled sadly, "Ah, well, slavery is something all versions made abundantly clear was the
most abominable of sins."

Larris spoke up then, "Tell our captors" Pull, "maybe they" Pull, "haven't heard."

Cason gave a full-throated laugh, and even Jon smiled at Larris. Cason simply said, "Do not fret,
the Seven will not let our lives end this way."

"I know," Jon responded as he continued to study the movement of his captors. "So you were some
traveling septon looking for old tomes?"

Cason smiled again, "I wanted to make sure if I was to spread the teachings of the Seven I would
teach the correct ones." Jon thought that was a good start, but it seemed Cason took that dedication
to an extreme conclusion.

"Horo, what do you believe?" Jon asked in Valyrian.

"That my oar is heavy, and your voice is grating."

Jon held his hands up to Horo and looked at the Dothraki twins who were just studying him, and
Jon didn't even know how to ask then turned to Harald, "Crann croí, cora coill?" Heart-tree,
 weirwood?

Harald didn't look at him but sat a bit straighter and nodded in response.

Cason interrupted then and asked Jon, "Tell me about your northern gods?"

So he did. They spoke through the whole turn of the oar until it was their turn, and soon the only
words Jon could say were, "Pull."

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"The Father's face is stern and strong,"

"Godsdamn it, Cason," Pull. Jon said. "Couldn't you start," Pull "with something else?" Pull

Cason gave him a coy smile and then switched his tune to something Jon was pleasantly surprised
to hear.

"Farwell and So long," Cason started to sing. Jon actually enjoyed this catchy tune.

"Pull," They yelled out.

" To you, Dornish Ladies," Cason sang louder, and Jon joined in. Soon there were no sounds of
'pull' as anyone who spent time at sea knew this song.

Chapter End Notes

Again, if Jon can understand I different language I'll try and make it clear which one
they are speaking.
Thank you again for reading, if this isn't where you want the story to go I'm sorry! But
thank you for reading up to this point!

Thanks to everyone who has read, commented, or even just viewed!

This chapter is a little earlier than usual. The next one will be posted sometime next
week!
 Chapter 21
Chapter Summary

A fortuitous event gives Jon an opening.

Chapter Notes

Warning: This chapter could have some triggers for some people.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Jon

Three quick beats of the drum and Jon slumped over, exhausted. The last turn of the day finished,
and the rows in front and behind him had slept through Jon's. Many would rather sleep than stay
awake, waiting to satiate the hunger that was always there.

Arsehole came down and yelled at everyone, "One row of you mangy dogs, and be quick about it!
If I am not drunk and asleep soon, I will take it out on you!"

Jon's final turn for the night ended as the oarmaster had left for his own cabin as Arsehole came by
to each row, unlocking them one at a time to allow them up top for some food and water.

Jon was sitting at the bow of the ship, finishing his business while Cason and Harald sat there
waiting for him to be done so they could finally eat. Jon eventually did and then was handed the
small bowls they reused for all of the slaves. Soon Jon was eating, staring off the ship where the
sun had just set. Jon saw the two sailing vessels a ways off and continued to think of what to do
about them when he broke free. Jon was looking around the galley, trying to study the deck as best
he could for what little time he had, while Arsehole and another pirate sat there, staring at him and
waiting for him to finish.

A flash of lightning illuminated the dimming sky on the horizon, and a while later of moments
later, the faint sound of thunder rumbled past them. Grey clouds were starting to form and move
quickly towards them. One drop of water hit Jon on the hand, and by instinct, Jon stuffed his face
with the rest of his food and drank some watered-ale, and soon, they were hurried into the rowers'
cabin.
It was going to be a long night.

They were stuffed back into their rows, and the oarmaster gave the signal for all rows to begin, and
Jon could already feel the fatigue settle in.

He hated storms, the two he had seen already only meant hours of rowing to try and get out of its
path or to outrun it. Cason says sometimes they can't, and that is when they try to ride it out. Jon
had yet to experience the joy of riding out a storm and really hoped he never would have to, but the
storm had looked dark and dangerous.

The drumbeats started their rhythm faster than what their average pace usually was, and the chorus
of 'pulls' started. With the long day they already had, his body was already begging to stop. Jon
looked at Cason, who seemed a little pale but opened his mouth and started singing again.

It must have been an hour, maybe more, but the waves were becoming choppy, and Jon felt like the
storm was overtaking them.

Cason continued to sing along, a nervous tremble threatening to undercut his steady voice as the
shouts of pull became more and more ragged.

Cason finished one of his religious hymns and went straight into a song with a little more vigor,
and dare he say, a little black humor.

"We'd be alright with grey at our tail,"

"Pull!" the slaves grunted in unison, though Jon gave a morbid chuckle at Cason.

"We'd be alright with grey at our tail,"

"Pull!"

"We'd be alright with grey at our tail,"

"Pull!"
" Cause we keep our oars in time."

"Pull!"

Jon lent his voice to the chorus tired as his lungs might be.

"And we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Cause we keep our oars in time!"

"Pull!"

Jon waited for the next verse, and as he felt himself lean forward, causing his oar to miss a stroke,
which earned a lash with the Belt from Arsehole, who at this point was holding onto a pillar with
one hand to keep himself from stumbling.

"We'd be alright if the wind tore our sails" Haro gave a nervous chuckle behind him, and Jon
could see Dolath was smirking.

"Oh, we'd alright if the wind tore our sails."

"Yes, we'd be alright if the wind tore our sails,"

"Cause we keep our oars in time,"

Those two and Jon added their voices to the chorus,

"And we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Because we keep our oars in time!"

"Pull!"

Jon thought he heard Arsehole mutter "daft fucking bastards," under his breath, but he knew the
man was happy to stay where he was.

Cason took a deep breath and started the next verse.

"We'd be alright if the storm breached the hull,"

"Pull!"

Somewhere to their right, a slave gave a small laugh, and a few more murmurs of laughter joined.

"Yes, we'd be alright if the storm breached the hull,"

"Pull!"

"Oh, we'd be alright if the storm breached the hull,"

"Pull!"
"Because we keep our oars in time,

"Pull!"

Now nearly ten slaves sang the chorus.

"And we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'll row the old galleass along."

"Pull!"

"Because we keep our oars in time!"

"Pull!"

Cason started the next verse a little tentatively.

"We'd be alright if the sea reached our skulls,"

"Pull!"

"Oh, we'd be alright if the sea reached our skulls,"

"Pull!"

"Yes, we'd be alright if the sea reached our skulls,"

"Pull!"
Then Cason stopped singing for a couple strokes and then continued.

"Because we'd keep our oars in time,"

Despite the fatigue and situation they found themselves in Jon could tell the mood was lighter and
Jon took a breath to start the next chorus when a wave slammed into his side of the ship, and the
force threw him to the right, his chains catching and pulling at his limbs like two dogs pulling a
bone.

Water rushed in through the gaps of the oar. The levity and courage from the moment before
evaporated and replaced by saltwater and genuine fear.

The oarmaster must have recovered faster than he did, as he was already yelling at them, "Oars in,
Oars in and plug up the slits!" Just then, another wave collided with the side of the galley, and
more water rushed into their cabin, and Jon felt the cold seawater splash on him, and the rest
washed over his semi-prone body. Unsteadily, Jon was able to get himself back on the bench and
help pull the oar back into the ship.

"We will have to ride it out, Toli, pray to your gods that we make it."

"Or I'll pray to the gods to ensure we die," Jon said.

Cason gave him a look of disappointment, which chagrined Jon. Which bothered him both for
saying it and for some part of him wanting Cason's approval. "Well, Toli, if we do not make it, I
will see you in the Seven Heavens."

"I think you mean the Seven Hells," Jon joked darkly, but Cason's face stayed the same.

"I do not."

Jon didn't know how to respond, so he turned to Harald and watched, unable to help as the shaggy
man and the other third oarsmen were busy moving blocks of wood into the slits and getting them
tightly into place.
Water continued to pound against the hull, and the violent waves tilted Jon forward and back, side
to side. He and many others had to have one hand on the men in front of him, and Jon felt one of
the Dothraki twins vomit on his back. For the next bit, it smelled like sick until the seawater was
able to work its way in which alleviated it some, but not much. They were soon in a small pool that
came up to his ankle of seawater, sick, piss, and probably shit, but Jon refused to think about it. For
he only focused on keeping the contents of his stomach inside him and on making sure he didn't
fall down again.

Cason was now praying next to him, and Jon closed his eyes to pray to his own gods. Jon realized
many of his fellow slaves were muttering, whether in fear or prayer, or both he would never know.

"No, no, no, no," Xano said in front of him. Jon felt dread build recognizing that tone. "I-I can't die
here. I can't die here!" Xano shouted.

"Oi shut your fuckin' mouth," Remylo said near the ladder than led to the deck, and Jon looked
back to see the beast of a man grabbing the ladder with all oh his strength. Jon hoped he wouldn't
beat one of them to death in this due to the risk of injuring himself, but Remylo the Arsehole was
not a rational man.

"No! Please goddess Xthua, save me!" Xano screamed, the fear and despair getting to him. Xano
was breaking, and Remylo let one arm go off the steps and pointed right at Xano.

"One more peep and I will stuff my fuckin' cudgel down your throat-" the crack of thunder
drowned out his words, and violent wave threw them all to the side, and Jon could hear Remylo
stumble to the deck.

Cason spoke then, "Xano, Xano listen to me, boy. Listen and hear my voice."

Xano said nothing and continued to move back and forth faster than the waves rocked the rest of
them.

"Xano, can you hear me?" Cason spoke.

"I need to leave, I need to le-" Jon jumped back in shock as Cason headbutted the back of Xano and
the Summer Islander lurched forward, then looked around with eyes that were starting to focus
again. The skin above Cason's brow was broken, and blood was trickling down his face.
"What is your name?" Cason asked.

"Xano."

"That's right, you're Xano, yes?"

"Yes."

"Where are you-" thunder cracked again, interrupting Cason, "Where are you from?"

"Koj," Xano answered automatically.

"Koj, beautiful I have heard," Cason said agreeably, "Your family? Did you have a family?"

"Y-yes," Xano said, voice wavering.

Cason nodded, "You're scared, that's okay. I'm scared, Toli is scared, right, Toli?"

Jon nodded, "Yes, very."

Cason didn't miss a beat, "We are all scared, we are scared together, but we need to breathe, to stay
calm, together." Through the beating and tossing and turning, Jon noticed many of the other slaves
listening as Cason spoke. "Breathe in deep, good, now out," Cason said, leading Xano and to Jon's
surprise himself in trying to calm himself.

Xano nodded, the somewhat cheerful man, now looked like a scared child, but Cason continued to
speak, and the calm was returning to Xano. Cason said again, "Tell me of home. Tell me about
your family." Xano did, and steadiness entered into his voice also, and Jon just listened, fearing for
his life but comforted by the conversation.

He didn't know how long they were tossed in the storm as the wind howled, and the sky was rent
apart by thunder and lightning, but Jon sat there, as Cason and Xano spoke. Chaos encircled them,
but they sat in calm fear, riding out the storm.
Then the gods had other plans.

"Oars out! Oar out! Now! Now! Now!" The oarmaster bellowed out, and Jon could hear steps and
shouts above them, cutting through the sound of the storm. Jon didn't know what was going on, as
he was told anytime they were in these rough of waves they were much more likely to break an oar
than steer one way or another. Yet they did, and as the third oarsmen took away blocks of wood.
The wind and spray of the ocean immediately forced its way in, and but the drum started to pound
regardless. "PORT HOLD!" The oarmaster bellowed like an angry merchant, and as Jon held the
oar as he lurched forward, his chains and muscles straining to keep him in place.

"Suas, Toli," Harald said quietly as he got him back into place, and Jon could see him start to hold
on to the rib on the hull while Cason was clutched at the beam next to him. Jon just tried to latch
onto the bench the best he could.

The pace of strokes sped up for their opposites, and Jon tried to look out the slit towards the raging
sea. Whatever blood was left in him drained out of his face as he saw one of the sailing ships
coming towards them.

"PORT PULL!"

And Jon grabbed the oar, and the pace was twice as fast as they were used to, and Jon's fear of
getting rammed by one of the sailing ships and drowning attached to the bench overcame his
exhaustion, and overcame his brazen words from earlier. Jon kept rowing for how long he didn't
know. Suddenly he heard the pirates up top screaming frantically. The oarmaster looked panicked
as he yelled, "STARBOARD OARS I-"

The sound of oars splitting was louder than thunder as splintered wood flew through the cabin. Jon
shielded his face and felt something hit his oar and his leather collar with force as the cries of pain
pierced through the chaos surrounding them.

The beat of the drum continued, and Jon wondered why he wasn't underwater as he opened his
eyes. Men to his right were poorly injured, and he could see a few of the oars where splintered and
broken, yet the hull was intact. Jon didn't question their luck and instead grabbed the oar and
pulled for his life. For the life of Cason, for Harald, Xano, and all the other slaves he was starting
to care for.

Minutes or hours later, the sea started to calm, the wind's howl wasn't as fierce, and the cold
seawater started to become stagnant in the cabin. There was still no light from the sun, and Jon was
praying he would be able to sleep some before the next turn started. The sea became calm enough
that the oarmaster roared, "OARS IN." and his row pulled in the massive oar and Jon looked to his
right and saw that the oars of the starboard side were in poor shape and Jon prayed that this would
mean a break for a day or two.

Something continued to hit his leg in the small pool of water at his feet, and Jon saw a splinter of
wood about the length of his thumb to pinky and as thick as two fingers. Jon didn't think and
grabbed the splintered wood and examined it in the now dim light, then stored it under his bench.

Cason was staring at him, and Jon just nodded. The gods of the sea may just have given them the
key to their freedom, but Cason decided to ruin it, "Get rid of it, Toli."

"Don't you want to escape?" Jon asked in hushed tones.

"Yes, but you won't with that."

"I will."

"No, you won't," Cason said quietly.

Jon felt his anger flush, "Just because you are used to your chains does not mean I have to be."

Cason looked ashamed but spoke anyway, "Maybe, but I cannot see you die for something that will
not work."

"You don't know that."

"Toli, you are desperate, you are scared, it's okay. Don't throw your life away because you are
finally breaking."

"I am not breaking, I am not like these others."

"You are, and you will die."

"Then I will die fighting," Jon hissed.

Cason looked down, "It seems tempting, but live, and we will find another way."

"Why do you care if I live or if I die?"

"Because I have been where you are, and someone cared, even in this hell-hole about my broken
soul. I will continue that on, even if I do so in chains," Cason said, and Jon scowled.

"Then help me when I am ready to escape," Jon said, and Cason looked down. Jon scowled deeper,
then looked at the shard of wood, then hid it away again. Jon was going to get out of there, he was
going to escape.

He needed to escape.

"Don't do it." Cason pleaded with him. It had been a week, or so Jon thought since Jon had found
his gift and he had spent every moment he could trying to sharpen and smooth the piece of the oar.
The first three days, the pirates had to repair their ships, so Jon received a break from rowing, but
no rowing meant no food. However, Jon and the other slaves were okay with that trade-off. Jon had
surmised that the pirates on the galley had lost a few crew members. On top of that, they even
seemed to have lost one of the sails due to the heavy winds.

A few of the slaves had been injured, and luckily only a few were serious. This ended up changing
quickly as head wounds and large splinters of oars had hit ten of them, and they progressively
became worse of the following week. Most were taken and not seen again. Some because of the
wounds and others because they could no longer row.

As they were out of proper slaves, the pirates had to take turns at the oar which Jon could surmise
was souring the mood and stretching them thin and all the while he had spent sharpening that
splinter at night when the pirates had all left the cabin for the evening.
Now, however, Jon knew they were only four days from Lys, and he knew this was the moment.
Arsehole was getting lax, rarely holding the cudgel and only had the leather belt, and over the
week, that splinter was turning into something that could kill. Even better, Arsehole was usually
distracted as his fellow crewmates that kept him in conversation. "Toli, I beg of you do not do this,
it is not your moment for liberatio-"

"Cason, enough." Jon hushed him.

Harald had said little, or more accurately, Jon understood the few he spoke, and the shaggy man
only pointed to his partially cropped ear. Jon said he didn't understand the words, so Harald
eventually stopped his badgering. It didn't matter, this was different, and Jon was finished being a
slave. He would kill them all and pray for insufficient wind, and they would all make for Westeros.
Exile or not, it was the closest land that wouldn't kill them or re-enslave them outright.

Eventually, the moment was coming as Cason had finished his last Song of The Seven. Jon waited.
The signal from the drum came and went. The free pirates, exhausted and angry, immediately left
their bench, and the oarmaster was not far behind. The first row behind him emptied, and Jon felt
his nerves rise. Soon, Arsehole brought the first row back and Horo, Rorlo and Ollo were locked
back into place, Jon stared at Arsehole as he unlocked the row across the aisle and came over to
their side. Arsehole looked at Jon and bent down to open their chains. His neck was exposed, and
Jon grabbed the improvised stake but felt a hand on his. Jon looked at Cason, who was shaking his
head. Jon felt his chain unlock on his near his feet, he quickly hid the stave behind his back before
Arsehole could see it. Arsehole paid him no mind and moved down to Harald when he dropped his
keys.

Jon shook Cason's hand away, and Jon grabbed the stake, waiting for his next chance. Harald was
unlocked, and Arsehole walked in front of him, Jon shot to his feet, raised the stake, aiming for the
neck.

Jon didn't even see the blow to the side of the head, and he fell back down. Arsehole was smiling at
him, the same smile he held while covered in blood weeks ago. "You're a dead man now,"
Arsehole raised the Belt rained blow, after blow, after blow as Jon dropped the stake and raised his
arms to protect his head. Jon opened an eye to see Arsehole's toothy grin, then the Belt hit him
across the face, and Jon was forced to close his eye again. Jon braced for another hit, but all he
heard was gurgling and choking. Jon looked up to see Cason's chain wrapped around Arsehole's
neck, while Cason struggled to force Arsehole to the ground.

The other slaves were in shock, as Arsehole just looked at him with bloodshot eyes as Cason
looked away in self-disgust, but continued to pull. Cason kicked out Arsehole's leg, the man's knee
slamming into the deck, the other slaves finally started to shake their surprise and started to make
noise. "Toli, drop the stake," Cason said, "Now." Jon was close to stabbing his taskmaster, and
Cason's calm demeanor stopped him cold.
"Cason," Jon said, feeling the stake ripped from his hand by Harald, as something snapped in
Arsehole's neck. Cason hung his head in shame for his deed. "Cason?" Jon asked. But Non-
Arsehole slammed down the steps to the rower's cabin due to the noise. Following close behind
were Ryjar and five other pirates, all of which had weapons at the ready. Cason just looked at Jon,
and Jon could only look back, one eye the side of his face burning where the Belt had connected.
The Septon looked at Jon, "It is your tu-." Then a cudgel slammed into Cason's back, and the
septon fell to his knees, crying out in pain.

Ryjar grabbed the hand before they could strike at Cason again, "Stop. Take him above deck,"
then Ryjar faced the rest of slaves, "Due to the actions of this man, we start a turn now. If you need
to shit or piss, that is too bad." Ryjar turned to Non-arsehole, "Your cousin will be avenged,
Jesmyl. Just make sure the rest are locked into place." Ryjar then spoke loudly, "No speaking from
the slaves, any word other than 'pull' beat them, use the cudgel." Ryjar turned to Cason, "Now, my
holy man, you will come to us, and depending on what you say will influence how fast you die."

Jon felt his heart sink, he got up, and Ryjar turned to him, "Hold your piss, or let it go, it matters
not, just don't do it while I'm here." Jon opened his mouth, then saw Cason shake his head with an
intense look. Ryjar noticed then nodded his head to Jesmyl, who swung the cudgel towards Jon,
who on instinct caught it, but Jesmyl headed him, and Jon stumbled back down onto his bench,
feeling a cut open upon his forehead. Ryjar eyed him again for a moment too long, "Send word to
Ventarro that we may need the young boy to replace the holy man, and be ready to take this one up
with us as well to witness what we do to disobedience."

They disappeared, and Jon felt numb as the drum began to pound.

"Pull!"

The row's in front and behind Jon started to pull, and Jon felt the glare's of them all as no songs
were sung.

Jon looked over at Harald, who was just staring at him, and for the first time, Jon saw his eyes,
they were dark green, and they were hard on him. "Gek," was all he said. Fool. Then Harald turned
towards the wall away from him. Since the first words he had spoken to Jon, they had only a
handful of conversations, all less than twenty words, half of which Jon didn't know. As Jon looked
around, he knew that he was not only a slave, he was now alone.

Then he felt rough hands on him as he was dragged out of his row and up the stairs, where he was
forced into Ryjar's cabin.
"Come," Ryjar said. Jon was dragged up to the top deck and to the raised deck on the prow. Jon
flinched when he saw Cason, roped and chained, standing on a wooden 'X.' The Septon was naked,
and there were already two dozen deep cuts all over his body. Cason's head was held low, his
friend moaning something incoherent in pain.

Jon looked down to the floor, but Ryjar put a hand under his chin, "No, no, no, you will stare and
see what fate awaits those that harm their masters." Jon looked up as Cason lifted his head and saw
Jon, there was still defiance in the man, this septon from Westeros, this good man that killed to
protect Jon from this fate for some unknown reason.

Ryjar continued to speak, "He has never had a problem, four years he has been rowing, and he has
just sung, best slave I have ever had. I heard that he had kept the slaves calm with his songs during
the storm. Then only a few days later, he just kills one of my men, and now quotes his holy words
to me as a defense." Ryjar clucked his tongue and nodded, and the pirate next to Cason ran his
blade along Cason's shoulder, making a red line down to his elbow. Cason screamed in pain.

"Now, now, Cason, do not make me inflict more pain than I have to. Just tell me why, and this will
end." Cason still said nothing, and Ryjar nodded his head, and Jon, for the first time, noticed the
black mark on his cheek was irregular. Jon realized it was a pair of oars. Ryjar looked at him and
nodded, "Ask your question."

Jon just stared at him before he spoke, "You were a slave?"

"Of course."

"How can-" Jon started but was slapped across the face.

"I did not permit you to speak again, do so once more, and you will join the holy man," Ryjar said.
Jon looked back at Cason when Ryjar spoke, "Tell me again, why did you kill poor Remylo ?"
Cason stayed silent, and the pirate cut him again, but from his hip to his knee. Cason screamed out
in agony.

Ryjar spoke again, "I was sold as a slave when I was a young boy, hardly ten and two. I was a
galley slave for the first six years, then I was sold to another master. After ten years, he saw my
talent for evaluating men and women that were brought back to Tyrosh. Soon I was so valuable he
allowed me my freedom. Eventually, the man died, and that was when Ventarro found me, he had
brought back many slaves once, and since then I have been his man, and I have seen many types of
slaves in my lifetime." Ryjar turned to the pirate, "Again."

Another cut and another scream and Jon winced and tried to look away but was forced to see his
friend marred again.

"Good slaves, bad slaves, violent slaves, docile slaves, brilliant slaves, or simple slaves. I have sold
so many, and it allows me to make my own wealth by working with Ventarro." Another nod and
another cut. "The issue is that new slaves are usually the hardest to control and need to be broken
down before being rebuilt or sold as the servants they were always supposed to be. Again." Cason
bellowed out a prayer as the knife cut through him.

"Your worth and his," Ryjar said, "Is how well you pull that oar until I can break you down into
something more profitable. This is the beauty of the oar, something I know from experience. it
does far better than anything else I have found aside from purposefully inflicting pain, but the latter
affects the value, so I use the oar to break them instead." Ryjar took a breath and shook his head.

"But sometimes when you break a man down, they can not be remade but can only row. Again!"
Another cut was made, and Cason still refused to speak, only muttered prayers. "That still is a
useful skill as I know well, and we keep you well fed because the oar is hard work and a good,
experienced, oarsmen are worth more to me than most men and Ventarro agrees." Then Ryjar
turned to Jon then back to Cason, "I treat oarsmen well, any other galley and you would not have
lasted. I cared about your health, fed you, quenched your thirst, and this is what I get for my
generosity?" Ryjar's voice raised a little at the bloody ruin of the Cason. Ryjar adjusted himself and
soon found its usual tone. He eventually sighed, "Alas, this does tend to happen, and what follows
will be most unpleasant until respect is re-established."

Jon's blood ran cold as he looked at Cason, who was now covered in so many shallow cuts that
blood covered almost every inch of his body.

"Any more cuts and he would die, but I will prolong his suffering." Ryjar grabbed Cason by the
hair, it wasn't rough, almost tender. "Chain him to the prow."

Jon shot up his head and looked between Ryjar and Cason. Cason only hung his head as he
muttered, "Let the father judge me and prolong my suffering to atone for whatever sins I have
committed. Mother, take me into your loving embrace-" Cason was hit by one of the pirates as they
unchained him from the post, but he continued to pray, "Maiden may your fair light, illuminate my
path home."

He was muffled as they attached the chains slowly, but the prayer continued. Ryjar just looked at
Jon. "I know it was you, You may have not killed Remylo, but you were the driving force
somehow. And now you have killed my favorite slave." Ryjar walked around Jon, "You are asking
yourself if I know the truth why torment my favorite? Simple, he killed a man."

Ryjar waited a moment, then continued, "Why did I not kill you?" Ryjar asked as Jon looked at
him, "You are young but strong, and I will break you down until you are nothing but hands on an
oar. Until you know nothing but the oar, and the rest of your life will just be one turn after another
until your body breaks. Death is too easy, and your life will be nothing but pain. Turn after turn
until your mind becomes numb," Ryjar waved his hands, and his men dragged Jon down below
deck, where his position in the middle for the day was now taken by the merchant's youngest son,
Rentarro, and Jon was chained in the aisle.

Ryjar signaled the drummer to stop, and it fell silent, then Jon heard the loud prayers of Cason as
he was being hauled over the prow. Ryjar started speaking, "We are thirty-five leagues from Lys,
usually two days at our normal pace," He stopped and looked at all of them but landed on Jon, "As
punishment for the death of our beloved Rembryllo, you will all row until we arrive. By my best
guess, that is 18 turns at the oar, and I do hope you all live, but we will see." Ryjar turned to the
drummer, and Jon stared at his hands as he grabbed the oar to row. The merchant's son's hands
were shaking in fear but grasped the oar as well, and Jon could already tell it was heavier without
Cason.

"Pull!"

Ryjar leaned down next to Jon's ear and whispered, "Do you hear that?" Jon tried to ignore him but
heard the screams of Cason.

"Pull!"

"That is your doing, boy. The saltwater on open wounds. All while the barnacles cut his back to
ribbons, very painful."

"Pull!"

Cason screamed again, this time, Jon could hear the septon's words, "Warrior give me justice!"

"Pull!"
Ryjar whispered next to him, "If you pull the oar harder boy, his death will come all the quicker."

"Pull!"

"Smith, take this vessel you forged and ease my pain!"

"Pull!"

"Pull, boy, pull boy! Bring him his merciful death that you have caused!"

"Pull!"

"Stranger, accept my soul, and guide me to the afterlife!"

"Pull!"

Cason screamed, and Jon fought the tears that threatened to fall freely for his friend.

"Pull!"

His teacher.

"Pull!"

His protector.

"Pull!"

Jon felt hate burn in his chest.

 "Pull!"

Jon felt grief burn in his chest.

"Pull!"

Jon stared at Ryjar, one eye swelling shut, the other blind with tears. Jon yelled with the rest of the
slaves until only one thing could be heard.

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

"Pull!"

Chapter End Notes

Two Chapters in one week? What?

As I said, this isn't the happiest of arcs.

Thanks again everybody who has read this far, and I appreciate the kind words and
even the not so kind words. All feedback is good feedback, except for one individual
who keeps asking about spankings? You do you, man.
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned

Ned rubbed his jaw underneath his left ear, thankful that his beard covered most of the now faded
bruise. Weeks had passed since Benjen had left Winterfell. Benjen had traveled with the Manderly
retinue and Larence Snow to White Harbor because a son of a southern Lord was joining the
Watch, and he had been sent as an escort. Wyman was needed back in White Harbor to take care of
a dispute between squabbling merchants, and he had taken his granddaughters back with him. He
had stated they would return as soon as they could.

Ned felt Wyman needed to depart and begone from Winterfell for a time. Wyman was becoming
very important, and Ned had sensed the other lords were noticing it as well and drawing their own
conclusions, time away from Winterfell for the Manderly's would do some good.

Still, none of that seemed to matter at the moment as Ned thought about how he and his brother
had left things. Ned continued to rub his jaw. While the bruise had long faded, there was still a
shadow of pain. He had seen his brother's clenched fist, and mistook his shaking for crying, and
was surprised by the fist that came flying towards him.

The last time they had fought like that was when Ned forced him to stay at Winterfell to wait out
the war, Benjen had pleaded and begged him to come along and find their sister, to avenge their
father and brother, but Ned had refused. Benjen had taken a swing at him in grief then as well, then
hugged him fiercely and begged him to return and to have their sister with him.

And when Ned had returned with the remains of their sister, he didn't see his brother for two
months. Benjen took a horse and left for the Wolfswood and Ned feared he would lose another
brother to grief, and in a way he did. For when Benjen returned, he took two days of walking
around Winterfell, not even stopping to look at Robb or Jon and then left, fled to the Wall, and Ned
was alone in his grief. And Ned buried it, buried it deep, and spent his time repairing the North,
getting to know the mother of his child, and spending time with his children. Her child.

He didn't know how Benjen didn't see it at first, how none of them saw it. Maybe it was because
Benjen was the youngest and didn't see Lyanna grow up, for when Jon was a babe, he looked just
like her, and as he grew, he started to look so much like him. For years and years, Benjen had come
from the Wall as an envoy to him to ask him for men, steel, food, and other supplies. He would
spend a day or two with his children then head back.
Ned never knew that he knew, he never knew Benjen had figured it out. Not until his brother's fist
came flying at him.

Ned had tried to reel back, but it was too late, and it struck him in the jaw. He had stayed on his
feet but stumbled backward. When Ned had looked up, his brother was staring at him, grief and
fury in his eyes, just like they were both young men again, but no embrace waited for him.

"How could you?" Benjen asked, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes.

"Benjen I don-"

"Don't!" Benjen yelled, pointing his finger at him. "Don't, Ned!" Benjen's voice broke as he
struggled for words. "How could you? All this time? Why didn't you tell me?" The look in his
younger brother's face confirmed it, and Ned looked down, gave a heavy breath, pushing his grief
down to its proper place.

"How long have you known?" Ned asked.

"Does it matter now?" Benjen said, but when Ned didn't respond, he continued, "Last time I was
here, it was the smallest thing, the smallest remark from Sera." When Ned looked confused,
Benjen explained, "The woman who runs the orphanage." Ned nodded, "I was saying goodbye, and
he was playing with the children, then Sera told me as Jon left, 'He reminds me of your sister.' I
thought nothing of it at the time, but it ate away at me, and one day past the Wall, something
clicked." Benjen sat down and went silent, and Ned moved his jaw back and forth to make sure
nothing was broken.

Benjen seemed to have calmed down, and Ned went to put a hand on his brother's shoulder. It was
a mistake. Benjen grabbed his hand, stood up, and pushed him back, "Why didn't you say
anything?" His brother asked.

"You were at the Wall, you see him every year or so."

"That's not what I meant. All those years ago, why didn't you tell me? I could have-" Benjen
started, but Ned interrupted him.
"Done what? Raise him? Do you know how foolish that would seem, you raising my bastard? And
how could I have told you, I didn't see you for two months and before I knew it you were gone, and
I was alone. Alone Benjen! To pick up the pieces of our family's foolish choices!"

Benjen turned angry, tears starting to form, "I would have protected him, for her."

"And what do you think I tried to-"

"Try?" Benjen gave a mirthless laugh, "You sold him, banished him for saving a girl. To do your
friends in the south a political favor."

"I di-" Ned tried.

"Selling your own blood for political favors, Father would be proud," Benjen sneered.

Ned snarled, and before he knew what was happening, he lunged at Benjen. Soon they were
grappling, exchanging a few body-blows until Benjen's fist connected with Ned's face again, and
they disengaged. Both were breathing heavily, staring at each other from across the solar.
Parchment and ink had been knocked about, and one of the bookshelves had cracked and broken.
Benjen stormed to the door, opened it, and started to leave when he turned back, "She would never
forgive you."

She would never forgive you. Ned broke from his memory. The crypts were dark and damp, the
only light coming from the torch he had hung on the Wall. Ned had been down here countless
times, and each time he stood there, unable to look at her statue for more than a few minutes until
the grief was overwhelming.

He initially had hope, hope that the ship would turn up, that someone would deliver the news to
him that Jon was safe, rescued, and returning to him. Each passing day those hopes had turned to
dreams, then the dreams had become nightmares.

When Benjen had left Winterfell that night, he had to go gather his children and tell them of the
news. Bran had been adamant about not believing it, Rickon had been confused and upset and
Sansa downtrodden. When he went to the godswood, he came across Robb and Wylla, who had
obviously been holding hands and speaking, and they awkwardly excused themselves from his
presence while Ned prayed to the heart tree, to his gods. Eventually, someone hugged him from the
side. Ned turned to see Arya and who was sobbing into his cloak, and Ned just held his daughter,
and they had cried until she had fallen asleep.

It had been a dark few weeks, and Winterfell had mourned.

Ned finally gathered the courage to look at his sister, but again he couldn't hold her stone gaze and
left the crypts. She would never forgive you.

The sun was just coming up, and Ned had work to do. With practiced ease, he pushed the grief
aside, preparing for a long day. Benjen was returning from White Harbor with the heir of a
southern house today, and Ned had to oversee the final preparations of supplies to be sent along
with him.

It was a difficult choice but needed to be done. The coin that House Stark was receiving was
immense, and Ned had poured most of it either into the developing shipyards near the mouth
Torrhen's River or finding proper locations to build lumber mills within the Wolfswood or working
the timber down the North's rivers. They had the gold, yes, but the progress on the shipyards had
been much slower than even the slowest projections.

The reason was due to the one resource the North did not have in surplus, men. The North had too
few men that were working on the shipyards as most were in the Wolfswood, cutting down the
timber, or employed to transport it. To make it worse, Tormo was having trouble finding
competent shipwrights willing to come North and stay. He may have to turn south, send ravens to
Gulltown or Seaguard, which only caused him to cringe into himself.

No, that wouldn't do, he needed to do something more substantial than ravens. I could send Robar
south to his father. If he could stomach any southerner, it would be the Royce's of Runestone, one
of the few families that had sided with him at the wedding. Still, the second son of Bronze Yohn
had become a pleasant fixture at Winterfell and Cerwyn. He was someone who had become close
to his boys as well. He is a gifted fighter, maybe when Rodrik gets too old, I could ask him to stay
on as master-at-arms.

Ned refocused his thoughts back to the south. He should order Wendell south as well, to try to see
if his good-father would aid them because he was sure Lord Grafton would still be angry about the
events of his daughter's wedding and a simple raven might be insulting. Ned shook his head. Far
less aggrieved than I am than I ever will be. Still, his anger does not come before the good of the
North.

Guilt came again, and Ned fought it back down as Jory knocked on the door. "My Lord, your
brother is here with recruits, with Wendel Manderly." Ned nodded, but Jory stood there, "My lord,
Lord Manderley has brought Tamir Fregar and a few of his ilk." Guilt was quickly replaced by
anger again, but Ned affixed himself with the neutral expression, but he was seething underneath.

The procession of recruits for the Wall was more numerous than he had expected. Ned counted
nearly sixty men with five or six wagons, the last carrying four men with a red archer on their
surcoat and a boy almost as fat as Wyman Manderly, bundled in so many furs Ned worried he
might faint from the heat.

Benjen came then, trotting in on a grey garron next to Wendell Manderly and Tamir Fregar, the
latter of whom had a broad smile and bright clothes which made Ned struggle even further to keep
his temper in check. He was flanked by the two men that fought alongside Jon at the tourney all
those months ago. Med- something and Arridos . Ned's fist clenched hard enough that he thought
he'd pierce the leather of his gloves.

Benjen dismounted and kindly greeted his children, then turned to him, with a cold gaze, "Lord
Stark, we request bread and salt, roof and supplies as we make our way back to the Wall." Ned
looked and noticed that thirty of the recruits were chained on both their arms and legs. Benjen must
have seen and nodded to him, "These men will need to stay in the cells for our duration, most are
murderers, some rapers, and four thieves and a poacher."

Ned turned to the unchained men, most were two or three years older than Robb. "What about
them," he asked Benjen, "what did they do?"

"Nothing, just looking for a hot meal once a day," Benjen answered.

Ned nodded, then the fat boy covered in furs had dismounted from the wagon and made his way
over to him. The boy was nervous, and the men at arms looked either annoyed or bemused at the
scene.

"L-lord Stark, my name is S-s-Samwell Tarly," The boy stuttered then gulped loudly before
continuing, "Th-thank you for allowing us to spend an evening under your care."

"It is my pleasure, ser."

"I-I am not a kn-knight," the boy stuttered.

"You have our hospitality all the same." Ned motioned for the bread and salt to be passed out to all
those that had arrived, Benjen included.

Benjen was quickly taken away, and Ned had noticed Robb looking at the end of the procession
before looking down in disappointment and following his group of friends back towards the
training yard.

Tamir came before him and bowed, and started, "Lord Stark, thank you for welcoming me into
your-"

Ned's temper flashed and couldn't stop himself from interrupting, "We will speak later, Tamir."

If Tamir was offended, he didn't show it and instead was led away by one of Poole's men to his
chambers. Ned didn't care what the man said, and if Ned and his brother weren't in a fortuitous
trade deal, he would have him thrown out of Winterfell and exiled from the North. Ned tried to put
the Braavosi out of his head and focused on the recruits, forcing himself to concentrate on anything
else to keep his anger from spilling forth.

The unchained men were slowly being led into the great hall when Ned had that thought. Ned
walked towards them, flanked by Jory and Harwin, whose hands were at the ready. Ned
approached one that was smaller in size, quite plain with little eyes darting around. "You, what is
your name?" Ned spoke with the authority of someone befitting his station.

The procession stopped, and the short man's eyes darted back and forth in annoyance. Then
widened when he saw who was speaking to him. He remained silent whether out of fear or
surprise, it mattered little to Ned.

"My lord asked you your name," Jory said with some iron.

"M-my name milord?" He croaked out.

"Yes, what is your name?" Ned asked again, starting to think this was foolish.

The man swallowed, then cleared his throat, "Todder, milord."

"Where do you come from, Todder?"

"The Paps milord," Todder answered.

Ned looked at him in confusion, "What are you doing joining the Watch?"

Todder shrugged, "I don't like the water much, me mum died and me da' never came back from the
sea. Not much else that will give you a meal."

Ned nodded and moved to the next one, "You, what is your name?"

"Pypar milord."

"Where are you from?" Ned asked.

"Wickenden," Pypar answered.

Ned moved on, "You?" he asked the tall one that was built sturdy.

"Me, milord?"

"Yes."

"Grenn, milord," when Ned prompted him, Grenn continued, "Vale milord."

"Your village or town?" Ned asked.

"Three Rocks milord, named for the three stacked rocks near the well."
Ned didn't respond but instead looked at the other men gathered in his hall. Specifically, those men
that were searching for a hot meal the Watch could offer. Aside from a couple of them, they all
seemed simply underfed and poorly dressed. Still, Ned went through with his plan, "Could all of
you that are not guilty of a crime raise your hands?" The recruits just looked at one another. Then
all those that were unchained and even some that were there that were still chained raised their
hands. Ned ignored the latter then spoke to them all, "Joining the Night's Watch is an honorable
deed. Benjen, my brother would be your First Ranger, and he would be lucky to have you." Ned
paused, unsure of how to continue but did anyway, "However, there is other work in the North.
Difficult work, but work that needs doing and will pay a fair wage. I need men to help build
shipyards south of here, or there are still lumber yards that need men." A few heads perked up,
including the young man Grenn. "If you want to swing a sword and fight wildlings, defending our
lands, then the Watch is for you. However, I do have an alternative. If you wish to travel south and
work as a builder, Harwin here," Ned indicated to his guardsmen, "will take your name, and you
will leave Winterfell at the end of the week."

By the time he finished, many of the unchained men had looked interested. Todder was already
moving towards Harwin when he left the hall. One of the wandering crows, Yoren, he believed
was giving him a sour look, but Ned ignored him. He needed the workers, no matter how
unskilled. He still held out hope that Tormo could find him experienced shipwrights, even those
that could come for a season or two.

Speaking of Tormo. Ned turned back to Jory, "Find Tamir, tell him we will meet now."

Ned had just sat down in his solar when Tamir was allowed in. The usually chipper man had the
manners to look somber.

Before the man had even sat down, Ned was already speaking, "I asked of you one thing paid your
brother well for it. One thing. Keep him safe." Tamir looked down to the floor, abashed. "I trusted
you with Jon, and you weren't even with him?" Ned lost all sense of propriety, "Where the fuck
were you!"

Tamir looked up then, there was anger in Braavosi's eyes. "It wasn't my choice, Lord Stark. You
told my brother Jon was free to choose what he wanted to do, and your son wanted to train and
become part of the Hallowed Demons. So I gave him over to my uncle, the commander of our
company to be trained with the initiates."

"So why was he sent as an escort for a merchant?" Ned asked.

Tamir sighed, "All initiates are sent on contracts as part of a crew with experienced soldiers. This
one was supposed to be simple. I knew the man that led them, he was a good soldier."
Ned felt some anger leave him and instead started to feel tired, "Why are you here, Tamir?"

"Because, initiate or no, Jon was part of our Company, and he wasn't the only one that was lost."
Tamir smiled then, "Gods, Lord Stark, you should have seen your son training. One of our trainers
would punish him, try and pit others against him. Everyone saw something in him, Lord Stark,"
Tamir seemed to drift off for a moment then returned back, and there was a frown, "Also, I knew
the other soldiers as well, served on more than one contract with each of them, and we do not let
people kill our men without retribution."

Ned perked up at this, "Kill? As in, you know who attacked them?"

Tamir moved his hands up and down, "Not exactly no, not yet at least. My father was...well, he
was not known for his reputable work and actions, and though Tormo has moved on from most of
it, there are portions of my father's dealings that my brother still uses."

Ned gave a quizzical look, "I don't understand. Speak plainly"

"My brother is well informed, and pays very well to be so." Tamir took a deep breath, "When word
of the ship's disappearance reached us, my uncle and brother, they immediately started to get the
word out to their men. They learned that the spice merchants of Pentos did not look too fondly at
someone trying to encroach on their business. No matter how insignificant Marcelino was."

Ned looked a little surprised, "They hired pirates to kill the merchant?"

Tamir nodded his head in agreement, "It is more complicated, let's just say the Three Daughters
and Pentos have an uneasy agreement with some of the major 'Lords of the Stepstones', as they like
to call themselves, Lord Stark. If they need a ship to disappear or competitor's merchant ships
ransacked, they let slip the details of its travel to one of these 'Lords' along with some silver, and it
is done."

Ned found he was tired of this, "Tamir, please, if you don't know who killed my son, just say so
and be done with this."

Tamir took a deep breath, and Ned knew he was trying not to lose his temper, "Eight weeks ago we
finally received confirmation that the Pentoshi guild of spices contracted one of the major 'lords.'
The one that calls himself Salhar Dramar, to find Marcelino, the spice merchant, and to have his
ship attacked. A month or so ago, the day that I left Braavos for the North, we learned that there
was a very young Braavosi girl that was sold to a pleasure house in Lys. My brother is already in
the process of bringing her back to Braavos. We believe she was Marcelino's daughter."

Ned tried to calm his breathing, "Tamir-"

"Lord Stark, I am not saying that Jon is dead or alive. All I am saying is that there may be a chance
to find out who did this. Tormo has already sent word through his contacts to look for a young man
matching your son's description as well as the description of my fellow soldiers. It is difficult Lord
Stark, this Dramar has anywhere from ten to thirty captains under him that he'd trust with this. We
still do not know which one it was."

Ned felt some pressure uncoil around his heart, trying so hard not to get his hopes up. Then Ned
thought about the pirates, and his mood turned sour, "Where are these pirates from?"

"All over Lord Stark, there is no telling unless we recover that girl, and it is indeed Marcelino's
kid. That's even if she is in a mind to speak."

Ned felt some bile rise in his throat, "Where are we with clearing the Stepstones."

Tamir smiled at that, "I thought you would never ask Lord Stark." Tamir then looked around,
looking for something. "Do you have a map of the Stepstones anywhere? Mine is a bit small."

Ned wasn't sure and asked for Jory to send someone to Maester Luwin, then he turned back again,
"Send for other Northern Representatives and make sure Robb comes as well."

When Luwin left to fulfill his task, Tamir spoke again, "Lord Stark, there is another matter you
should know about as well before the others arrive."

"Go ahead, Tamir."

"The Pentoshi guild was not who we first suspected to have a role in the disappearance of The
Pearl's Kiss," Tamir said in a low voice.
"What do you mean?" Ned asked.

Tamir looked conflicted but decided to press on, "Before Jon had left for Pentos, through our
contacts, we learned that someone had placed a bounty on your son's head."

Ned felt his teeth begin to show, and his face started to flush with rage. "House Rykker?"

Tamir nodded in confirmation, "That is what we suspected. The Lord Rykker is not a fool, we
could never prove such a thing, but we are as nearly certain as someone could be"

Ned felt his fist tighten, and his blood pump harshly through him, "They will pay," Ned said.

Tamir grinned, "I know a few men that can…" Tamir motioned a finger across his throat.

"No," Ned said, "Death is too easy, I want to break them." Tamir gave an honest smile, and Ned
continued, "Inform your brother not to sell the cure to Duskendale at a standard rate for the
Southern Kingdoms, triple it, quadruple it, I do not care. Make it hurt. Also, have him let slip that
anyone that sells to them without marking their prices up significantly will incur the same."

"Hmm, a good start," Tamir then added, "My brother is a ruthless man and can stifle other trades to
their port and make sure they are surpassed for your dingy capital."

"Good," Ned said. It's a start. Then Ned thought of something and gave a smile. Tamir must have
noticed then gave him a look of confusion.

"What is it you're thinking of?"

Ned tapped the chair, "What else do you know of Duskendale?"

"Not much, though I am sure my brother knows far more."

Ned nodded, "Tell your brother to let it slip that any of the city's craftsmen that leave Duskendale,
I'll pay for them to relocate North to our shipyards in the west, and make sure their wages are
increased twofold to reflect their...sacrifice."

Tamir grinned, "You think they will?"

Ned shrugged, "Maybe for some, but it will cost the Rykkers one way or another. Plus, your
brother is not coming through on that end."

Tamir bit his lip, looking to say something.

Ned narrowed his eyes, "What is it?"

Tamir rubbed a hand through his hair, "Between you and me, my brother has no interest in helping
you build a fleet." Ned must have looked confused, so Tamir continued, "He is hoping your
progress is too slow so he can have another few years added to your contract."

"That was our deal."

"And he is upholding it by working slowly, but still working. Also, Lord Stark, no offense, what
Braavosi wants to move to a foreign land with foreign gods and a foreign tongue."

Ned gave an exasperated chuckle and leaned back in his chair, "So that is how it will be? You
know this is why people hate merchants."

Tamir shrugged, "My brother is ruthless but effective."

"Let us hope that the plan for the Stepstones is the same," Ned said, thinking of a way to do to
Tormo what was being done with him. I will find something.

A half-hour later, the solar was now occupied by Wendell Manderly, Rodrik Forrester, Eddard
Karstark, Arthur Glenmore, Harmond Umber, Ser Rodrik, Robar Royce, Jory Cassel, and his son.
Tamir looked at the map, it was a little small, but Ned knew it would do. Tamir began then, "In
about two or three months time Volantis will send fifty-five war galleys North. They will sail
southwest a way where they will break into two armadas. Part of the fleet will make their way to
the Dornish coast, where they will meet with thirty or so galleys from your wine lords from the
south. The first half of the Volantene fleet will break apart and attack the Western Stepstones.

"Wine-lords?" Robb asked, "Redwyne?"

Tamir nodded, "Redwyne, yes." He then returned to the map, "The Redwynes will move up and
attack the pirate hideouts and coves within the Broken Isles while the rest of the Volantene will
attack the hideouts on Mele Tege and The Sorrows cutting off the retreat to the southern seas the
best they can. Then portions of both will attack both coasts of Grey Gallows and the Whetstone,
hopefully forcing them North."

Robb spoke up again, "Where the Braavosi and the Royal fleet will be coming down to ensnare
them." When it was silent, Robb's ears turned red, "Sorry, continue."

Tamir looked impressed, "Yes, that is the end result. However, we will send a smaller force of
ships before then, the force I brought with me to attack the hideouts in the Northern Stepstones,
this will hopefully draw pirates out of their strongholds and engage. Then the rest of the Braavosi
fleet and the rest of your royal fleet will then come in and attack them en masse, cutting off escape
to the Myrish Sea but especially back to Tyrosh. Then we should force our way onto the largest
southern settlement on Bloodstone, Daeton, or as the current "lord" calls it Dramar's Town."

Robb spoke up again, "Where Daemon Targaryen crowned himself King of the Stepstones?"

"Huh, yes, I guess that is where the original name could come from. It is a significant town of
thirty or so thousand that live in the town and on the surrounding land. It has a natural harbor, and
a sturdy keep there as well. From our informant, there is a stone wall around the keep, and the
proper town only has small wooden walls that are maybe ten or twelve feet high. The town has
grown quite a bit in the past fifteen years as it is where a thriving black market slave trade is, for
those that are selling...unique individuals or do not want to face taxes or sell slaves acquired
illegally. It is also where some smugglers come to sell the wares they have purchased from pirates
in various coves." Tamir made brief eye-contact with Ned and looked away.

"And the three Daughters just allow this to happen?" Wendell asked.

Tamir shook his head, "Most pirates act as their sell-sails, and the Three Daughters all have their
favorites. The Stepstones have been divided by those claiming to be 'Lord's' of these islands.
Currently, a man named Salhar Dramar rules the northernmost Stepstones, and Dramar's Town is
his center of power. Salhar is the most prominent Lord, and he has thirty-two war galleys directly
under his control and relationships to all the other pirates that are not. Dramar's Town is fast
becoming a notable center in trade and has close ties to the Tyroshi and Myrmen. If we start with
small raids, it will look like a disgruntled lord making a minor mess but still disrupt some of the
trade supply that these 'Pirate Lords' rely on. More importantly, he will have to respond to show
strength. Then we hit them as fast as we can and then close the noose around Bloodstone before
the Tyroshi, or even the Myrmen come to aid them."

"Will they?" Ned asked.

Tamir shrugged, "Some of the powerful Tyroshi and Myrish nobles hate this place as it drives their
trade from their ports and increases costs. Others, however, are thriving off of it as they can get
goods there for a fraction of where it would cost them elsewhere."

"How is this legal? How have these men not been attacked by the Three?" Robar asked.

Tamir breathed out, "They have, but most of these Lords have been able to recruit many to his side
and destroy the rest. Salhar is probably the most cunning of them, but only because he holds sway
to the closest powers around him. He has no power in the Seven Kingdoms, Braavos and Volantis,
and many in the Three Daughters will not push war as long as we do not try to take ownership of
the islands when we are done." Tamir took out his own, small map of the islands and started using
stones to indicate two to three dozen places all over the larger map. Except two of the Stepstones
were empty. Tamir ignored them and said, "The smaller markers represent the coves where the
pirates meet with smugglers and the larger are the settlements where smugglers trade with, well
with seedy merchants. Dramar's Town being the most significant."

The Northerners all nodded their agreement, but something was bugging Ned. "How do you know
the location of these hideouts?"

Tamir looked at all of them in surprise, "It came from your Master of Ships, Baratheon."

Ned shared a look of surprise with Wendell Manderly, "How would Stannis Baratheon know about
hotbeds of piracy?"

Tamir shrugged and answered, "My brother says he has a knight who used to be a smuggler. This
smuggler-knight has an old pirate friend he has is selling us the information in exchange for
clemency and permission to build a harbor and establish safe shipping lanes on the eastern coasts
of the Dancing Isle or Smallspear."

Wendell scoffed, "It will never last."

"This pirate's name?" Ned asked.

"'Lord' Salladhor Saan," Tamir said. "He has twenty-four galleys under his command, and they
have passed on the information for your Master of Ships for a while now and will work to mitigate
word of reaching these hotbeds before we descend on them. Also, he has warred with Salhar for
control of the territory around Grey Gallows, but he has not been victorious nor will he be and the
captains that serve him know it."

"So, what will this solve?" Robb asked. "If there is no one to control the islands, what will stop
someone else from wreaking havoc? What is to stop this Salladhor Saan from doing the exact same
thing Salhar Dramar has done?"

Tamir grinned, "This Saan is connected well in Lys but hated in Tyrosh and Myr. So he will not
want to expand eastward too aggressively, and his islands would be close enough to Westeros that
should he try and press his advantage or impose too heavy of a toll he will die. Still, his islands will
create the opportunity for a safe trading route through the Stepstones for half a generation or
more."

It was then Robb spoke up again, "I thought Braavos and Volantis hated each other? How are you
working together?"

"We both apparently hate losing the opportunity to make more money, and with Volantis hearing
about your cure, and my brother being the only one to sell it, we have become tentative allies. How
long will that last? I do not know, so we are capitalizing on it as much as we can. Plus, the Tiger
Triarch, Maegyr, has wanted a war to fight in for a long time, and my brother assures me that the
other two Elephants will allow this to him to satiate his bloodlust."

Ned cared even less about Volanteen politics than he did Braavosi, so he took a deep breath and
surveyed the map, "So this Saan doesn't want Bloodstone when it is wrenched away from
Dramar?"

Tamir winced, "No, he wants it raised to the ground to decrease his competition and the spoils of
the island given to him." Tamir looked at them all, "Including the slaves. Which no one knows the
exact number. So with Dramar's Town being so far North, we need to get there first before the
Volantene and Salladhor do or else all those there will be resold in Volantis and elsewhere."

"Will we allow that?" Robb asked, looking around the room.

"No," Ned said.

"The Sealord agrees." Tamir said, "Unfortunately, we had to agree that the spoils found will be
claimed by the one that took them."

"If they take the island together?" Robb asked.

Tamir blew out a long breath, "We will cross that canal if we have to."

Robb still looked uncertain, while the rest of the Northmen stared at the map. Ned finally spoke,
"Aye, and let it not be said the North did not aid in this fight. Wendell, I am putting you in charge
of our forces. When you arrive back at White Harbor, leave with five of our own galleys and travel
with the seven that Tamir has brought with him to the meeting at Dragonstone. Stop off at
Gulltown though, I need you to speak to your good-father."

"Of course, my lord," Wendell didn't look convinced though, "However, I do not know if we'll have
enough men and I am not sure the lords will want to bear the brunt of this cost."

"I will send word to the other houses that House Stark will pay the wages for men sent. Also, Jory,
find a hundred of our men and have them ready to leave in two days. Your uncle will lead them. I
need at least fifty to a hundred from Cerwyn and the same from Benyen. I'll send word to Lords
Cerwyn and Benyen for any men they can muster on short notice." Wendell looked at him in
surprise, as did Eddard, Rodrik, and Tamir. "Wendell, send a letter to your father and have him
send as many barges as you can up the White Knife and I'll send word to Benyen to send any
sloops from Greydam to expedite this process." Ned turned to Tamir, "Is there anything else?"

"No, Lord Stark."

"Lord Stark," Harmond interrupted, "I'd like to travel with Lord Manderly."

"I do as well," Eddard Karstark piped in.

"I want to go too, Lord Stark," Robar Royce piped in.

The other's all wanted to fight, and Ned felt a little overwhelmed, so he silenced the room. "Those
of you that are of age may fight as you feel, but write to your fathers and tell them I am not
ordering this. Also, if they have any volunteers, they need to be in White Harbor as soon as
possible."

"Yes, my Lord," They all echoed.

"Good, you are all dismissed." They all filled out, but Robb stayed behind, looking as if he wanted
to say something. "No, Robb."

"What?" He asked in surprise.

Ned gave out a sigh, "You are not joining them."

Robb's face became a bit petulant, "Why not? I am nearing one and five, I am nearly a man
grown."

"This will be a real battle, Robb, even worse there will be battles at sea, I will not risk you, not for
this," Ned stated, trying to end the argument.

"Aye, I am not expendable, but Jon is."

Ned stopped what he was doing and looked Robb straight in the eye. However, Robb would not be
cowed and stared with steady defiance. "What did you say?" Ned said, anger seeping into his
voice.

This cracked Robb's resolve a bit and the defiance slowly started to slip from his son's face, "Father
I-"

Ned put up a hand, silencing him and sat there, quelling the anger. He couldn't, so Ned then struck
the desk with his fist with enough force that the inkpot titled back and forth. Robb flinched
backward. Ned waited until he felt he could speak without shouting. It took longer than he was
proud of, but when he spoke again, his voice was even. "It is exactly because of…" Ned fought the
sudden emotion and forced himself to continue, "your brother that you are not going, I cannot lose
another son."

Robb stood there uncomfortably before speaking, "I, I need to be seen leading the North, father.
How will men ever respect me if I do not fight alongside them?"

Ned sighed, "You are too young, if you were a few years older I would consider it, but not yet."
Then Ned thought of something, "However, there is something I need you to do." Robb brightened,
and Ned continued, "We have thirty or so men that will be heading to the mouth of Torrhen's River
to where the shipyards will be. I need them escorted there."

Robb's excitement withered quickly, "You want me to guard workers?"

Gods, he's still so young. Ned cleared his throat, "No, not just that, I need you to go to Torrhen's
square, speak with the Tallharts and oversee how the transportation of lumber is going and assess
what is needed. Then make your way down Torrhen's River to the village where the shipyards
themselves are being built, look into the progress of the construction of the dry docks, make a
report and return. Also, the closest highborn to the land is Ser Desmond Sift. He is a landed knight
that was given that piece of land through a favor from Lady Dustin. He is also under the
impression that the shipyards will be his. He apparently is causing trouble with the few men that
have arrived there, stalling the progress. Tell him, in person, that if he interferes at all with the
shipyards again, I will strip him of his land and send him to the Wall."

Robb swallowed hard at that, "You just want me to ride around the North and see how everything
is coming along and admonish a knight? And father, do you have the authority to do something
like that?"

"Robb, that is what the Warden of the North is supposed to do. Visit his people, make them feel
heard, ensure that our goals are being met and that the North knows that a Stark is there to help
them reach their own. I know this doesn't seem like much, but it needs to be done, and I am
entrusting you to do this without me." Robb gulped a little at that. "And yes, I do have that
authority, and lucky for us, he is not well-liked."

"Yes, father."

"Good, go, and prepare. Speak with Ser Rodrik, he will assign you, forty men. Take Rodrik
Forrester and Arthur Glenmore with you. Arthur knows the land better than you do." Ned thought
for a moment then added, "We may need to delay a couple more weeks before you leave, though,
but I leave it to you to make the necessary preparations."
"Of course, father." Robb fidgeted a bit, "Father?"

"Yes, Robb?"

"I need to take Theon with me," Robb said.

Ned rubbed his temple, "Are you sure that is wise? The Greyjoys are still reviled by many."

"Aye, but you said our friendship could ensure peace, and I haven't been too close with him
since..." Robb trailed off, and Ned nodded.

"I leave the decision to you," Ned said.

"Father?"

"Yes, Robb."

"You said Ser Sift wasn't going to get the new shipyards, who was?"

Ned looked at Robb and swallowed hard. He didn't say anything, and Robb seemed to understand.
Eventually, Ned spoke again, "I will either go to Bran or Rickon now."

Robb's eyes filled a little with tears, and he gave a sad smile.

"Robb?"

"Yes, father?"

"We haven't had a chance to speak about…" Ned cursed himself for bringing this up, "You and
Wylla Manderly." Robb's face burned bright red and neither dared to speak on this in the long
weeks since, but he needed to. "I...I am glad you two are friendly. Truly, but I can not impress how
improper that could seem if someone else besides myself found you two."

Robb looked down, his blush deepening.

Ned jumped in again, "Still, I am glad someone was able to comfort you. Are you in contact still?"

Robb was still too embarrassed to look at his father, "No. We haven't spoken since she left."

Ned was now starting to feel incredibly awkward as well, "Well, okay." The silence stretched on
unbearably long, and Ned simply said, "maybe you should. I'll see you later."

Robb said his own uncomfortable goodbye and left in a hurry, and Ned rubbed his temples. That
could have been done better. Still, he was glad the two were becoming friendly, as Ned was
hopeful that the betrothal announcement that was a handful of months away, would be less
awkward for them. Maybe my son will have a happier start to his marriage than I had.

Ned settled down to start writing correspondence to Galbert when Benjen barged in, looking ready
to fight again.

"What in the hells do you think you are doing?" Benjen roared.

"Ben-"

"Those men are meant for the Wall, and you just take them for yourself?"

Ned started to get a little angry as well, "For me? They aren't sworn brothers yet, they are free to
choose, and I have work that needs to be done."

"But the Wall needs them!"

Ned put up his hands, placating his brother, "I will send more supplies and even some gold in a few
 months time as recompense."

"Supplies? Gold? Gold cannot sit on a horse. Gold cannot pull a bow, or swing a sword or hit a
nail. The Wall needs men, Lord Stark."

"So does the North, Benjen!" Ned responded, "The North needs more men than we can spare. A
stronger North means a stronger Night's Watch, do you think the South gives a damn about the
Wall? The North has sent more supplies and men North than all other Kingdoms combined. No,
the North needs those men elsewhere for now. If you are so desperate, find better men to send
south to recruit."

Benjen looked at him, fuming with barely restrained rage.

Ned felt his own rising and decided to end it, "If that will be all First Ranger, you are dismissed."
Benjen snarled and left the solar with a slam of the door.

Ned sunk into this chair, too many things were moving, too many things out of his control. He felt
he was starting to let things slip through his fingers. Ned got up and went to the godswood, the one
steady place. The one area in Winterfell that didn't change.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for all the feedback!

It may be a few more weeks until my next update!

 Chapter 23
Chapter Summary

Jon reaches a tipping point.

Chapter Notes

Trigger Warning: Suicidal thoughts

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Jon

Jon grunted, and the oar sliced through the water. It was a good stroke, nearly perfect built on
hours and hours of practice. Jon caught the scent of sea and salt, but only for a moment before
sweat and odor of men came down like an oppressive cloud, blowing away clear air.

Jon pulled his oar again, staring forward, his mind completely blank.

“Do you hear that?”

Jon turned to the voice on his right, Ryjar was sitting there eating fruit. The fruit was rotten, and
Ryjar’s black mark started to swirl, mixing with his white eye. “Do you hear that?” Ryjar said
again.

Jon continued to row, and then he heard it, someone was yelling.

“No, no, no, no,” Jon muttered to himself, “no please, no.”

“ Let the father judge me, and prolong my suffering to atone for whatever sins I have committed.”
A voice ran out.

“No, no, no, please stop,” Jon begged as he turned to Ryjar, whose whole face was being overtaken
by his black mark. His teeth white and head cocked as he smiled, his eyes turning slowly red. Jon
pulled his oar harder, willing it to go faster.

“ Mother, take me into your loving embrace, Maiden, may your fair light, illuminate my path home
.” The man was crying in pain, and Jon looked up to where the voice was coming from. It was
coming from the prow, but the prow was in front of him. What was happening? He could see him
now, chained, facing him, but the water was coming up to him. He was dipping below the water,
and the blood was pouring from his skin. The red washed away as the boat tipped under the wave.

“No, no, Cason, no!” Jon cried out. He tried to drop the oar, but his hands were chained to it.

“Row, boy, row and end the pain.” Jon turned to Ryjar, who was now as dark as a shadow, dark red
eyes staring at him.

“No,” Jon said, “No I can’t row, I won’t.”

Jon turned to Cason, who was still bleeding and yelling out prayers in agony, “ Warrior give me
justice!”

“No, please, no,” Jon was crying, but Ryjar only smiled.

“Only you can end this, row boy.”

“ Smith, take this vessel you created and ease my pain!”

“No, please,” Jon whimpered.

“You are the row, boy,” Ryjar said.

“ Stranger, accept my soul and guide me to my afterlife,” Cason continued to scream out in pain,
the noise reverberating within Jon. Jon looked down at his hands, they were attached to the oar.
No, they were the oar. Jon looked up at his friend, chained in agony.
Jon continued to pull the oar, and soon Cason was still. Jon looked at Ryjar, who just smirked as
his face continued to morph. Jon looked back to Cason, who was now in front of him, an arm’s
length away, chained and bleeding. Then the dead man’s face looked at him, and his mouth
moved, “Why?” Then the flesh started to wither away and gave way to the bone. Jon tried to shake
his head and close his eyes, but he could do nothing but stare in horror.

Cason was then replaced with dark green eyes, freckles on a heart-shaped face and light brown
hair.

“Ella,” Jon whispered, trying to reach out, but his hands wouldn’t move from the oar.

The dark green eyes filled with fear, the blood started to flow onto her face from a wound.

“Ella!” Jon said, trying to get to her, but the blood flowed, and the green eyes just stared at him.

“Why?” It was all she spoke, and Jon started to yell furiously, but he could make no sound as he
struggled to try to get to her. Evrett was there now, somehow chained and lying down, his face
still, blood leaking from his eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. Only a choked sound to be heard.

Then Jon felt hands wrap around his throat, starting to squeeze, and Jon tried to move his arms, but
they only rowed. He looked over to the right as the hands continued to constrict his throat. Lenfred
Rykker was there a cruel smile plastered onto his face as the pressure increased, and Jon felt his
chest start to burn, yet he continued to row.

Jon tried to move, he wanted to escape, but his vision started to dim, and Jon rowed furiously,
trying to get away. The darkness was coming across his sight, and Jon began to thrash violently,
still somehow rowing. Soon there was only a pinpoint of light, closing fast.

Lenfred was smiling.

Jon awoke with a start and sat up quickly, breathing heavily, sucking down deep breaths of stale
and putrid air, welcoming the familiar stench into his lungs. They weren’t burning anymore, they
were never burning.

Jon continued to breathe deeply as he tried to see in the darkness, faint light came through the slit
of the row. Morning .
Steps were heard above him as they moved back and forth. It still must be the third shift. They
would switch out soon, then the drum would start to beat again.

Jon tried to focus on his present, focus on what was around him. It was only a dream. It was only a
night terror. Every time he slept, it was the same. Every time he saw his failures while he slept,
sometimes Jon would still hear the faint screams while he was awake. Or maybe he imagined it.

He was tortured while he slept and beaten and exhausted while he was awake. He could no longer
find peace.

I am going mad.

No, no, he wasn’t.

Yes, I am.

Jon looked to his right, Harald was chained there last night, Rembryllo, the merchant’s son would
be on the furthest inside of the row.

No. Jon thought Rembryllo is gone. Wasn’t he?

Jon looked down at his hands, still chained, but still his hands. Were they? Do I own my hands?
Jon looked further up to his forearm. The large tattoo of a chain was in the middle of his forearm.
The mark of a slave in Lys. It didn’t hurt anymore, it hadn’t hurt in a long time. Or was it a long
time? How long has it been?

They had made it to Lys, that he could remember clearly. Fewer had died than expected, and Jon
and Harald did most of the work on their oar as the merchant’s young son had given into
exhaustion after the eighth turn, and was poorly beaten from the Belt. Jon had almost collapsed
himself, but hate had fueled him then.

He remembered when the drums signaled, and they had arrived at the port, and Jon had then
allowed himself to collapse, as he was sure most of the other slaves had as well. Eventually, they
had been dragged out with the rest, fed slightly better gruel and fresh fruit. Nothing had ever tasted
sweeter to him, and he remembered he looked thankfully at Ryjar. Then Jon had clenched at that
reaction and tossed his fruit away to spite the man. He had been beaten for that as well.

Jon had hoped to be sold, sold like a piece of meat. That hope permeated his mind as he and the
rest of the new slaves were taken to the market. He watched as Marcelino’s wife, bruised badly and
hollowed eyed, was sold as was her youngest daughter, who cried as she was dragged away. He
left before seeing if the other sister was sold. Jon thought he would be next except they went to a
man with needles and dark ink. Jon tried to fight, but his arm was stilled as the man marked him
with a chain on his right forearm, then crossed oars right above it. It had been painful, and it had
been bloody.

Worse, he remembered Ryjar was there the whole time, “You are lucky it is the arm here, slave.
Volantis is on the face. Tsk Tsk. There they make you one thing by tattooing the face, making a
slave unable to be something else besides a whore, a wheel, hand. Here, slaves can aspire to be
something more, and your new station will be above your old.” Ryjar leaned down toward Jon’s
ear, “But you will stay an oar, I think.”

Jon remembered the merchant’s sons were next but only received the chain. Jon remembered Ryjar
saying he would sell them elsewhere, “Taxes on boy slaves were increased five-fold!” Ryjar had
yelled and argued with the man, but the merchant’s sons were taken with them when they left Lys.
Then his days became repetitive pain.

Jon wasn’t sure how long it had been. He looked to the left and confirmed the youngest son wasn’t
there any longer, but instead replaced by the boy’s older brother, Jorcho. They had docked at some
point. No, Jon was sure they had anchored multiple times as new slaves had come on, and the boy
had been sold. Or did he die? How many ports have we actually been to?

Jon had cared for a time, his hate had burned through him and gave him the strength to do so, but
the oar took it away. Then he turned to grief, and the oar had taken that from him as well. Soon it
was apathy, and his life became turn after turn, day after day tuned to the beat of a drum, and soon
all days became one day. One day became every day. His nights were filled with torment, and
when he woke, it was repetitious suffering and exhaustion that dulled his senses to everything else
around him.

Nobody sang anymore, only the yells of ‘Pull’ and the sound of the Belt could be heard, which
only added to his confusion and clouded his mind. He hadn’t understood what Cason was really
doing, he never realized what he had truly meant to the slaves. What he meant to the slavers, too, a
part of his mind told him.

He saved you, you damned undeserving fuck.

Whatever Cason did or didn’t do, he sacrificed himself for Jon and tried to help everyone keep their
minds and humanity by merely trying to talk to each other.

Nobody talked to each other either now, Jon remembered that Xano had tried for a while, but soon
it was silence and ‘Pull’ and nothing else.

That was when everything started to fade. The few smatterings of communication were never
directed at himself, not anymore. Toli was the outcast, Toli was the one that had killed Cason, the
one that had murdered ten others with the row to Lys. He was alone. He was a slave, he was now
the oar.

Time stopped existing as he lived his punishments in one of the Seven Hells Lady Stark spoke
about for what he had done. Jon had let others die for him. He had stopped fighting even after his
men were killed, and Jon chose to live instead of dying with them. When he had decided to fight
again, a better man had been killed for him instead.

This is justice. This is my penance for my sins. I was born to be damned.

I deserve this.

Voices started to shout as their first turn was approaching, which meant gruel and stale biscuit, shit,
and piss before another day of pain, and the pull began. Jon was led up on deck, and he barely felt
the cold air that greeted him.

They had headed north at some point, or so he thought, as the air had become noticeably colder
and the days seemed to stretch on forever. It never bothered them during the day, as the rowing
heated their surroundings to a comfortable temperature. The nights, however, they only had flea-
infested covers and the body heat of the man next to you, or in Jon’s case, forced to be on your
own.

Now, however, he sat there on the deck, eating his morning ration and staring out into the ocean. It
was a cloudy day, hiding the sun, which only served to make the cold more noticeable on his
beaten skin. Jon rolled his shoulders. They no longer ached or got sore, but they were always tight.
Jon noticed the new guards ( were they new?) turned away from them, their shoulders relaxed, but
Jon knew that his allotted time was ending. He tipped the bowl back and forced the rest of the food
down out of ingrained habit and fear. Some of his slop escaped the sides, and Jon put the bowl
back down. He wiped his face then felt the hair there. I have a beard? Jon rubbed his face again
and noticed that his beard was longer than he thought it should be, although it was still a patchy
mess. Jon then felt the hair on his head. It was knotted and longer than he ever remembered. How
long has it been? Six weeks? Six months? Years? He wasn’t sure which both filled him with
anxiety and despair. Did it even matter?

Then the sun broke through the clouds and lit up the horizon, and Jon could do nothing but stare at
the beautiful sight. Jon couldn’t help but stare, trying to take in some beauty when something on
the horizon caught his eye.

It was land, but something was wrong, it didn’t look right. They had been to harbors, he
remembered that now. They had made port before at least a few times since he had been on board.
He remembered sometimes it was just the two sailing ships that were with them while the galleass
had stayed away from the docks. They had all seemed the same as he was usually the furthest from
the oar slit every time that they were near to a harbor. Each one was comprised of the stones of
buildings and walls and a collection of sails and wooden-planked decks. The ports had blurred
together in his mind.

Now, however, he was looking at the land, but even he couldn’t miss that this one was different.
There was a smooth surface that looked like glass that reached higher than anything else.

“It can’t be,” Jon croaked out.

Without thinking, Jon took a step toward the edge of the ship. In the back of Jon’s head, he knew
someone said something, but he couldn’t look away, and he couldn’t stop his feet moving.

It was where he was supposed to go, but fought against it. He should have just gone, he shouldn’t
have dreamed of something more. I never deserved more, I never deserved anything but the Wall.

It stood there, beautiful and striking, like a sentinel, a shield, and a beacon calling to him.

His feet started to move quicker. Wanting more got people killed, wanting hurt people that I cared
about. That cared about me.

Jon knew he shouldn’t have gone to Braavos, he should have just done his duty and been with
Benjen and man the Wall. To gain his honor back, to do some good, for his life to have meaning.
Why did I even want more? What did I think would happen?

Jon just wanted to mean something, but now he just wanted to disappear to escape the pain. At
nights it was the terrors, and awake it was the oar.

Jon was just tired, tired of it all.

Jon stopped suddenly. He was already on the edge of the ship, looking down into the cold
Northern Sea. It would be so easy, just to lean forward and fall. He didn’t even have to step
forward, just tilt forward, and the pain would fade. It was his choice.

My choice.

At that moment, that singular moment, Jon was in control of his life for the first time in so long.
The feeling was intoxicating, almost overwhelming. His life was in his hands, he could end it. The
sea gently pressed against the ship, beckoning to him.

A voice, a sweet voice, spoke into his head, “ Move forward, end it, it’s what you want, you’ll only
hurt those better than you.”

His family flashed through his mind. The images and memories of his siblings had faded into
something like a pleasant dream, rather than concrete memory. They probably thought he was dead
anyway. They had perhaps already mourned him, they had perhaps started to forget about him.

I’m just a pleasant memory to them now too.

One step, one step, and Jon’s pain would fade away, just like his family’s memory of him. It was
his choice, it was in his hands.

He looked at the edge, his death, the end of this pain, just the end stood within his grasp.

A memory of Arya came to his mind then. She was only two then, a bundle of dark hair and a
temper. Little Arya had seen him and leaped from her mother’s arms and toddled over to him.
Jon made his choice and took a deep breath.

He didn’t move.

“What the fuck are you doing?” One of the guards shouted in his ear as hands wrapped around his
body. He was torn from the ledge. His head hit hard against the deck of the galleass, and then he
felt the blows rain down on him. One hit the side of his torso, one on his leg, then they started to
come too quickly to differentiate until one hit his face, and he felt a crack in his nose.

The next blow hit the side of his head, and Jon felt the world blur, and a dull ringing overwhelmed
his ears. He stayed silent for a moment, and Jon tried his best to breathe, but it was labored, and
there was a pain in his side every time his lungs filled with air.

Jon just had his eyes closed, slowly giving into unconsciousness.

No, please, no.

He made his choice, he wanted it to be his choice. It was supposed to be his choice.

Or was he just a coward, was he just not strong enough to make that choice. Did he still want to
live?

Yes.

He wasn’t sure where the thought came from but grasped onto it like a drowning man, trying to
escape the sea of despair that threatened to overtake him. However, another blow interrupted him,
and lights bloomed in his vision, and all he could do was wait for the last strike, the final blow.

Nothing came.

Instead, he heard someone speak some words, but it sounded as though he was underwater. The
person spoke again, and Jon was able to understand some of it. “What is the meaning of this?” Jon
opened his eyes to see Ryjar standing there, a frown on his face as he looked at him.

“The slave was walking towards the ledge. Scarin’ the others he did, he was crack’d, and I’d
thought best to beat’d outta him.” The guard had said.

Ryjar just studied Jon for a moment, then sighed, “Well you certainly beat him, I do not think he
can row for a couple of days,” Ryjar took a deep breath, “You are lucky we are so close to a port,
or what passes for a port at the edge of the world and have a day or two. If we were not. Pero, you
would have taken his place.” Ryjar disappeared from his vision, then seemingly reappeared before
returning with two others. “Drag the slave up and chain him to the ‘x’, keep his arms below his
head, I’d rather he not kill himself that way. But make sure his legs are tied. I do not want him to
have the opportunity or the ability to fall overboard.””

“B-but sir, are you su-” The guard, Pero, was struck in the face quickly and stumbled a bit.

“If he dies, I would rather it be in a place where we can easily throw him overboard, and if he
somehow lives, I want him close enough, so it isn’t a chore to chain him again.” Ryjar said as if
explaining to a small child, and Pero only nodded, and Jon was half-dragged half carried up and
tied to the ‘x’. It was chilly as the sun was again hidden behind the few grey clouds, but Jon didn’t
notice, he only noticed that the pain was worse and that his roughspun tunic was covered in his
own blood leaking from his nose and a cut from his chin, and that he couldn’t ignore as parts of the
cloth stuck to his body.

When they tied his hands and let go of him, he slumped forward, and the rope and his shackles
held him up. Jon was struggling to breathe as blood continued to flow from his nose. Jon faltered
again, unable to right himself under his own strength, relying on his binds to keep him upright.
Jon’s head slumped down, in pain, and he prayed to his gods that this wasn’t the end, praying he
may wake up as darkness took him.

Jon didn’t know how much time passed, but he must have dozed off at some point as the sound of
many footsteps pounding onto the wooden deck woke him. People were speaking loudly and in
such harsh tones that gave the air a cacophony of blended conversation. Jon raised his head to take
a better look, but he was distracted as a light reflecting off something that drew his one good eye.
The other one was nearly swollen shut. Jon saw what must have been the most massive structure
he had ever seen, taller than New Castle on a hill, larger than the Titan of Braavos. The Wall
glistened in the sunlight and Jon could see a web of wooden stairs, crossing to and from as it
snaked up the side to the top.

They must have docked, because for the first time in who knows how long Jon didn’t hear
Valyrian but Westerosi, “Oi there, welcome to Eastwatch.” The man had a young voice and was
cheery as well. Jon thought of Cason then, and his addled mind panicked. Was this a nightmare
too? Was he just sleeping and would soon wake, no longer in pain and continuing to row. Jon’s
heart quickened and looked around him, trying to see if he was on his bench. Jon struggled against
the rope and chain, but the pain in his side and back caused him to stop, but Jon’s erratic breathing
continued, but he slowly stilled himself. I am awake. Jon told himself, only partially believing it.

Jon heard footsteps and then saw someone in a black cloak walking towards him. Benjen? Benjen
would save him, would take him with him. Jon would gladly exchange his chains for a black
cloak.

I would rather be a slave on the Wall then on this ship .

Jon looked up, but instead of blue-grey eyes, it was a muddy brown. The man had broken his nose
at some point, and his mouth was too small. If this was the man with a young voice, he looked too
old to have it as he had grey hair mixed with black that stubbornly clung to his scalp. Regardless,
he was a black brother, and if Jon could get his attention, this man could save him.

“Benjen.” Jon wheezed, “Take me-” one of the pirates, Jon, didn’t know his name, hit him in the
stomach and Jon tried to double over, but with hands and legs chained, it wasn’t possible.

Ryjar clucked his tongue, “Gag the slave. His ramblings are...distracting.” Jon felt something in his
mouth as he tried to wheeze air into his lungs.

The Night’s Watchmen just stared at him, studying him for a long couple of moments. “What’d he
say?”

“I do not know. It seems this one has gone mad, and this shit’s ramblings have been incoherent as
of late,” Ryjar explained. No! Jon tried to get the rag out when there was another blow to his head,
and Jon just sagged over, trying to cling to consciousness.

Jon felt that Ryjar was standing next to him, when the man with a black cloak finally asked, “What
are you going to do with him?”

Ryjar just shrugged, “He may be broken beyond repair if so we will throw him overboard.” To
Jon’s surprise, he realized that Ryjar was speaking Westerosi. However, his accent was still thick
enough that Jon needed to concentrate on understanding it, something he was finding great
difficulty in doing as his head was swimming in pain.
The man from the Night’s Watch studied him, and Jon tried to focus enough to regard him back,
“Aye, beaten pretty good, I wouldn’t bet on him.”

Ryjar clucked his tongue, “His mind may have broken, but his body is strong, we will see.”

“Aye, we will, now let’s talk business.”

“You do not want to speak to Ventarro?”

The Night’s Watchmen shrugged, “You know how this goes, we talk to each other so our superiors
can stay ‘ uninformed .’”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Ryjar spoke again, “Very well, so do you have any
information for me?”

Jon’s focus started to come back. Information? What kind of information can the Night’s Watch
give pirates and slavers?

“Aye, we have found a handful of villages. They should stay there for a while. Last, we heard
there are few men left to guard them, either south raiding villages or slaughtering each other further
north,” the man from the Night’s Watch said to which Ryjar raised a brow.

“That is interesting, anything else?”

“Like what?

“You know what,” Ryjar said.

“Oh, come now. I can’t give you that information.”

The sound of metal clinked together.

The Black Brother said nothing and more metal hit together. “Information about our trade that
most probably already know. Not that we have much compared to ports in the south.”

“Well what can you tell me?” Ryjar asked.

“Just word that in the south, fewer galleys are patrolling the coasts.” No one spoke, so the Night’s
Watchmen spoke again, “Which means most merchant vessels you see probably won’t be
guarded.”

“These frozen people do not trade, what merchants of worth would come this far?”

Jon heard a scoff, “Maybe not before, but we have had more Braavosi come to our edge of the
world in the past six months than the five years before. You could get lucky. They usually come
every couple weeks or so and haven’t seen one in around twelve days.”

Ryjar nodded, “I will think on this.”

The Black Brother just shrugged, “Well, you fine men came North, you should have seen the
purple hulls.”

“There is a rule, never attack a purple galley North of Pentos, unless, of course, there is no chance
of being seen.”

“Hah! Very well, now, let me show you where the savages’ villages are. You have a map?”

Ryjar motioned him to follow, “I have one in my cabin from our previous ventures.”

They left, and Jon was speechless, whether from the pain or the overheard conversation he wasn’t
sure. His head was throbbing now, and he was trying to make sure he heard what was actually said
or was his mind playing tricks on him.

Did the Night’s Watch just tell them where to find slaves? Did they just tell them that Braavosi
ships were vulnerable to attack? Even if they had, even if Jon hadn’t imagined what had just
happened, what could he do? Does Benjen know? Does Mormont know? Does Father-.
Jon shoved that down, there was nothing for him to do. He was a slave, and he would probably die
here, bloody and chained. There was nothing for him to do but to die and finally be free again.

No, I made my choice.

He tried to fight the despair that was there, just below the surface.

Jon suddenly felt tired, his body was bruised and broken, his mind sore and fogged, his
consciousness decided to start leaving him again. He closed his eyes, a part of his mind panicking
as the familiar, slow drift to darkness overtook him and braced his mind for more terrors.

Jon needed to do something.

There is nothing to be done.

Jon was a Northman.

I am a slave.

Jon was a person.

I am an oar.

Jon tried to ready himself for his regular terrors, but something was different.

He stood there, in a courtyard, and heard a conversation—a conversation in another time when one
bastard talked to a younger one.

“But it’s’ the honorable thing, and it’s something you would do.”
“I don’t’ t know about that.”

“I do.”

No, he was now in a room with people, Robb was there. His confident brother, his best friend, was
speaking to something else now, “ He will be by my side for the rest of my life.”

Now he was near a weirwood, and Ned Stark stood there, implacable as the foundation of
Winterfell itself, “ The North will need you,” His father told him.

Then he was alone and dark as woman’s voice pierced him, one that he didn’t recognize, “ Promise
Me.” The woman cried, “ Promise me.”

Then he was in that memory of Arya, and she wrapped her tiny arms around him and called him,
“Jon.”

The dying ember within him gave a small spark. A minuscule light in the overwhelming darkness,
but it was still there, trying to survive, trying to grow. Jon wanted to snuff it, he wanted to feed it. I
made the choice, I didn’t move.

Cason was there then, standing over him, his wrists were no longer chained, and the man was
smiling sadly at him. Then the apparition of his mind spoke, “It’s your turn, Jon.”

The figment dissolved, and then someone was there, a ragged old man. He was different, less like a
flowing thought, and more robust like a real person. With white hair, scarred face missing an eye
and blood-red splotch from his throat to his cheek. The single eye studied him, then a raven landed
on the man’s shoulder, and then the creature and man were boring into him, not just his beaten
appearance but somehow his beaten soul.

It was silent for a time then the old man reached out to him, a pale white hand with dark red veins
like the color of weirwood sap. The fingers grabbed his chin and lifted his head. Jon looked into
the single eye, then the two eyes of the crow. The three eyes turned white, and the man opened his
mouth.

“Open your eye, boy.” The man said, and the raven cawed, spread his wings and launched towards
him. “Open your eye, boy!”
One of Jon’s eyes shot open, seeing only his brown threadbare tunic now stained with his dried red
blood. Jon forced the other eye open as the world came into focus. It was still cold, but the sky was
no longer grey, and Jon tried to understand how it was so much darker already after only a few
moments.

Hands dug into his arms and shoulders as his feet dragged against the wooden deck, it took a few
moments before Jon realized what was happening. He struggled to get his feet under him, “One
moment,” Jon wheezed in Valyrian through his swollen nose. The two that held him let go, and the
support disappeared. Jon took a step forward, but the chains around his ankles were shorter than he
anticipated, and he tripped himself. He involuntarily fell to his knees, and groaned at the pain it
caused, while the men that were holding them moments ago chuckled at his difficulty.

Jon struggled to his feet, his body screaming in agony with bruises, stiff muscles, and strained
joints. His hands were somehow already shackled, but Jon fought against everything his body
wanted to stand up straight. The water was moving underneath them, but the oars were not. Jon
looked to the horizon, the world was only alight due to the last embers of the day’s sun.

He surveyed the pirates on the deck, doing their duty as the second shift started to end. Jon saw a
few chained slaves, eating or shitting on the opposite side of the ship. Jon took a deep breath in,
then was shocked as his nose didn’t allow him to. Jon leaned down to his shackled hands so he
could feel his nose, the bone obviously misshapen, and the skin puffy and swollen. Jon grabbed
both sides of it, took a breath through his mouth, and moved it sharply. He swore loudly. The two
guards next to him, the pirates and his fellow slaves, looked at him in surprise. Jon blew air out
through his nostrils, a glob of blood exiting it. Jon took a breath and felt the air rush through his
nose. It would swell worse, he knew, but for now, he could breathe.

Jon looked up, staring at all the pirates. Jon felt his despair recede, for the time being, replaced by
something else.

Purpose .

Jon couldn’t die, not for nothing, not in that way. Jon spotted a few of the oarsmen, in their ragged
clothes and shackled limbs. These slaves, no, these men needed someone, and Jon knew then that
they needed someone better, but he would have to do. Jon would try to keep them alive and work to
reignite their humanity like Cason had once done. But Jon couldn’t stop there, he needed to give
them...to give them more, something more. He needed something more.

Hope.
 Hope for what, though? To stay in this hell? To simply exist? No. Jon knew they all needed hope
for more. They needed to hope for something substantial, more than to simply not die here, not
when death was preferable to what life meant for them now.

Jon was soon chained back into his row and studied the men around him. They were filthy, tattered
men with nothing but thin, lean muscle covering their bones. Jon looked at Harald who looked
exhausted, having to row with just two men for a day had left him quiet and slouched over. He was
maybe a handful of years older than himself and beaten into submission.

Jon then knew his purpose, and if he were to throw his life away, let it be trying to make these
ragged men free .

Chapter End Notes

Hey everyone, sorry for the delay, but unfortunately they may be more common as
I've had less time to write and when I have it's been harder to focus so thank you for
being patient.

This wasn't fun to write but helped me work through some experiences I've had so
their's that.
Anyone struggling with depression or suicidal thoughts please reach out to someone or
call 1-800-273-8255

Thanks to everyone who has let a comment, or any sort of appreciation for this story,
very kind of you to do so.

Also, I need a beta or even someone to bounce ideas of where I want to take this story
and get opinions and comments, so DM or comment if you are interested. Or if you
want to talk ASOIAF lore I am also down as this helps add fuel to my creative fire.
 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Benjen

He didn't stay long at the Wall when he returned from his journey south. It had been nearly four
months of travel, a month to Winterfell, then five weeks of river and horse travel to and from White
Harbor then six weeks back to the Wall. Benjen was there for less than two days before being sent
on a mission past the Wall to track a raiding party that was spotted coming back over the Wall
from terrorizing some villages somewhere in the New Gift. Benjen was sorry to part from Samwell
Tarly, the boy was sharp, and if he wasn't terrified, which was rare, he had some humor under all
the fat. The young boy from Reach had been a bright spot of conversation since they had met on
the docks of White Harbor.

The boy was not a warrior, that much was obvious, but the Watch needed every able body, well,
every body that they could find, able or no. Benjen worried how Sam would respond to training
under Ser Alliser, who was not known for his patience or his compassion for raw recruits.
However, that was pushed to the back of his mind as he left for his ranging.

Now, one month later, he was finally returning. He had lost three rangers; Red Bill, Old Allred,
and Cayde. Cayde had only been only twenty and showed a lot of promise for the next generation
of rangers, maybe even capable of being put into a leadership position. However, the wildling
spear through the throat had ended Benjen's hopes for the young man. Three rangers dead, out of
the twenty-five that he led, it would usually be acceptable, but they had lost so many recruits to his
brother. Absentmindedly he gripped his reins tight, the leather of his gloves creaking as his fists
closed. Benjen's garron, a stout mare named Grey Spot by the stablemaster, whinnied in protest to
Benjen's thoughtless pull. Benjen immediately let up and patted the neck, calming the best, and
trying to calm himself.

He couldn't think about Ned. Worse, he couldn't even think about Jon. His nephew, always his
nephew, but no, Benjen could only hold his regret. How many times had he visited Winterfell over
the years, how many times had he spent more time with Ned's children than he did with Jon? How
many days and years wasted at the gods-forsaken Wall instead of spending time with him? Regret
gave way back to the anger.

How could have Ned done this to him, how could he have hidden the truth of Jon through all of
these years? Benjen did the math in his head, nearly four months since that day in Ned's solar. Jon
had gone missing, five or six months ago now. He was probably dead now. How...how could Ned
let Jon get away from him? How did he...how could he have allowed Jon to disappear?
The punch felt good, Ned had always been bigger, but he had gotten slower the older he became,
while Benjen spent most of his time tracking and fighting wildling raiders. Ned had got the worst
of it, but Benjen still took a couple of solid blows. Still, his anger was getting out of control, his
focus was starting to slip, and Benjen needed to find a way to keep it manageable. It was what
made him take this assignment so soon after he returned, it was also what got three of his men
killed.

If he weren't so focused on killing the wildlings, he would have been better at defending his
brothers, would have stopped the spear that took Cayde. Benjen shook his head, focusing back onto
the moment, pushing the past deep down where he buried the rest of his grief, rarely to be dug back
up and revisited.

Benjen turned to Thoren Smallwood, the man was an arrogant fool, but his skill with the blade was
useful and his ability to track raiders even more so. "Thoren, how's the prisoner?"

"She ain't talking," Thoren said.

"Well you did knock out her teeth."

"Three teeth, and considering she had just gutted Red Bill, I consider it light punishment."

"True. Still, she didn't say where Giantsbane was?" Benjen asked.

"No, but we can't question her too hard, she still needs to walk, and she won't survive being
dragged back to Castle Black."

Benjen turned to Rory, who held the rope that was tied the spearwife's wrist. The spearwife, who
had refused to talk and remained nameless, had to be watched at all times. She was as tall as him
and weighed a stone more. Regardless, Benjen still had to have more than one watcher as she had
nearly killed Lark, although Benjen thought it was more likely Lark tried to rape her, and it almost
cost the little shit his life.

Benjen took a deep breath, his merry band of thieves and rapers, and rarely there was someone like
Thoren or Cayde. Good men. No, not good, but decent, with the potential to lead one day. Thoren
would still need some more work, much like he did when he had first come to the Watch, but there
was still potential there.
Benjen looked up, and on the horizon, he could see the Wall starting to tower over them, even from
this distance. They were still probably four or five leagues away, and with every trot of the horse,
the Wall grew more imposing.

They were quiet for the next hour, or so, a month-long ranging usually wasn't so draining, but they
all felt tired, and the garrons left behind by their three brothers were carrying all the items taken by
the raiders. Furs and some stolen weapons would serve the Night's Watch well, and the few
possessions of any value, amber, and a small chain of silver would help purchase food and other
provisions.

Suddenly, Benjen felt an arrow fly past his ear, and then there were a few cries of pain from his
men. Benjen turned and saw a wildling knocking another arrow, hiding behind a tree. "Archers in
the woods! Form up!" Benjen grabbed his shield just in time for the arrow to bury itself in it. His
men were able to form a decent shield wall, and Benjen, Thoren, and a few other rangers charged
the archers, and their men started to return a volley. Two wildlings fell from the barrage, and
Benjen charged another one, an ugly fellow who aimed the arrow, but Benjen got there quicker and
slashed his sword, a splash of blood covering the grass.

Thoren had taken care of another, and Benjen wheeled around as another arrow flew past him.
Benjen saw two wildlings, and Benjen pushed his garron towards them. Suddenly, Grey Spot
whinnied and stumbled, and Benjen threw himself from the saddle. He rolled onto his feet, just in
time for one of the archers to rush him. Benjen feinted right, and the wildling fell for it, and Benjen
stabbed him through the mouth. As the man fell, his comrade charged him, and Benjen tried
unsuccessfully to remove his sword from the dead man's corpse. Benjen let go, taking the first
blow on the shield. He unsheathed his dagger in a smooth motion and struck back up. The blade
sunk into the man right above the clavicle and then Benjen kicked him to the ground. Benjen lifted
his shield and drove it into the man's skull and battered him until the man was still.

Benjen got to his feet and looked around, Benjen had gotten separated, and couldn't see Thoren or
his men, though he did hear them. Pain suddenly pierced him, and the force of it threw him to the
ground. Benjen looked and saw an arrow had pierced his mail and was sticking out of his left
shoulder. He tried to raise himself, but a knee hit his head, and Benjen sprawled out. A wildling
stood above him and raised his spear.

It was over, but Benjen would see her again, would see Jon again. Father, Mother, and Brandon. He
simply smiled.

The man grunted, and Benjen felt the splash of warm blood as goose fletching protruded from the
wildling's throat.

Two men appeared above him, both with their black cloaks dragging in the dirt. Benjen recognized
them, "Gods above Benjen, I taught you better than this." The man on the left stuck out his hand,
Benjen lifted his good arm and grasped it.

With a groan of pain, they lifted Benjen to his feet. He felt light-headed, then felt only one finger
slap him.

Benjen smiled, "Good timing, Qhorin, you still hit like a whore, though."

"Well you visit the wrong whores, Stark." Qhorin gave a hint of a smile then as Dalbridge
laughed.

"Thanks Squire, I owe you one," Benjen thanked the archer.

"Aye, you do. The one that almost gutted you was Orand. We've been hunting him, what? Almost
five, six weeks? He is one of Mance's war chiefs."

Benjen looked from Qhorin to Squire, both didn't seem too upset, but Benjen knew better, "Fuck."

"Aye," Qhorin said. "It's our own fault though, we surprised the party four weeks ago and have
hunted what remained of Orand's war party since. Must have pushed them into your men. But
where the fuck are your scouts, Stark?"

"We aren't more than half a day from the Wall."

The veteran gave him a disappointed glare. It was the wrong thing to say to someone like the
Halfhand who, even on the Wall was fully armored and ready for a fight at all times.

Benjen blew out a breath of frustration of pain, "How are they?"

"Two more dead, eight wounded."

Benjen swore again, "Alright, how many wildlings?"

"It was a party of twelve. They are all accounted for. Even your prisoner caught an arrow through
the skull."

"Shit."

"Aye, tough luck all the way around. We are only four leagues from Castle Black, though, can you
ride?" Qhorin asked.

"Well enough."

"Good, take your men and get going, we will bring the dead and your prisoner in the morning."
Qhorin said.

"You're coming with me to help explain all this shit to Mormont," Benjen said, then added, "and
bring a few of your party to make sure everyone gets back if I drop beforehand."

"As you say, First Ranger, Squire, you're in charge, bury the dead and get the rest of our men and
what you can salvage to Castle Black in the morning."

"Yessir," Dalbridge responded.

Benjen found a horse, and all but two of the wounded men were able to ride, albeit in pain, back to
the Wall. Thoren was unhurt thankfully and rode next to Benjen to make sure he didn't fall off the
horse. Qhorin, though, kept him talking.

"I heard you, and Jeremy Rykker nearly came to blows when you first got back."

Benjen groaned a bit, "Old family loyalties die hard."

"Still I thought he hated his cousin for turning coat on the Targaryens." Qhorin asked.
Benjen chuckled, "Apparently the nephew my…" Benjen stopped for a moment, "my nephew beat,
was the son of the dead cousin he liked."

Qhorin and Thoren looked apologetic before Qhorin spoke again, "Sorry about the lad Benjen."

Benjen grimaced from the pain, not sure if it was the shoulder or from somewhere else, "Me too,
still angry at my brother. For that and poaching some of our recruits, thinking gold could replace
them. ' A strong North means a strong wall.'"

Qhorin spoke again, "He has a point though Benjen. For the first time in decades, we were able to
purchase quality steel from the south, hell, I even heard talk that Mormont wanted to start setting
aside coin to help fortify one of the castles between Shadow Tower and Castle Black."

"With what men?" Benjen said.

Qhorin raised his hands, "You're not wrong Benjen, but if the Watch is in a better position, we may
be able to recruit more brothers."

"Or it will keep more men away."

"Could be, but the Watch was slowly dying long before your brother was warden." Qhorin said.

Benjen was silent at that. He knew where his anger stemmed from, but enjoyed letting it fester to
whatever it could.

A horn blast made them look to the Wall, now forcing them to crane their necks to see the top,
Their group of injured rangers made their way to the gate, already opening into the tunnel
underneath. Benjen led them forward with Qhorin as Thoren waited until they all had entered
before bringing up the rear.

Benjen reached the courtyard, and the black brothers soon rushed to him, the Lord Commander,
who was watching from one of the walkways, came rushing down.

"Get them to the maester!" The Old Bear bellowed. Benjen felt faint, the arrow still lodged into his
shoulder, and the blood had clotted and dried up and down his arm. He got down from the horse
and stumbled to his knee, someone tried to lift him, but Benjen waved them off.

"I'm the least injured, get the other men situated." Benjen grit out.

The Old Bear was in front of him, "Gods, Benjen, what happened?" Only then did the Lord
Commander notice Qhorin, "Halfhand? What are you doing here?"

"My fault, Lord Commander, we were hunting a large war party led by Orand, killed some and
have been chasing the last remnant for a week or so. Drove them right into Benjen's men," Qhorin
finished.

"How many?" Mormont asked. When Benjen told him Mormont swore, "Where are their bodies?"

"My men have them, four leagues north, should be here sometime tomorrow."

Mormont shook his head, "Rykker!" Mormont yelled, and Jeremy Rykker came quickly, refusing to
look at Benjen, "Get five men and go North, ensure the rest of the men get here tomorrow."

"Aye, my Lord. Happy to clean up Stark's mess."

"Enough of that!" Mormont shouted, and Jaremy left chastised with four men. Mormont turned to
Benjen, "Well, let's get you and your men to the maester."

They helped Benjen up to Aemon's quarters, the usually ample space was now crowded as Aemon
and his men tended to the injured rangers. Benjen noticed Samwell Tarly on a table, unconscious
and his face badly bruised. Benjen was about to ask when Aemon came over, his hands working
deftly, even without his sight. "Brother Benjen, it seems you have an arrow in you."

"I am well aware, Maester."

"Well, yours won't kill you in the next few hours, I'll have Chett bring you some tea made from
willow bark to ease the pain."
"Thank you." Aemon turned away, but Benjen reached out, "Maester, what happened to
Samwell?"

Aemon's face darkened, "Best to speak about that in private."

Benjen nodded, they brought him his tea in a simple mug and Benjen down the whole bitter-tasting
thing. The pain was still there, but the edge was soon rounded, and he was able to sleep for a bit.

Benjen awoke later, maybe late evening, and Hobb brought some stew for them all, Benjen was
about to eat, but Aemon stopped him. "Usually I would have you eat, but our work on your wound
will be a little more difficult."

"How so?" Benjen asked.

"Usually, we push the arrow through, but that isn't an option, so we will have to cut around it, it
will not be pleasant, but if we do this right, your shoulder shouldn't lose any mobility or strength
once healed."

Benjen nodded. They gave him leather and Benjen bit in deep as the Maester started his work. The
pain was excruciating, and he needed a couple of the men to help hold him still. The sightless
maester with the help of Chett and Clydas was able to get him through it. Aemon gave him some
sweet sleep and more willow bark tea, and soon Benjen's pain faded, and he drifted gratefully.

He awoke the following morning and felt very weak. He looked at the rest of the injured men.
Most would recover, though one, Jaron, had bled out. Six men dead on one fucking ranging.
Benjen cursed himself for his foolishness, and Aemon sent for some food, and after he had eaten,
Aemon took him to his private quarters where Aemon sent Chett for another bowl of stew. Once it
arrived, Benjen started again, "What happened to Samwell?"

Aemon shook his head, "The boy is not martially inclined, a disposition I can relate with. Ser
Alliser is not a patient or empathetic man, Samwell was berated and beaten every day, and was
mended in here most nights." His face darkened, "Two days ago, Hobb found him in the middle of
the night in the courtyard beaten within an inch of his life."

Benjen's feelings soon matched the old Maester's mood, "Who did it?"
"No one would come forward."

Benjen put his head in his hands, "Will he recover?"

"Physically? Yes. Though I don't know if he will trust his brothers again."

"Can you just make him your steward?" Benjen asked.

"It will take him at least a few weeks, if not longer, but yes, I'll request Mormont allow him to help
me around here. Though the others don't see it, there is value in an educated mind such as his"

"How did the Old Bear take it?"

"Each initiate received twenty lashings. Not the best decision, but there are no good choices when
something like this happens," Aemon said.

Benjen thought for a moment, "It will be good for Samwell to be your steward, he is a bright young
man."

Aemon smiled, "It would be nice to have someone that can match my wit. Believe it or not, you
rangers and the stewards are dull-minded."

Benjen feigned a scoff, "I'm sure with your training, he will be a maester in no time." Benjen
laughed but noticed Aemon had become pensive. "What?"

"You're right," Aemon said.

"About?"

Aemon just gave an incredulous look, "Let's just say you are in the right position as trying to make
you a maester would be a waste of time."
Benjen snorted out a laugh, "Who do you want to make a maester then?"

"Samwell."

"I was half-joking," Benjen said.

"And I am fully serious. I am almost a hundred years old. I have only a handful of years left in me.
When I die, the Citadel will replace me with someone from the dregs. Someone who has only
enough links to make a bracelet." Aemon took a deep breath, "I have been a member of the Night's
Watch for longer than many men live their lives and want to make sure when I finally pass that
there is someone competent to take my place."

Benjen's cheerful mood sobered as the Maester spoke with authority, "Do you think you can do
this? Will Mormont even allow it?"

Aemon smiled, "It will be easy to convince Mormont, Samwell would be a capable steward, but
getting a maester and an intelligent one who is still in his youth is more useful than forty of you
rangers."

Benjen rolled his eyes, "And the Citadel?"

"I am the oldest living maester in the world, the last member of a dynasty, but more importantly, I
will be doing them a favor. No maester wants to be sent to the Wall, as it is considered a
punishment."

Benjen felt his mood improve, "We should tell him, Sam, I mean."

"We will, but we will first need to convince Mormont then get confirmation from the Citadel.
Which, as with all things concerning the archmaesters, will take more time than is proper. Once
that is done, we can tell Sam."

Benjen smiled then. He could help save at least one boy's life.
Chapter End Notes

Thanks again everyone who has continued to read, leave comments, and kudos!
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Jon

Although Jon was able to fix his nose, he was only allowed a day to 'rest' his beaten body before he
was forced to row again. It was painful, but Jon knew they would kill him if he stopped.
Regardless of the pain, it was good to be back below deck, and rowing the oar forced his muscles
to work out his stiffness. Also, surrounded by other slaves, all moving in a confined space kept him
warm as they pushed their way beyond the Wall and through the Northern Seas.

Initially, he was uncomfortable being back down there with the other men. Jon had broken down in
front of a few of these men. They saw him run to the edge, almost losing all hope, and nearly
throwing his away to be swallowed by the sea.

It made his new purpose much more difficult, as Jon needed to find a way to convince them to
have hope again and if Gods willing, to escape. Not through taking their own life, not like he
nearly did. Jon had to be smarter, and he knew he needed the others' help if he wanted even a
chance at succeeding.

That hope still made him nervous. He wanted to avoid losing anyone else again, or at least lose as
few as possible. Jon couldn't bear to see what happened to Cason happen to anyone else, but Jon
felt the desire to escape again. It wasn't the urgent, manic feeling before like a man hammering
against a stone wall. This was a feeling like a calm, steady stream flowing near the stone and
wearing it down until it broke the stone down, piece by piece.

It would take time to convince the others to trust him again, and even more importantly, to
persuade the others to want their freedom, no matter the cost. Once that was done, he could try and
get word back to his father about the Watch and what they were doing, but first and foremost, he
owed these men their freedom.

Is this even possible? Is this the futile hope of a damned slave?

Jon stopped that train of thought and remembered a lesson his father had given Robb once,
something about overwhelming problems and breaking them into simple steps. There was nothing
simple about Jon's next step, but it needed to be done.
His first day back on the oar, Jon was placed at the innermost position. He had tried to speak to the
others around him, but it was useless as none of the others would talk to him. They all either still
hated him for Cason, or they avoided him because they were too apathetic to care about anything
as trivial like a conversation, let alone something like freedom and escape.

It was a disheartening thing, but Jon knew he couldn't relent as Cason never seemed to, and Jon
knew his purpose was much more complicated than Cason's ever was. Cason wanted them to
survive, which was admirable, but Jon was going to ask so much more.

So Jon kept at it, both throughout the day and into the evening, day after day. On the fifth day after
Eastwatch, they had stopped, and that evening Jon saw the lands north of the Wall for the first time
while eating his meal. Two guards stared at them in case he tried a repeat performance. Jon didn't
notice as he studied the coastline. He was a little disappointed not to see any wildlings roaming the
beaches and cliffs, but he banished the childish notion as he remembered what the pirates were
here to do. Still, the lands weren't as frozen as he expected, but green and heavily wooded. Jon then
saw the five skiffs, the rowboats attached to the three ships, with men departing for the estuary and
up to one of the rivers.

As Jon watched them go, he saw Ryjar approach his guards, and on instinct, Jon quickly wolfed
down the rest of his slop. His bruised ribs protested at the quick movements, but after days of
rowing through pain, this small movement meant little to Jon.

Ryjar seemed to notice him, and Jon felt his ire rise at the long stare. The slave master came over,
inspected him, Harald and Jorcho, with a discerning eye, deliberately searching for something.
What it was, Jon didn't know as he decided it would be best to try and act as he had appeared,
broken down. Ryjar eventually came to him, and Jon thought the corner of Ryjar's mouth was ever
so slightly upturned.

"You lasted longer than most men, Slave. I am suitably impressed that it took that long to wear you
down. Your decision was disappointing, as you almost cost me my investment, but I am glad my
men were able to rectify your poor choice."

Choice.

It was Jon's choice. His choice to try and mend his shattered mind and forge it with a singular hope
and purpose.
Ryjar didn't need to know that so Jon didn't look up or acknowledge the man, but he did feel the
slap of the Belt hit him.

One of his guards spoke then, "Your master spoke to you."

Jon, unable to control himself, looked up sharply to meet Ryjar's eyes. Luckily, the bastard was
glaring at the guard that hit him. Jon then wizened up and dropped his gaze immediately to the
deck, praying Ryjar didn't notice.

"Enough with the whipping, Kalto, he has done nothing to deserve it. Yet." Ryjar took a deep
breath and shuddered, "I do hate it this far North, always a chill even in the heart of summer.
However, these barbarian slaves are sturdy people, strong-willed, but if you get them young
enough, they can be molded and sold for quite a bit of silver."

One of the guards snorted, "Says you, last time we were up 'ere one of 'em women nearly took my
prick off with a dagger."

Ryjar sighed in boredom, "Well, when you try to rape one who has a weapon on them, I say you
were asking for it. Also, your stupidity cost us ."

"She wasn't fit to be a slave!"

"Now we will never know, will we," Ryjar snapped, "If not a slave, then we could have sold them
to the pits of Tyrosh or even Myr for something at least."

The guard rolled his eyes, then the one called Kalto spoke, "I remember that one. She was too
skinny. They take actual fighters in Tyrosh."

"Then we would have sold her to pit on Bloodstone. Men pay for bloodshed everywhere." Ryjar
answered.

"Like those injured slaves, like the one that lost his arm to infection from the splintered oar,"
another guard added, "Kalto, you remember the one. Sold them in Bloodstone, fought on our last
day there, what'd he face again?"
Kalto smiled, "That hideous one-eyed Ibbenese woman," Kalto then imitated with a high voice,
"Help me, help me! He shouted. How'd she kill him?"

"Slow like, piece by piece. Gods it was brutal," the man said with relish.

"Yes, as I was saying, men or women can always be sold somewhere," Ryjar said dismissively,
"Anyway, hopefully, this raiding is more profitable than the last time. More children would be
preferable." Jon clenched his fist so hard he almost drew blood.

They sat there for days, floating with the two other ships waiting for the raiding parties to come
back. This did give Jon some time to try and engage the men around him. Xano spoke a few
sentences to him every so often, but the rest of them were silent as his false name. Jon took heart in
this though, any improvement was moving in the right direction, so Jon decided it was best to focus
on Xano.

The third day sitting still, was when one of the Dothraki twins, Rorlo, started to cough. There
hadn't been much to do except sit in the cold, and since they didn't row, they received one meal a
day. So they were cold, underfed, and dirty.

Eventually, the pirates did come back, or so Jon assumed as he listened to a few of the men board
the boat and secured two of the rowboats, and then they heard the call to row. It must have been a
successful raid as the sailors were talking more than usual. Or I am paying attention for the first
time in...some amount of time? Regardless, Jon wasn't sure since there were no openings on any of
the oars when the raiders had returned, so no new slaves were chained along with them. This was
unfortunate because if no oar was available and the new slaves proved unruly, Ryjar would start to
break the Wildlings in other ways. In ways far more painful but less monotonous as an oar.

The trip back to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was a difficult one. Ventarro was pushing the sailing ships
hard, so the galleass had to push themselves harder than usual. Now it was one and a half turns for
each shift, overlapping for half a turn with the opposite shift to try and make up the speed. This
also meant that instead of a full turn of rest, it was trimmed down to half a turn.

It didn't do any favors for Rorlo, for by the time they reached Eastwatch, he was pale, weak, and
his breathing was labored, wheezing with every breath. Two days after they left Eastwatch, the
twin couldn't pull an oar and was taken away.

They didn't see him again.

The following morning he was replaced by a tall man with bright red hair and beard. Jon turned to
look at him, and the man was probably a few inches bigger than Jon's father, but he was young,
maybe not more than a few years older than himself.

Jon held sympathy for the man. He had been beaten badly and looked like a couple of fingers were
broken. Jon then noticed that his fingers weren't just broken but bloody, and Jon winced, noticing
the fingernails had been removed. Then Jon noticed dry blood under his ear. Or, the hole where his
ear was probably supposed to be.

The bell rang, and Jon and his row of oarsmen started their turn. Periodically, Jon turned his head
to check on the man, but he simply held his head down.

Jon turned to face forwards, pulling the oar again. "What's your name?" Jon asked in Westerosi. No
reply came to Jon, so he asked again, "Wildling, what is your name?" The man mumbled
something, and Jon spoke again, "What was that?"

"Freefolk," The man mumbled.

"Your name is Freefolk?" Jon asked, thinking he must have misheard the man, then looked for
confirmation from Harald then realizing only Larris might understand Westerosi, and he still
ignored him. However, Xano turned around and gave him an exasperated smirk, and Jon shrugged.

"No, my people," the man exhaled, "we are Freefolk, not Wildlings."

Jon turned to see the man glaring at him, and he faced forward, away from the hostile stare, still
pulling the oar with practiced ease, "Forgive me, I'm a Northman I-"

Jon heard a grunt from behind him, and he turned on instinct to see the tall man lunge for him, but
the chains stopped him before reaching him, "You fucking southern piece of shit!"

Jon just shook his head, "You stupid fool." The man's eyes hardened, then widened when their
guard, a new man named Kylmer, unleashed a fury of whips from the Belt. The Freefolk man
hissed and grunted in pain as he was whipped a dozen times.

Kylmer grabbed the Freefolk and spoke in Valyrian, "Stay on your bench, or you'll be cleaning up
your own brain from the deck." When the Freefolk didn't acknowledge the words, so Kylmer hit
him again.

Jon interrupted speaking in Valyrian, "He doesn't speak Valyrian," Jon pulled the oar back, "I can
translate."

Kylmer released the Freefolk and walked forward until he was in front of Jon. The guard was a
short, squat man with thick legs and thicker arms. He pointed at Jon with the Belt, "You callin' me
stupid?"

Jon thought quickly before saying, "Just offering to translate your message, so he doesn't do it
again."

Kylmer studied him with narrowed eyes before saying, "Fine."

Jon switched to Westerosi, "Freefolk, whatever your name is, listen to me. If you try to do
something like that again, they will kill you painfully. So nod your head to him, so he thinks you
understand."

He must have done so as Kylmer gave Jon an approving nod before continuing on his way. Jon
kept rowing in silence when the drumbeat indicated it was time for the overlap period, and all the
oars started to dip into the water, propelling them southward. Jon turned to see how the Freefolk
was doing. The poor man was struggling, and his form was causing him to tire quickly. If he keeps
that up, he will hurt himself or get too exhausted to pull. Either of those meant death or worse if
they had slaves to replace him.

"Freefolk," Jon spoke in Westerosi, "Look at how I pull and do as I do, the innermost position is
trickier than the outer two." Jon continued to pull for a handful of strokes then shot a look back,
and it seemed the man would still not listen. "Do you want to die?" The man stayed silent, so Jon
continued, "If you continue to row like that, you will, so I ask again, do you want to die?"

It was silent for a moment, "Freefolk…. don't bend the knee."

"Well, Northmen don't believe in slavery, and here we both are."

"My ancestors would spit on me to see that I have submitted to be someone's slave. To...to allow a
sister and brother to be taken," the man spoke, dejected and downtrodden. Jon understood the
feeling well. A stronger man wouldn't have allowed himself to be taken, would have rather died.
Jon shook his head, clearing that from his mind, surprised by how quickly it continued to come
back. How close the despair was underneath the porous, thin layer of hope. Can't think like that
now.

"We are surviving, we are biding time until we can be free again, to free your family again. If your
ancestors can't see the strength in that, then fuck them."

There was silence between them again, while the rest of the slaves continued to yell out 'Pull.' Jon
turned around to see the man, whose form was steadily improving. "Why are you helping me? Our
people hate each other."

"Aye, my Uncle is in the Watch and has probably killed your kin, and you and yours have probably
killed my countrymen, but that doesn't matter here ." The drum indicated it was time for his group
to stop rowing while the other half continued to row. Jon stretched his back, trying to relax his tired
muscles. Jon turned to face the Freefolk, "When we get out of this, we can go back to killing each
other, but for now? We are the same." The man nodded, and Jon turned back to face the others. Jon
caught Harald's eye, and the silent, impassive man held a snarl and a fierceness in his eye.

"What is your problem?" Jon asked in his abominable Old Tongue, in reality, Jon only knew the
word 'matter.'

"The Stone-born are blood sworn to kill Wildlings," Harald grit out in Westerosi .

Stone-born? Jon had heard that from somewhere. It was one of Luwin's lessons. Lessons about the
North. Stone-born was another name for some people in the North. Skagos.

Jon shook his head in disbelief, "Others take me. You're from Skagos?" Then something else hit
him. Wait? Harald speaks Westerosi? "You have been able to speak Westerosi this whole fucking
time?" Harald just nodded like they hadn't spent nearly...however long being unable to talk to each
other, aside from a smattering of words Jon knew, and this man had instead chosen to sit in near
silence. This didn't seem to matter to Harald as he only seemed to have eyes for the Freefolk man.
"Are you going to kill him?" Jon asked.

"It is my blood sworn duty to kill him."

Jon thought quickly then spoke, "Isn't it also your people's sworn duty to serve the Lord of
Winterfell?" Harald remained silent, so Jon continued, "Yet only a few generations ago you
rebelled. Fifteen years ago, the Starks called on all Northmen, and you ignored your oath, again."
Harald looked at Jon, and for the first time and Jon saw dark blue eyes that roiled with fury, he had
no idea the man still possessed. Jon thought Harald might actually kill him or die trying. For the
first time, Jon could see underneath the ragged hair, tattered clothes. There is still a man
underneath. Instead of being cowed, Jon was undeterred and continued, "If your people are capable
of ignoring those oaths, you can ignore this one." Then Jon lowered his voice, "For now at least.
As I told him, we can kill each other once we are free. Until then. We. Are. All. The. Same."

Harald scowled at that, but Jon met his eyes until Harald nodded then said, "We will never be free,
and I won't die for your foolishness like Cason."

It was Jon's turn to scowl, "Do you want to die here?"

"I don't have a choice," Harald grumbled, the fury starting to fade quickly.

"Yes you do, it might not be today, or tomorrow, a month or even a year from now, but there will
be a chance to escape, and I will take it, and I will drag your unwilling ass with me."

“Then we will die,” Harald said.

"Probably," Jon responded.

"Oi shut the fuck up!" Kylmer whipped the Belt at Jon's back, but Jon could hardly feel it as he
stared at Harald. The man shook his head, but a fit of coughing overtook him. Soon all that could
be heard was 'Pull' and the oars dipping beneath the water.

"Toregg," the man behind Jon said.

Jon turned and looked at him, "What?"

"My name, it's Toregg."

"You can call me Toli," Jon said.

-

It was Jon's evening meal, and he unsuccessfully tried to determine where they were and searched
for a faint outline of coastline, as he had since they had passed the Wall again. None was in sight,
so Jon studied the rest of the crew and found Ryjar and the captain and two men under his
command speaking together on the far side of the ship.

Jon knew they were hunting for a cog that the traitorous Night's Watchman and his allies had told
them had arrived a day after they left for the North. There seemed to be a new trade route for
Braavosi ships and the North. From what little he overheard, Jon pieced together that Braavosi
cogs traveled from Widow's Watch to Karlhold, to Eastwatch and back to Braavos. The last stretch
back to Braavos was through the open ocean, and with fewer patrols, Jon assumed the pirates were
hoping to get lucky on their return journey to Bloodstone.

Jon was still furious and knew that this information racket that Black Brothers were running wasn't
just damaging the North but the Night's Watch themselves. Jon had to get free. He looked at
Jorcho and Harald, not without them, though. Their chance at freedom is intertwined with mine.

He looked at the coastline, trying to judge how far it was. A league? Two? With how cold the
water probably was and how Jon's hands and feet were chained together, there was no way any
slave could make it. They would either drown or freeze to death long before he could reach the
coastline. Jon had to wait, maybe if they were further south and the water warmed and could see a
coastline clearly.

Jon knew even that was a foolish dream and they would drown with the chains. He would need to
gain control of the ship, and the other men were far from trusting him. His incessant attempts at
trying to speak with the others were starting to pay off, though. Larris, the devout man, was
beginning to communicate, though not with him. Toregg, once he started talking, the Freefolk
wouldn't shut up, which got him whipped with the Belt more often than not. However, he learned
about the man and his family. Toregg was the oldest son of his father, someone named Tormund,
and was captured with his sister Munda and brother Dryn while his other two brothers escaped. Jon
had to steer away from his family, so the young man didn't fall into despair and instead spoke on
hunting.

Harald was still quiet, but he and Jon would speak in the Old Tongue every so often, and Harald
was slowly teaching Jon what he didn't know in that language. Xano was starting to become like
his old self again, but it was blatantly clear the rest still held disdain for Jon, and Jon struggled to
accept that they may never forgive him for what he had done all that time ago. I may never forgive
myself for it either.
Still, Jon's plans to escape were never far from his mind. Because if they drifted too far, hope
would soon follow, and Jon needed to keep his hope near at hand to keep his purpose alive, to keep
himself alive. Harald gave another wet cough, which drew Jon back to his evening gruel. Harald
had finished his own, but the man was looking weaker and weaker. He may die soon. Or the cough
would get bad enough that he would disappear like Rorlo.

Jon couldn't let that happen. The man was a Northman. Skagg maybe but one of his father's people
and Jon suspected he may be part of whatever passed for nobility there. He was too educated, or
what a Stone-born would consider educated, that Jon couldn't lose him.

As the guards were distracted and Jon tipped his remaining gruel into Harald's bowl.

"Toli, what are you doing?" He asked with confusion.

"Wolf it down, they'll toss it if they see," Jon hissed, then tipped the bowl to pretend he downed
the rest of his own.

"You need this," Harald said, confused at the offer.

"You need it more than I do," Jon said.

"Why?"

"Because when you're healthy, you're stronger than me and no offense to Jorcho here. If I lose you,
I'd have to do all the work."

Jorcho just glared at them both, but Jon wouldn't be deterred then whispered in the Old Tongue,
"Eat the damn...." Jon searched for the world slop and realized he had no idea what it was and
instead settled for "Cac ar," shit. Harald gave a nearly imperceivable smirk and nodded. Harald
downed the rest of Jon's portion, and once they were chained in place, Jon told him, "I can give
you some of mine during the first and last meal, but midday, I need it all." Harald acquiesced
quickly and went into a fit of coughing, and soon it was time to rest as the third shift crew sailed
them further south during the night.

So it went for the next couple of weeks as the days became shorter, indicating they were on a
southern heading. For Jon, though, hunger became a constant state, and he soon saw his body
become leaner and leaner, while Harald slowly started to recover.

Toregg and Harald seemed to slowly accept that they couldn't kill each other and spoke briefly on
occasion. Larris was still silent when Jon tried to engage. Yet, Jon noticed he started to talk more
animatedly with Xano, and even Daleth and Jon accepted these as successes. Ollo was distraught at
losing his twin and still never spoke. While Horo was merely sullen, but at least he was more vocal
about it.

Jorcho had been as apathetic as Jon had been, no even more so. Jorcho was filled with hollow,
haunted eyes from seeing his family torn asunder, and the gaunt frame made him seem more bone
than young man. But in those two weeks, he started to improve, and the merchant's son, the one
Jon had been hired to protect all that time ago, started to come back to life. No, roared back to life
like a pitch on an open flame.

The stupor the men had been in, or that Jon perceived them to be in, was drifting away, but it only
served to see how precarious of a position they were all actually in. The men once had shells
around their souls that made them desirable slaves, which forced their guarded to treat them with
more deference than hostility. However, the shell was starting to crack and crumble.

They had started to rebel in seemingly insignificant ways but meant more to them then anyone who
hasn't been in chains could ever know. Walking slowly when led on their break, missing the stroke
by a quarter of a second, humming a tune softly or tapping a beat in unisons on the wood when it
wasn't their turn to row. All done just to feel like they had control, had little freedoms they could
express.

But they had started to become bold, too bold. None more so than Jorcho. He had begun to join
what they were doing, these small acts of rebellion. And in doing so, Jorcho, the foolish, sullen
merchant's son, who not one month ago was near catatonic became filled with barely contained
rage and struggled to keep it under control.

Three weeks after leaving Eastwatch, Jorcho rage caught up to them.

They sat eating their evening meal under a cloudy sunset while the five that guarded them, one of
which was supposed to keep an eye on him, were all in an animated conversation. After Jon's
'attempt at freedom' or so his guards had called it, Jon was supposed to be watched at all times, but
it was only a few days before they had faded back into their regular routine. So Jon studied the men
around him, with little worry of being caught. Jon noticed Ventarro, Ryjar, and the two other ship
captains speaking on the deck again, a habit that had formed after Eastwatch. Ventarro must have
called the meeting as he was more animated than usual. Jon tried to listen to hear if they had any
luck searching for the lone Braavosi cog that Ventarro's ship and the other caravel had been
scouting for it, disappearing in the morning and returning in the evening.
They must have had success as the energy of the guards seemed to shift. Jon took that moment to
switch out his bowl with Harald's as his stomach rumbled in familiar protest. Harald nodded in
thanks as he had done for the weeks since they started, this ritual of theirs. The Skagg was looking
better, and Jon was hoping he could finally have his meals back. Jon was inspecting his thinning
arm with a little concern and then rubbed his patchy beard when the guards' conversation became
too loud to ignore.

"I need to get my cock wet again," the guard named Pero complained loudly.

"Again? You've never fucked anything aside from your own hand," Kylmer mocked, and the
group of guards laughed.

Pero's face reddened, while a glare was shot towards Kylmer, "I just don't want to stick it in
something as wild and filthy as the savages we have."

"Everyone is dirty on the ship and in the slave cabins, especially."

"Ventarro doesn't allow us to touch the younger, more valuable ones. Only the older women, and
what's the fun in that?" Pero asked.

"You can't tell when it is dark."

"Shows what you know," Pero shot back, which got another round of laughs, but this time at
Kylmer. Though the man seemed impervious and laughed along with them.

"Your right, this batch isn't the best," Kilmer said jovially, "You know who I miss?"

"Selaria?" One of the other guards asked.

"Obviously, but how often are we in Lys? No, I am not talking about whores, or maybe I am? Do
you remember that Merchant's wife, from that ship, we ambushed for Dramar?"
Jon stopped looking at his arm and looked at Jorcho, who had stopped eating.

"Yes!" Pero said eagerly, "Not as pretty as the daughters, but boy was she great."

"You don't know the half of it, best ride I've had outside of a whore house," Kylmer said. Jon
looked at Jorcho, whose hands were shaking in rage. He's going to snap. "I think she had forgotten
about that dead husband as she took my cock." The men were laughing harder now as Kylmer was
animatedly thrusting his pelvis into the air. Jon knew if they continued, Jorcho would strike out
and lose his life.

"Wasn't as good as the daughter," another said, and Jorcho's grip turned his hands white.

Fuck.

In one motion, Jon pushed Jorcho to the ground, and as the laughing men turned to him, he threw
his bowl to the ground near their feet. The clay shattered on the ground, and one of the shards cut
through Kylmer's trousers.

"Fuckin' Shit!" Kylmer shrieked as he put his hands on his trousers, and Jon saw blood seep
through them. My fucking luck.

Pero and the other three stared at Jon, and Jon stared back. "Make sure Jorcho doesn't do anything
stupid," Jon said in the Old Tongue. Jon heard Harald grunt in reply.

"The fuck you think you're doing?"

Jon said nothing, and Pero advanced. Pero raised his cudgel and tried to swing, but Jon caught it.
Jon was underfed, but rowing had given him some strength, more than this useless man who did
nothing but oversee their torture. Jon just stared in the man's eyes. Pero tried to pull the cudgel
away, but Jon simply held him there. The anger faded from the pirate and widened in surprise.

Jon then let go of Pero, and the man stumbled back into the other two. The other two guards stared
at him, while Jon saw that Kylmer was still holding his trousers but the blood seemed to have
already stopped flowing. Not very deep then.
The shock Pero showed moments ago faded, and the three guards advanced on him. Jon took a
deep breath, knowing if he struck any of these men, he'd be killed and killed painfully. Pero swung
at him hard, and Jon, weak from hunger and thin, still had a warrior's training and moved in his
shackles well enough to dodge the blow. The second one swung his own, and Jon threw his arms
up to partially block the blow and pushed the man in the third's way. If Jon had a sword or even a
dull knife, he could have killed two of them before being cut down. His unarmed hand was starting
to drive forward regardless, and he had to stop his old instincts from kicking in.

Pero swung wildly, and Jon moved backward, the cudgel missing his head by a hair's breadth. Jon
had to fight the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Moving like a warrior again felt good,
but unfortunately, he was out of practice and his chains limited his movement. Jon's enslavement
and starvation caught up to him then, unable to step back in a full stride as the chains stretched
tight, and Jon stumbled. Jon felt a blow on his hip, and he staggered, falling to one knee, then pain
exploded on his back, and Jon collapsed to the ground and felt two feet stomp on him in quick
succession as the air rushed out of his lungs.

"Enough!" The kicking stopped at once, and Jon was surprised to hear not Ryjar but Ventarro. "Get
him up."

Jon was raised to his feet, and he winced in pain.

Ventarro and Ryjar looked at him with differing expressions. Ventarro had a pleasant smile while
Ryjar looked as if Jon had tried to stab him.

"What happened here?" Ventarro asked.

Kylmer spoke up, "This slave threw his bowl at us!"

Ventarro looked at the broken pieces of the clay bowl and then looked at Jon, whose chest was still
flat against the deck while two guards had feet digging into his back, forcing him flat. "Why did
you throw the bowl?"

Jon's mind worked as fast as possible, "Dropped it," O thers take me.

"Dropped it?" Ryjar asked, "Drop it fast enough for it to shatter and injure our men?"
Jon didn't say anything, but Ventarro laughed, "It's a little scratch on the leg, Kylmer will be fine."

Pero spoke then, "He attacked us!"

Ventarro's smile stayed, but his eyes hardened, " You attacked the slave who made you look like a
fool. It seems you three have been lax in your practice if it took as long as it did to take down a
chained, starved galley slave. Where did we find this one again?"

"The merchant's ship, the contract from Dramar," Ryjar said.

"Ah, yes, you thought he would be better in a brothel, no?" Ventarro laughed with the other men,
"All this time behind an oar, and he can still move pretty well, yes? Maybe he could become
crew?" The laughter ended in a moment, replaced by a low murmur of disagreement, and Ryjar
then leaned in and whispered something in Ventarro's ear, and Ventarro sighed, "You're right, of
course, even if he was crew he would still need to be punished, and as you remind me, he is not
crew."

"Cut his fuckin' hands off!" Kylmer said, the blood had stopped flowing, but the stain on his
trousers were larger than Jon thought it should have been. Still, Jon's face paled at the remark
about his hands, but before he could panic, Ventarro waved it away.

"For a broken bowl and a scratch?" Ventarro snorted, "No, a Braavosi cog has been seen, due
southwest probably eight leagues away. We need him on the oar for the morning run."

Pero reddened, "With no punishment?"

Ventarro scowled, "I said he'd be punished." When the men didn't seem appeased, he continued,
"Fine ten lashings and make it quick, we have a cog to catch in the morning and I need to review
our weaponry."

The guards grumbled, and Jon was lifted up off the ground. Jon looked at Jorcho, who had a
mixture of anger and concern, but Harald just held Jon's gaze and nodded. Jon grit his teeth. Ten
lashings from the Belt would be painful, but Jon could get through the pain. It was better than
seeing Jorcho chained on the prow.

Jon was tied to the 'X' although this time, his torso faced the 'X' instead of away from it. Jon
breathed steadily, readying for the Belt. Jon turned his head and the corner of his eye he saw
Ventarro grab, not the Belt, but a whip. It had three cords and was two feet longer than the Belt.
Jon felt his blood run cold, his mind worked faster than he could control, and the math was
finished before he could stop it.

Thirty strikes on his back.

Jon swallowed, thinking about why he did this. Jorcho would have gotten himself killed, and for
what? Kylmer's bruised jaw? Jon wanted that thought to bring comfort, but instead, it only brought
him frustration. Jon didn't know what he was doing, why he thought it was a good idea.

"It's your turn." A voice like Cason's rung through his mind.

A different voice boomed behind him, and Jon noticed that most of the pirates had stopped what
they were doing to watch his punishment. Little enough entertainment. "We are here to punish this
slave for his infraction. He has injured one and taunted three more. Kylmer will give ten lashes
with the Fish Tail. Make it quick, we hunt in the morning." That last bit received a hearty cheer.

Jon faced away from them all and saw Jorcho and Harald staring at him from the spot where they
had been stranded. Jorcho's anger was no longer directed at him, but at the others, the merchant's
son's shoulders were tense, and his eyes never left Kylmer's. Harald's steady hand held onto
Jorcho's shoulder. Staring at them, gave him some sense of strength.

It's only ten, I can-

The sound of the three cords whistled in the air, and Jon felt three lines of hot fire slash across his
back, and Jon fought to hold the scream, but an involuntary groan escaped his lips.

"One," Ventarro said.

Jon didn't have time to think as the whistle came again, and Jon's body tensed on instinct.

Jon's body shook with the blow as three more marks marred his flesh.
"Two."

It came again, and this time Jon tried to keep his body lax and was successful, but his head was
flooded with pain, and white lights crept into the corners of his vision. He looked at Jorcho and
Harald, both of whom stared in pity and impotent rage.

"Three."

Jon felt as though his body could not keep this up, but he forced himself to stay upright and stay
conscious. I will not give them the satisfaction, Jon told himself. They seemed to come quicker
now.

"Four."

"Five."

"Six." There was another pause. Jon heard Kylmer's voice start to taunt him, but Jon's head was
fogged in so much pain that he couldn't understand the words.

The next blow contained far more force, and Jon's body collapsed in pain, held up by his bindings.

"Seven."

Before Jon could right himself, the next blow came, and it struck higher, two cords hitting the top
of his shoulder and the third on his shoulder blade.

"Eight."

Jon collapsed again, but fought through the pain and righted himself, willing his mind to clear so
he could fight the pain, but he could feel his consciousness starting to fade and his mind starting to
drift. Jon looked up to see some sort of bird flying towards them. Jon looked at it fly, and as it
began to come nearer, Jon felt something in the back of his mind.
"Nine."

The pain started to overwhelm him, and black began to seep into his vision, chasing away the
white lights.

Jon shut his eyes and felt his mind slip into unconsciousness as somewhere far away, he heard,
"Ten."

He was then in an odd dream, floating through the sky as he beat his wings, looking down at the
expansive sea below. There was a floating tree, and Jon felt tired, so he floated down and landed on
the bare limbs of the tree with the large, broad white leaves that were bigger than the tree they
grew from. The white leaves were rigid from the ocean wind. Men scurried around on the flat base
of the tree. They were loud as one of the men, an injured one, was being dragged underneath by
two others. The injured one had ragged, dark brown hair, a mess of a beard, familiar features, and a
bloody back.

Jon felt disoriented in this lucid dream, then all of the sudden, he felt a sharp pain, a headache
almost as bad as the whipping. Then his vision went black, and Jon opened his eyes.

He was now looking at the wooden steps that lead below deck.

He was in immense pain, with a back that felt like a giant open sore. Jon could feel the blood seep
from his wounds and down to his legs. Jon tried to shake the brief dream away and turned around
to search for the bird and saw wings in the distance, flapping madly away from the ship.

Jon was quickly chained to the oar, and all he could do is slump over, exhausted.

"Others take me, Toli," Toregg said, "What happened to you?"

Harald was the one to answer, "Whipped with the Fish Tail," he spoke in Westerosi and repeated in
Valyrian. The fucking Skagg speaks Valyrian as well?

Larris clucked his tongue, and Xano looked at him in anger, "What did he do this time?" Xano
asked, his voice on edge.
"Took my punishment," Jorcho whispered in a low tone. When there was confusion, Jorcho
explained and relayed the story.

There was silence until Xano spoke up, "He didn't take your punishment, he exchanged it for your
life."

Horo grunted, "We'll see, the rumor is that we are going to row non-stop in the morning. It might
be his life then."

There was silence, and Jon found little energy to speak, "Harald," he said in Valyrian, "You speak
Valyrian too?"

The Stone-born gave what someone could confuse for a smile, "mirrī." A little.

"You're a fucking arsehole," Jon said in Westerosi, and Harald gave an actual chuckle, and Jon
joined him but soon turned to a cough.

Jorcho gave him a look of timid shame, and Jon, still slumped over, reached out and grasped his
arm, "I owe you more than this, consider it a small repayment. We will kill them all one-day,
Jorcho. Believe that." Jorcho looked at Jon's back, then at him, and the look of shame slipped
away, and he nodded.

"Good," Jorcho said.

"We," Jon motioned around to them all, "just need to be patient. So, if you men don't mind," Jon
said meekly, the last of his energy spent, "I need some sleep." They all nodded at him, and their
whispered conversations blended as he faded to sleep, and in his dream, he found himself flying
again.

---

It would be somewhere between turn three and four at his best guess when the shout of "Port
Hold" ran out through the slaves' cabin, then the drumbeats would increase in tempo, and his life
and the life of all the slaves would be hell for thirty minutes to an hour.
Jon's memory of his hazy apathetic stupor still wasn't clear, but they had made a couple of runs on
merchant ships before. They would row steadily to slowly outpace the merchant ship, flying a flag
of someplace or another and staying away as to seem that they were not a threat. Then would lurch
in a quick moment and row like hell, charging the cog, and Ventarro would decide if they needed
to ram it and take it by force or slow down if the cog would surrender without a fight. Jon didn't
remember there being any time where it escalated that far.

Or that's how it went in friendly waters, but they weren't in the Stepstones, and Jon feared that what
happened to him would happen to this Braavosi cog.

His back hurt like hell, and the pain that was once sharp flashes became a constant companion. The
newly formed scabs across his back opened, and his wounds wept bloody fluid that stained his
threadbare shirt. His torn back and hours of rowing had exhausted him beyond anything he could
remember. At least on the row to Lys, he had hate to fuel him. He didn't have that stored bellow of
black hatred but now he had his fellow oarsmen and this time they felt the need to help him.

"Toli," Harald asked him, "Toli, take a break and just pretend to row, Jorcho, and I can handle it."

Jon looked at Jorcho, who didn't seem to feel the same way, and Jon just grunted as his
malnourished and beaten body was being pushed to the brink.

"I'll be fine, the cog will surrender, and we can make our way there slowly," Jon said. I hope.

Three hundred and twenty-one strokes later, he wasn't fine, and Jon's missed an entire stroke and
had to take his arm off the oar. The Belt followed a moment later, and Jon's whole back went from
the constant ache to exquisite, blinding pain.

Jon yelped, and his body spasmed as every part of his fatigued body didn't know how to react. Jon
tried grabbing for the oar, but his vision was blind from stinging tears mixed with sweat. He was
sure he was going to get hit again, but the drums increased again in tempo, and somewhere he
heard shouts as the pirates scrambled to arm themselves.

Jon's breathing was ragged and irregular. He had little strength to offer in aid to Jorcho and Harald
as they reached the final part of the run.

Then the sounds of crossbow and scorpion bolts being let loose through the air separated from the
rest of the noise. Orders were shouted as they were getting closer, and Jon felt guilt start to seep in
that he was contributing again to someone else's demise.

"Fuck, I can't keep doing this," Toregg said from behind him. "It's like trying to sprint after a
deer."

Larris grunted, "You savages don't know how to hunt."

"Better than you," Toregg grumbled.

"You're not supposed to run after a deer," Larris said.

"Others take me, I wasn't talking about hunting."

"Then what was-" Larris started to ask when their inane conversation was interrupted.

"Ōtor! Ōtor! Ōtor!" Ram.

"Gods damn it," Jon muttered. They had never actually rammed a ship before as most were smart
enough to surrender their cargo in exchange for their lives. The only thing Jon could think of now
was that storm so long ago, and the fear he felt when he saw the sailing ship come right towards
them. The pace tripled and the next hundred and twenty strokes burned his muscles to a fatigued
mess as volley after volley was loosed towards the cog and Jon's memory of the crew from Pearl's
Kiss getting cut down by a storm of bolts occupied his sight for a brief moment. "Oars in!" Jon,
Harald, and Jorcho quickly tried to pull the oar when they heard Ventarro above them.

The captain's voice rang out, "BRACE!" The pirate captain continued to shout as Jon did his best to
grip the bench.

The crash sounded like a wave crashing and a forest of trees falling. It pierced the rest of the noise
as Jon was thrust backward, chains straining taut. He felt the ship move a handful of feet in the air.
Then a cacophony of shouts and cries while bending and broken wood overwhelmed him. Jon's
back lit up in pain, and he cried out as he tried to the right himself up. Jon tried to search for the
others in his inability to get up.
The bending of wood gave way, and Jon felt the floor fall a few feet as their galleass broke free of
the broken cog. Jon found himself in an awkward position, his back torn, bloody, and protesting.
Then the oarmaster shouted, "Backwards, Push!"

Jon went to grab the oar as he heard hooks and planks being laid down in preparation for boarding
the cog. They only had to do a couple of strokes before they were relieved. The initial sound of the
attack died quickly and was replaced with Ventarro speaking and the pirates muttering,
occasionally a spike of laughter would drift through. The memory of a similar time came to him,
and Jon could feel something, something familiar and terrible, threatening to rear its ugly head.
The other slaves, however, didn't care much, and Jon simply slouched forward and breathed in
deep, totally exhausted.

He must have drifted off for a moment or two as the next thing he saw was Kylmer unlocking
Harald and Xano's chains.

"Innermost man of each row is to help us bring over the cargo. If it sinks before we clear it out we
will leave you there."

Harald and Horo grumbled while Xano just looked too tired to carry on, but carry on they did.

Jorcho took that moment to lay down flat on the bench where Harald was sitting just moments
before. Jon instead looked back out his oar-port, and his tired mind scanned the waves and the
debris. Jon couldn't help but stare, and the longer he stared, he realized it wasn't all debris. A
handful of bodies littered the water and guilt started to flood past him faster than he could stop it.

I am responsible. Jon thought to himself. I helped bring this about. Jon closed his eyes, the pain
was overtaking him. He was exhausted, his body was in pain, and he felt the gnaw of hunger, and a
dry throat made itself known to him.

I am biding time. If I didn't row, I would die. If I die, I can't free these men. Jon repeated this to
himself as the shame of helping pirates kill these sailors, these Braavosi that had probably just seen
his homeland, warred with his excuse of self-preservation.

Jon just looked at the water, and the desire to escape his pain started to come back to him in a
heady rush of emotion. "No, no, no, I need to stay alive," Jon muttered to himself. At that moment,
Jon was thankful for his chains, but the emotion was threatening to overtake him again, and Jon
looked for anything, including willing his body to stop working and give him a dreamless rest.
 Jon then looked back at through the oar port and on floating debris was a cat sitting, soaking wet,
but seemingly at peace to not to be in the water. Jon wanted to be that cat, to feel that fleeting
serenity in all this chaos. Jon wanted to feel that more than anything else in the world. Jon closed
his eyes, willing himself, and his entire soul to feel peace.

When he opened them, he was surrounded by water, the smell of salt was heavy but the smell of
blood more so. Jon could feel his hands and feet against the rough surface of the wood. However,
he couldn't sense the metal around his wrists anymore, and Jon looked down to see small paws. Jon
felt a sharp stab in his head, and he panicked and stumbled backward. Then Jon was falling. He hit
the water and closed his eyes. Jon opened them again and found himself staring at his feet,
shackled as they had always been, and sharp pain blossomed in the back of his head. Jon felt a
trickle of blood run down his nostril, he wiped at it and stared at the blood on his fingertips as his
senses muddled together. "What the fuck," Jon muttered as he fainted.

Chapter End Notes

Thanks again for reading!

Sorry for the slow pace, I'm trying haha.
 Chapter 26
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Ned

He looked between the pile of missives that he had received since arriving back from his journey
north. Initially, the purpose of his to the mill at the beginning of the river flowed past Winterfell,
but soon he heard word that the Whitehills and Forresters had amassed forces and were gathering
to shed blood.

It had been frustrating to have to get involved, but apparently, Asher Forrester, who had only been
in Winterfell a few weeks prior, had become intimately involved with Gwyn Whitehill. Worse, the
two decided on a convoluted escape plan that had failed miserably. Asher had already left, but
Gwyn was caught trying to flee and withheld for a time, but eventually told the truth.

Instead of just marrying the two like any pair of sane houses would do, these two, being who they
are and what they mean to each other, tried to escalate to war.

Which meant Ned handled it personally, which involved gathering both Gregor and Ludd at the
Tumbledown tower. Three weeks of vile insults and accusations slowly simmered to a heated
negotiation. It ended in Gregor granting permission for half an acres worth of Ironwood and the
exile of Asher from the North for no less than six years.

As with all compromises, no one was happy, but it had avoided bloodshed, for now.

Instead of accomplishing a simple goal of inspecting a mill and being gone for three days, it took
three weeks of his time to settle this mess.

Even worse, it seemed that the letters he had been waiting for had arrived when he had been gone.
Ned rubbed his head as he got through the first bit. The number of soldiers who arrived at White
Harbor with the Northern and Braavosi retinue was fewer than he wanted, but it had been enough
to set sail. Word came that the first group of galleys had docked at Dragonstone. However, Ned
had been waiting to hear if they had set sail with the smaller fleet for the probing attacks.

Ned scratched his beard; it was long now, too long. Usually, Cat would remind him to trim it, but
they had not been with each other very often. Even though the number of other noblemen had
dwindled, he was kept too busy working to spend significant time with his family.

Harmond Umber, dejected at being denied the chance to fight, left with Benjen to travel to Last
Hearth but promised that he would return once he had spoken with his father, which was nearly two
months ago but the lad should be back at any time. Eddard Karstark and Robar Royce were the
only ones who were allowed to leave with Wendell Manderly and two hundred Stark-men under
Alyn's command. Fifty Cerwyns joined them under Kyle Condon, and thirty men of Lord Beylen's
under the leadership of the old coot himself. It only served to stress Ned even more as the old man
had no heirs, and if he died fighting bloody pirates, it would cause Ned an even bigger headache.

Robb had been gone for two months almost three, and with him, he took his own retinue. Rodrik
Forrester, Arthur Glenmore, and Theon Greyjoy had all left with him with former Night's Watch
recruits and another forty of his household guard. Cat had pushed back vehemently, saying Robb
needed at least a hundred, but Ned talked her down to forty. With his departure it now meant that
the number of men within Winterfell was nearly a quarter of what it had been even a year ago.
Some had left to make extra gold working at lumber mills, some went to fight in the Stepstones,
and then the others went with his son.

Still, Ned held the missive delivered by a courier from Robb. His son must have arrived where the
shipyards were being built at the mouth of Torrhen's River.

Father,

As I stated in my previous letter, Torrhen's River is suitable to float timber down, but it must be
done slowly and only in a trickle. From what I understand, that may be advantageous for now, as I
will speak on in a bit. The master shipwright from White Harbor and two of the journeymen who
traveled with us from Torrhen's Square have already marked the trees they need and found that the
locations for the dry docks are suitable, but the work is slow so far.

Many of the men that have found their way here are eager but unskilled. The Master Builder says
that is fine for now as the work isn't complicated yet, but the shipwrights say this will cause ship
production when the dry docks are complete to go much slower than planned. They are both
complaining that it will take a couple of years for this group of men to be skilled enough to be
considered simple apprentices, let alone journeymen.

On top of the problem with the lack of men, food here is sub-par, and many of them still live in
tents.

More so, by the time the dry docks have been dug, we will need more stonemasons, blacksmiths,
coopers, ropers, sailmakers, and more. Not to mention sailors to sail the ships.

I am doing what I can, but I can see that this place will become an essential place for the North
and potentially another real town and, in time, a city. I believe we need to treat it as such and plan
for that eventuality. As such, we need more gold, more builders and in general, more men and from
what the village elder has stated, more women for those men.

I have yet to meet Ser Sift to deliver your message, but I have sent a courier for him because I have
promised a small layman's tournament when the first three dry docks have been dug and lined with
stone. I have pledged some prize money for the ten winners to try and improve morale.

I will be here for another month or so, but I believe we need someone we trust to oversee the
construction and ensure that it is done correctly.

Robb Stark

Ned smiled at the discomforting words. It should have stressed him more, as the news was not
quite what he wanted to hear, but truthfully, he was glad to hear of Robb's intuition and initiative.

Still, the lack of overall workers and further lack of skilled workers made him nervous. With the
twenty he had sent with Robb, there should be close to a hundred and thirty laborers working, and
the lack of progress irked him. He needed more men, and then he would need more women, which
would bring children who would need…Ned shook his head clear to stop the train of thought.

One step at a time. Ned looked at the missive from Wyman Manderly. Ned's plan for trying to lure
Duskendale's skilled craftsmen away probably wouldn't work. So he had to plan accordingly as he
was desperate to continue to move his projects forward.

Ned sat down and wrote the missive.

Lord Manderly,
It seems that our project in the west goes slower than we would have wished.

When the business on the Stepstones is complete, have your son set sail and arrive in King's
Landing, send men through the city looking for those that need work and have some sort of skill.
Then have him stop in Gulltown. Have him speak to his good father again and do the same—
journeymen preferably, with the promise of steady pay. However, if we can only have apprentices,
so be it.

-Eddard Stark,

Lord Paramount of the North and the Stark of Winterfell

Ned looked at it and shook his head. Coin was becoming less of an issue for House Stark as what
they were receiving from Braavos for the medicine and timber shipments was starting to become
staggering. Ned had even tried to send more supplies to Howland, hoping to hear from his friend
again but true to his word as ever the crannogman was silent.

Ned took a breath, he knew he could pay more for men to work at the dry docks, lure away some
farmers and fishermen, but Wyman and Luwin dissuaded him initially as they worried it would
draw too many to abandon their work. This might cause a shortage of food in the next winter,
causing them to spend even more than usual on shipments from the Reach to survive.

Ned sighed, he would hate to do it, but he may not have a choice as these dry docks and harbor
needed to be completed with a complement of ships sent out before winter and the entire north
ground to a halt. Worse, The dry docks weren't finished yet, and Ned was eager to focus the men
on building the harbor itself. Ned knew that he wouldn't have to make a decision quite so soon, but
the window was shrinking. Maybe after the next harvest. It would give him a few months at the
very least.

Ned noticed two letters, one with the sigil of a Stag and another with a Falcon sigil. Ned sat back in
his chair. He had received only one from Jon Arryn after Jon's disappearance with his condolences,
and Ned had torn that into shreds, and never responded. There had been no word from Robert, so
Ned could only stare at the letter with the Baratheon stag. He reached down and broke the wax
seal and was disappointed as he read.

Lord Stark,
Word has reached us at Dragonstone from captains of Salladhor Saan that the Volantene never
united with the Redwyne Fleet off the coast of Dorne. They have instead to decided to start their
attack of the Stepstones on their own.

The rest of the Braavosi Fleet that was supposed to join the eight ships we have with us have
decided to directly engage the other Stepstones without coming here.

Lord Wendell Manderly has agreed to leave with the eight Braavosi ships here while I need him to
join the Royal Fleet as we've only received six-tenths of what was expected. He will be here for
another four days. Please respond with orders to follow my lead.

Stannis Baratheon

Lord of Dragonstone and Master of Ships

Ned felt the pang of disappointment and threw the paper into the fire. His friend for so long, yet he
heard more from the taciturn brother.

Still, now Ned received why there was no update from Wendell himself. Nothing he wrote now
would get there in time to make a difference, but even if it could, Ned didn't think he would.

Still, they expect a response.

Ned wrote a quick note and sealed it. Then he reached for the other one and cracked the seal.

Lord Stark,

Ned,

I have received word that the Braavosi, who you've generously allowed to distribute your most
valuable good, has been increasing the price at a few ports to an absurd level. Braavosi has always
been difficult merchants, but the price increase is causing the rest of the goods being sold to these
ports to increase in price. Simply put, this has caused issues in the flow of goods, and thus, taxes
have started to decrease.
There are proposals of imposing tariffs on any Braavosi vessels in the crownlands, which would
cause issues with the Iron Bank. Please, Ned, speak to-

Ned didn't finish reading, threw it to the flames. Ned took a piece of parchment and wrote three
words, folded the parchment, poured the wax, and harshly stamped the snarling Direwolf.

He opened his mouth to call for Luwin, but it was midday, and Ned hadn't left his solar since he
woke this morning, so he decided to stretch his legs.

Ned left the solar with Harwin, his guard for the day, and started to make his way to the Maester's
Quarters underneath the Rookery. Ned decided to take a detour to the armory, to catch a glimpse of
Bran, Beren and Rickon training. He passed through the covered bridge just in time to see Bran get
the better of Beren and the Tallhart boy's sword fell to the dirt with a clang.

Ned smiled at the success, "Well done, Bran." Bran whirled around to see him, and his son's face
light up with his approval. Rickon was busy swinging a smaller wooden sword at a straw dummy,
who also stopped to look at him.

His youngest raised his sword, "See how I hit it, father!"

Ned smiled again, "Aye, a strong strike son, better than I at your age." Rickon smiled as well, and
Ned decided to move on when he saw Arya, in a grey dress bolt out of the keep and head towards
Godswood with something in her hand.

Septa Mordane was rushing after her nearly shouting about acting a proper lady and something
about how you treat family, and Ned could see Sansa rubbing her cheek. His eldest daughter
yelled, "You are a horrible little toad!"

Arya stopped briefly and turned around and shouted, "I HATE YOU!" Then cuffed her eyes and
turned to flee again.

Ned was confused but roared out, "Enough!" Both of his girls noticed him then.

Sansa just flinched in surprise and squeaked "Father," while Arya turned and just ran faster and
was soon out of the keep, and Ned knew she would hide somewhere in the godswood amongst the
trees. Ned made his way down to the yard, and when he finally did, Cat was already there
consoling Sansa.

"What happened?" Ned demanded, and Sansa was about to speak when Septa Mordane
interjected.

"I apologize, my Lord, Lady Sansa caught Arya with a guardsmen's knife, dull, but a knife
nonetheless. When Lady Sansa informed me I demanded the weapon from Arya, the young lady
got angry, which I reprimanded her for. Then Lady Sansa made a remark about manners, and Arya
struck her with her palm and ran off."

When she finished, Ned looked at Cat whose eyes were wide, "You said she had a knife?"
Mordane nodded, "Where did she get the knife?"

"I didn't have time to ask."

Cat turned to him, "Ned, enough is enough, Arya needs more discipline, she had been unruly since
White Harbor."

"I had no idea she had been carrying a knife..." Ned muttered to himself, half ignoring what his
wife said.

Cat gave him an incredulous look, "If you would spend more than a moment with your children
every couple days."

Ned flinched back to look at his wife, "Pardon?"

"You heard me, Lord Stark," Cat responded coolly and took Sansa's hand and started to pull her
away.

Ned chose not to engage and turned to the Godswood, "I'll speak with Arya."

"As you should, Ned," Cat said, and Ned bit his tongue and left.
Ned entered the Godswood and started shouting for Arya. Ned finally made it to the Weirwood
and sat down and yelled, "Arya, come to me now!"

Still, Arya didn't come, and Ned shouted something else, "Arya Stark, this is enough, come speak
to me now!"

Ned sat there, staring into the black pool and the foot of the tree and put his head in his hands and
remembered the missive he needed to send. Ned rubbed his temples. I need to leave and take care
of this. But Ned stopped himself. No, right this with Arya, first I've put this off for too long. He had
so much to do, and there wasn't enough time to accomplish what needed to be finished— Cat's
right. Ned didn't like the taste of this truth, but he had pushed his children away from his attention.

Ned caught the patter of small feet as they crossed over the dead leaves that littered the godswood.
Arya was there, her head was down, and Ned heard the little sniffles. His daughter was holding an
older dagger, with a worn handle, and Ned noticed it was a hunting dagger, not just any hunting
dagger but the one he had gifted Jon on his ninth nameday. Jon had received a new one a couple
years back, he had thought Jon discarded the old one.

"Where did you get it?" Ned asked. Arya mumbled something, and Ned gave her a pointed look,
"Speak up and look me in the eye."

Arya did so, "It was in J-," She stopped, "It was in Jon's old room."

Ned was a little surprised that no one had touched his son's quarters, but no one had wanted to
offend Ned, so it stood to reason Jon's things were still there. Still, Arya shouldn't have something
so dangerous. "Arya, why do you need Jon's dagger? Is it because you miss him?"

Arya shook her head. Ned was a little confused. Why in the wo-, Arya interrupted his thoughts, "I'm
scared."

"What? Scared, why are you scared?"

Arya lips quivered, "I, I saw Ella." She took a sharp intake, "And Jon...Jon isn't here, and no one
loves me anymore, and no one will protect me…"

Ned felt his heart shatter, and he scoped up his little girl into his arms and held her tight as she
sobbed into his cloak, "Oh Arya, my sweet little wolf, I love you and so does your mother, your
brothers and even Sansa."

Arya separated and shook her head. "Mother hates me, and Sansa thinks I'm a demon with a horse
face who is too ugly to ever marry. Not that I want to!" Arya said quickly, but Ned just smiled.

"You remind me so much of my sister," Ned said.

Arya frowned, "They say she was a great beauty."

"Aye, and you are her spitting image when she was her age."

Arya scrunched her face and cuffed at her eyes, Ned reached for the dagger in her hand, but she
took a step back. "No! I need it!"

"Arya, you do not need a dagger. The guards will protect you here. You are safe, I promise you."

Arya wasn't convinced, "There were guards in White Harbor, and Ella still got hurt bad."

"No one would think to harm you, Arya, you are the daughter of House Stark."

"So was Aunt Lyanna! She couldn't defend herself!" Ned felt a blow and staggered back away from
Arya, who looked wide-eyed in terror for what she had just said. "Father, I'm sorry."

Ned held up a hand, "No, no, it's okay." Ned knew the truth, but that didn't matter here, it didn't
matter now. It didn't matter when it was Lord Umber's wife and daughters, and it had not mattered
when it happened to a thousand other daughters, highborn or not.

His daughter was scared, felt powerless, and alone for doing precisely what Lyanna had wanted to
do. Arya was holding the dagger out to him, and Ned shook his head, knowing this would cause
more trouble between him and his wife.

Ned took the dagger from Arya, looked it over and smiled sadly, then handed it back. Arya's
eyebrows shot up. "Keep it, I think Jon would have wanted you to have it." Arya's eyes started to
water again at that proclamation, "and since you're keeping it, you'll need someone to teach you
how to use it."

Arya's watery smile turned into pure joy and wrapped her arms around Ned's neck again, and Ned
just held her there for a long moment.

Arya leaped off him, but Ned held her arm in place and put on a solemn face and matched it with
his tone. "However, if you ever brandish that dagger on anyone again, I will take this away from
you, and if you ever hit your sister again, you will lose these privileges for a year. You could have
seriously hurt yourself or someone else, do I make myself clear?"

Arya scrunched her face and didn't move then blurted out, "She was saying things about Jon!"

"What things?"

Arya's face reddened and scowled, "She said Jon might be in the seven hells."

"What?" Ned bellowed so loud Arya stepped back. "I will speak to her. Regardless, you should not
hit your sister."

"But!"

"But nothing, if you hear any more of this, you come to me directly or when Robb returns to him."
Arya didn't look happy but nodded, and Ned hugged her and kissed the top of her head. "I'll speak
to Rodrik and your mother about real weapons training, but you will still be expected to take part in
your other lessons."

"Why?"

"Because I said so, Arya Stark, now run along to Mikken and tell him you need a new sheath for
your dagger," Arya was caught between being frustrated and happy as she walked with a little force
out of the godswood.
Ned looked up to the heart tree, sent out a silent prayer, and left to find Sansa.

--

Sansa was sitting with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, speaking on something to do with
overseeing household duties.

"Septa, Jeyne, please leave me alone with Sansa."

"Yes, my lord," They both said, and Ned noticed the look between Sansa and the Septa.

Ned sat down, "I just spoke with Arya, she told me why she hit you."

Sansa paled, but tried to keep her composure, "She's lying!"

"I haven't told you what she told me, how would you know it's a lie?" Sansa paled further, and Ned
gave her a disappointed look and shook his head. "Jon was your brother, why would you say this?"

Sansa didn't meet his eyes, "He hurt a knight. Knights are anointed by the gods to protect ladies,
and he hurt one badly. He was a ba-" Young, but not completely stupid Sansa stopped, "naturally
born and turned away from the Seven, so it is his punishment after he-" Sansa trailed off, never
finishing the sentence.

Ned felt his face flush with anger, "Who told you this? These foul lies about your own brother?
And you believed them?" Ned knew it was unfair, Sansa was a child and was prone to believe
whatever is told to them by those they trust.

Ned felt a pit in his stomach, those she could trust. It was either Septa Mordane or her mother.
Others take me, please let it be the former.

Sansa was starting to cry, and Ned grabbed her daughter's chin and looked her in the eye, "Listen to
me Sansa, I can't tell you exactly what happened but know this, your brother sacrificed more than
anyone could save Ella Hornwood from a worse fate. That man may be a knight, but all knights are
not what they are supposed to be. He's... Jon's...gone, and all we have are our memories of him. All
Arya has are memories of him, please don't tarnish something so precious to her." Sansa looked
down to her lap as tears fell, staining her embroidery.

Ned took a deep breath and pushed on, "Now tell me who you heard these things from." When
Sansa wiped her eyes with her kerchief and stayed, silent Ned shook his head, "If you refuse to
speak on it to protect someone, that is commendable. However, know that if you don't tell me, I'll
have you work as a washerwoman for three months." Sansa, red-eyed and pale, was scandalized at
such a harsh punishment.

"Septa Mordane," she said, and Ned nodded, fighting his anger and his relief.

"Good, now listen to me well, Sansa. Jon may have only been your half-brother. He may have been
a bastard, but he was our blood, and I know you know he was a good person." Sansa looked down,
but Ned continued, "He would forgive you for your words." Sansa looked up at him, and Ned
realized how much Arya and Sansa were alike. Ned took a deep breath, "However, I do not. If you
repeat the servant's gossip, then you will be treated as such."

"But you said if I told you-"

"It wouldn't be for three months. Instead, it will be two weeks, so let this be a lesson to you. Now,
go along Sansa," she did so, but Ned knew his daughter was on the verge of tears as she fled. Then
Ned heard the quiet sobs echo through the stone halls of Winterfell.

However, at that moment, Ned didn't care, "Harwin."

"Yes, milord?"

"Find Septa Mordane and Septon Chayle and bring them to the sept."

"Yes, milord."

Ned got up and headed to the small seven-sided building. Ned rarely thought about the sept, it was
peculiar that any religion would require a building to worship, but it made his wife happy. Still, he
had taken steps to limit its influence within Winterfell's walls to his wife, his children, the Septa
and the Septon. Maybe I should have done more.
He only entered the sept on rare occasions, usually searching for his wife or daughter. As expected,
it was empty when he arrived, and Ned took a moment to really study the seven gods.

Compared to the Great Sept of White Harbor, it was sparse but well built, and Ned could see the
additions and repairs that had been made over the past few years. The small foot and half
sculptures of the seven gods that Ned had purchased for his wife's twenty-fifth nameday stood
there, examining him. He smiled at the memory of her receiving them and frowned at how
unobtainable that happiness now seemed. Ned touched the Father's face. One thing I do wish the
Old Gods gave was a little more direct guidance. Ned withdrew from the statue of the Father like it
burned him and looked around.

The door opened, and Septa Mordane and Septon Chayle entered in with Harwin, and to Ned's
surprise, his wife joined them as well. When they were all comfortable, Ned nodded to Harwin,
who nodded back and left to close the doors and to make sure no one else entered, and that no one
else withdrew until he said so.

Ned looked at all three of them, "Do you know how long the Faith of the Seven has tried to come
to Winterfell?" All three looked confused at the question, so Ned continued, "Do you know how
often Andals have come to the North to try and violently impose their religion on my people?"
They all looked down, and Ned's voice started to carry, "Do you know what I asked of the North to
allow this sept to be built not only near Winterfell but within its walls? The scorn and goodwill that
I had to fight to regain with my lords to allow this here? All as a comfort to my new wife!?" Ned
was yelling by the end of it, and all their faces were pale now.

Septon Chayle, with his young face and usually cheerful demeanor, struggled to keep the fear from
showing. "Lord Stark, we have always been grateful for the oppur-" Ned glared at the man, and
the words died in his throat.

Cat's paleness was starting to fade, but she remained silent as Ned began again, "Septa Mordane,"
the septa looked up to him, "I allowed my wife to bring you into our home, to teach our daughters
in the same way she was. I allowed this."

Septa Mordane tried to speak, "Lord Stark I re-"

Ned raised his hand, "My son Jon was a bastard, he was my mistake. But he was my child and my
duty. I chose to raise him here, in these walls, because men of the House Stark do not run from
their duty." Cat's face scrunched together at the remark.
Chayle spoke, "He was always courteous to me when we crossed paths."

Ned looked at the man, surprised, "Aye, he was a good lad. A good lad who I was forced to exile
because of the faith. A faith that has poisoned the world against children born with no say in their
status!" Ned barked out the last portion. "I am telling you as your Lord, that my son was innocent
of any crime and defended a young woman from being raped. From a man, may I add, that was one
of your fucking anointed knights!" They all flinched at the profanity.

"My son-" Ned choked out, "My son is probably dead, his body somewhere in the Narrow Sea. His
brothers and sisters will never see their brother again. I have to carry that guilt for the rest of my
life." Ned quieted at that, then locked eyes, scowling at Septa Mordane. "Then I hear that one of
my daughters, Sansa, told Arya that her brother may be burning in one of the Seven Hells? My
daughter!?" Septon Chayle gasped in shock, and Cat's eyes widened in surprise as well. The Septa
was deathly pale as Ned continued, "I know you told her that Septa. I am asking you now to let me
know if the Septon whispered these vile things to poison my daughter's thoughts."

Chayle tried to get a word in, "Lord Stark I would never-"

"It is not your turn to speak Septon, interrupt me again, and I will have your tongue."

Septa Mordane looked to the ground, then quickly at Cat than to Chayle. Septa Mordane spoke
then, with a resolve that was echoed in her features, "The Septon had no need to tell me what I
know to be true in my heart. Bastards are born to lust after what they do not have, and when they
do not turn to the true gods, they burn where they should." Ned's grip turned his knuckles white,
and the Septa's words shocked Chayle, and even Catelyn looked horrified at the brazen
proclamation to her liege lord. The Warden of the North. The Stark of Winterfell. If this was not
happening to him, Ned would almost admire the impertinence.

But it was happening to him, and Ned's anger came from somewhere deep within him, and it took
every ounce of self-control not to kill this woman in front of him. "I appreciate that you are
forthright with what is in your black and malevolent heart. You are hereby banished from
Winterfell and banished from the North, you leave immediately and with no aide from me and
mine. If I see you any time after this or if you step foot in the North again, I will have you hanged."

"Ned!" Catelyn shouted.

"Lord Stark!" Chayle said at the same time.

Ned whirled onto the Septon, "If you speak one more word on this Septon, I swear to my gods and
yours that I will burn this sept and ensure that the faith is banned from the entire North outside of
the walls of White Harbor."

"Ned!" Cat nearly was wailing, "You can't do this."

"No!" Ned roared, "What I cannot do is sit by why your faith and their practitioners poison my
children against one another! That is where the line is drawn." Ned stared at the Septon who was
visibly shaking in fear, "Chayle, I have always liked you, but if I hear you say any of those vile
things about Jon to my children or anyone else I will follow through with my threat." Septa
Mordane stared in silent horror at her former Lord who spoke this way, "I told you to leave, now!"
Mordane bolted from the sept, and Chayle followed behind her.

Soon it was just him and Cat who was now staring at him with something akin to when he had
brought Jon home for the first time.

"How could you, Ned? Septa Mordane was good for our daughters and did her duty well in
shaping them into proper women, proper ladies to that will run strong households."

"Do you know what Arya said when I found her in the godswood?" Cat didn't say anything, so Ned
continued, "She told me no one would protect her from danger because the only one, the only
person that truly loved her, was dead." Cat's face fell, and tears started to form. "Aye, I know, so
continue to tell me that Septa Mordane fulfilled her duty. Tell me that we haven't failed in ours to
love both our daughters."

Cat's eyes were starting to overflow "I have been with them and raised them from the time they
were born, you are the absent one. You have hardly spent time with them, hardly raised them at
all!"

"I know!" Ned bellowed so loud it echoed. "I know," he repeated softly, "Gods above, I have
become my father." Ned sat silently, "We both need to be better, Cat."

Ned looked up to see her staring at him, "The girls need a septa."

Ned shook his head, "They need a governess, and I promise you she will not be a Septa." Catelyn
scoffed in disbelief through her tears, but Ned continued to press, "You can select whomever you
want, and I will bring them here so we can speak with them in person before we decide anything."
"Why do you hate the Seven so much? Is it because of her?"

Ned looked up, confused, "Arya?"

"No. Jon's mother. Is your hate for them to assuage your guilt for loving another woman more than
your wife." Ned put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples in frustration.

"Guilt," Ned said quietly. He then stood, "Guilt is all I have ever felt. Guilt that you were to be my
brother's bride, guilt that I can't seem to save any of my family, guilt every time I see how you
treated Jon."

"You expected me to treat him as one of my own?" Cat said with disbelief.

Ned shook his head, "No, Cat. I have another well of guilt for all the things wrong I've done to Jon.
I feel guilty, all the time from the pain and anger his presence brought you."

"Yet, you kept him here anyway."

"What would you have had me do? Leave him alone in some Lord's castle? Shunned from his
siblings, have him become angry and bitter towards Robb and me?"

"Yes!" She shouted, then looked down, ashamed, "No. I don't know." She looked at him then,
"Why did you do it?"

Ned shook his head, "What do you want me to say, Cat? That I loved her more than I love you?
That she was a whore? That she was a great lady of a noble house? That she was a fleeting fancy?
What do you want me to say? What would you have me do? Jon is probably dead! His mother is
dead! What would you have me do to make you feel better?"

"Tell me who she was."

"What?" Ned asked.

"You said she was dead, so why do you guard her name so fiercely?"

"I.." Ned faltered, "Why? Why does it matter if you know her name? What would it change?"

Cat sat on the bench and was quiet for a time, "I don't know Ned. I was so angry back then when I
saw you brought him home from the war. I was alone and afraid. I was with a man that I wasn't
supposed to marry in a strange place, and I was just angry. I thought you cared little for me and
some ways...in some ways, it would have been easier." She took a deep breath, "But damn you,
Ned, you couldn't help but be a good man, and kind one and despite the anger, I felt then, I fell in
love with you."

She clasped his hand, "And it made it worse, Ned, it tore at me. You were this kind, generous,
deeply honorable man whom I loved, and I felt who loved me, yet you did this thing. Something
that felt so contrary to who I came to know."

"Cat…" Ned tried to interject, but Cat pushed on.

"It ate at me Ned, I couldn't forget it because Jon was there, looking like you as he grew and I can't
stop thinking about this woman that made you do something so contrary to your very being and all
I can think is 'what love it must have been,' 'how much happier she could have made you.'" Catelyn
stood and walked to the statue of the Mother, "I am haunted by this unknowable woman. I was
weak and spiteful to a boy because I felt inadequate compared to his mother, this ghost of a
woman." Cat wiped a tear away as she sat down again and buried her head in her hands.

Ned felt stunned and frozen in place and didn't know what to say. It was a conversation years
overdue and one he had refused to have with her. Still, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the
truth. Well, not the whole truth. "She died after giving birth to Jon. She asked me, no, told me to
promise her that he would be safe and cared for."

Cat opened her mouth, but Ned held his hand, "I cannot say her name." Cat mouth screwed tight,
and Ned smirked. Cat looked at him, seemingly offended. "Arya does that when she is angry as
well, I wondered where she got that from."

Cat gave a sad smile, and Ned knelt down in front of Cat, "I loved her, Jon's mother. But not the
way I love you, Cat. We've built something strong, and gods know we haven't made it easy for
each other. If you can't forgive me for Jon, I understand, truly I do. But we created a good life
together. Created these wonderful children and I....we...no I need to help our children, and I know
I've neglected you and them both since White Harbor." Cat raised an eye at that, and Ned sat next
to her, "The children, the children loved Jon deeply, and he, them. He would have died to protect
anyone of them. You know this Cat. You held no love for him, I understand, but our children, me
even, lost someone precious. I just, I just can't stand the thought of someone poisoning their
memories of him."

Cat nodded, "I...I understand. The boy...Jon. I am sorry that I could not be a better person...when it
mattered. I wish I was a better woman." Cat, cuffed away more tears, "I'm sorry for Mordane.
Septa Mordane was always good to me, but I can see she misstepped."

"Misstepped?"

"Grossly misstepped. I am not asking for Mordane back, but I would still like a Septa here, not as a
governess, but to help me stay closer to my gods."

"Septon Chayle…"

"Is a fine man, but…"

Ned shook his head, "I don't know Cat." His wife looked down, "Give me time. I need to think
about this for a long while."

Cat laid her head on his shoulder, "Would you have really burned it down?"

Despite himself, Ned chuckled, "That was extreme of me. Chayle is a good man, I'll apologize to
him later."

"No." Cat said, "You won't. It is within your rights. I never truly appreciated what it cost you to
build this for me. I forget how much the North hates my gods."

"We do not hate them." Cat moved to look at him, disbelief etched on her face, "At least, I do not
hate them. I am terrified of them."

"What? Why?"
"The North has fought its influence for a thousand years, Cat. Aside from a handful of Houses, we
have not allowed many to worship them, yet they have still found influence among the North."

"What do you mean?"

"Our culture shifted. Our language, coinage, gods even how we count days all stem from the
Andals. Yet no Andal has ever ruled in Winterfell. The Old Gods have power, I know they do, but
it is a subtle thing. They protect us, but it is subtle. Your religion, though, its tendrils affect even
those that have never believed and can warp their thoughts and processes. Even I am not free from
it."

"Yet, you built this place."

Ned took a deep breath, "Yet I built this place."

Ned felt Cat's hand in his, and then she squeezed it tight. Neither said anything but stared at the
statues of The Seven.

Ned finally broke the silence, "We need to talk about Arya."

"Yes, how are you punishing her."

"I think having she and Sansa work as washerwomen for a couple of weeks is sufficient."

"Sansa? Why?"

"Provoking Arya."

Cat sighed, "It is a bit extreme."

"It's a day of extremes." Cat chuckled softly at that.

Ned pressed on, pushing the arrow out in one, "I am writing to my mother's cousin Torghen Flint,
he has a daughter who has a daughter of her own, both are capable warriors, they will be coming
here to act as personal guards for our girls and to train Arya. And Sansa, if she wants to. To learn, I
mean."

"Ned!"

"No, Cat, listen to me. Arya feels powerless, defenseless, scared, and honestly, she has every right
to feel that way. She somehow came across an injured Ella Hornwood, who was protected by
guest-right. Her aunt was kidnapped. She has felt alone and left to grieve by herself."

Ned stood and leaned next to the statue of the Warrior. "I want my daughters if they desire to, to be
able to try and protect themselves. To be guarded by those that can protect at all times and in all
places." Cat looked like she had swallowed a lemon but didn't say anything, so Ned continued,
"When we find a governess, she will still have those lessons, and I am hoping that martial
discipline will carry into other areas of her life."

Cat softened a bit at that, but asked, "But clansmen Ned? Why not Ser Rodrik?"

Ned shrugged, "He teaches men to fight men, I don't think he'll be able to teach a woman how to
fight in the way he's used to."

Cat put her hand on her head, "Who will accept her as a bride if she is capable of killing them?"

Ned took a deep breath, "There has to be someone. Maybe an Umber would look past it." Cat just
stared at him, and Ned fought a smile, "Your grandchildren would be giants."

Cat's lips quirked up, "That's not funny, Ned." Ned laughed then, and soon Cat joined him. It
quieted after a few moments, "Still, I am worried she will never marry."

Ned nodded, "I know, but she is still young. There will be time for her to grow and learn her duty."
Chapter End Notes

So work is going to pick up quite a bit over the next month or so. I'll try and get an
update in, but I can't guarantee anything.

Thanks to everyone who has stuck around, commented, kudosed, and the like.

Next up is Jon-boy
 Chapter 27
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

JON

"How many were taken alive?" Jon asked Harald, Xano, and Horo. Horo, as always, refused to say
much aside from a glare angry remark.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," Jon said.

It was the first moment they had to speak without worry of a guard overhearing them, and one
where they were all still awake. After Jon's out of body experience, mixed with the exhaustion of
the row and his still raw back, he had slept the rest of the day as had most of the others. Including
those that had been selected to move cargo.

Unfortunately for them all, they were awoken, and instead of their evening meal, they were
shouted to row. The pace was laxer than Jon, and the others were used to. Unfortunately, their
masters forced them to keep that pace all through the night and into the next day. They traded turns
but were not allowed a break above deck and were fed in their rows, forced to sleep between shifts.
Ryjar had even helped feed them better stock then they usually had, but the man seemed a bit
nervous.

A god somewhere took pity on them as after nearly a full day of rowing, they were allowed to stop,
unfortunately instead of weeks old sweat and blood, there was now an overwhelming stench of piss
and shit from those unable to hold on. Still, they were allowed to rest, but Jon needed to know who
had survived the attack and what they had done with them. Jon didn't know if it was the desire to
know who could help them escape or try and heap more guilt onto himself. He just needed to know
and realized that it would be better to focus on this mystery instead of the one where he seemed to
hallucinate that he was a cat, which caused him to faint.

Xano cut in, "From what I could see, I counted nine captured, five went to Ventarro's caravel and
four to the other."

"How'd they look? Seriously injured?"

"Minor injuries, maybe a few wounds from bolts but nothing serious. The..uh...the more wounded
were killed then and there." Jon's memory flashed to the sailor from the Pearl's Kiss with a bolt in
the leg. His mind forced him to relive that moment again, frozen unable to do anything.

Jon shook his head, "How many dead?"

Harald and Xano shrugged, "No idea," the summer islander said.

"The cargo, what was it?"

Harald spoke, "Wool, mostly. Some quality furs, leather. Provisions as well."

"And the clay jars," Xano said. Jon felt his blood run cold.

"Clay jars?" Jon asked.

"Mhmm," Xano confirmed, "Ten or so, about this big," Xano separated his hands about a foot
apart, "and this tall," then he moved his right hand about the left and separated them about a foot
and a half.

"What was in them?" Jon asked, but he already knew.

"Greyish powder of some sort, like shitty flour."

Old memories of speaking with Tormo came back suddenly, the Braavosi showing Jon a clay jar
with powder. The same one that he presented as a gift to the Sealord.

"If you all will shut the fuck up, I need to sleep," Horo complained loudly. To Jon's
embarrassment, there were a few others that agreed, but he needed to know.

"What did the pirates say about it?"

Harald shrugged, "They didn't think much of it, was going to store it on our ship as food stores until
Ryjar saw it."

"What did he think?"

"Didn't look too happy, but took it Ventarro. They left the Braavosi cog with the other captain back
to Ventarro's ship."

Jon's mind started racing, trying to remember what Tormo said about the potential worth of that
jar, but it was like trying to remember a pleasant dream, something he hadn't had in so long. He did
remember being shocked by the answer. If they had ten, it was a fortune, probably worth enough to
buy another ship. No, Jon shook his head, much more than that.

Was that why they had been pushed through the night after chasing the cog down? Did they know
the value and need to get to Bloodstone quickly to capitalize on it? But that didn't make sense, as
the men that guarded them didn't seem jubilant to find a fortune. They were happy, as any pirate
would be after successfully raiding a ship, but it didn't seem to match what would be expected with
the amount of wealth coming their way. Were Ventarro and the other captains keeping it quiet?
That didn't seem to make sense either. He had sufficient control of his men, they wouldn't try to
steal from him, and if they all knew what they had, they would love him all the more.

Jon thought back to Ryjar, the man seemed nervous to him. Why would he seem worried? They
had been close to Braavos, but not that close, right? Nobody would know they had attacked the
ship. So why the frantic dash south?

His fatigued and starved brain was missing something, something crucial. Then it hit him.

Unless they were seen. Seen taking an extraordinarily valuable ship. Jon felt his heart start to
pound. Were they being chased by a galley now? Maybe a handful of galleasses? No, we wouldn't
have stopped, they would have pushed us non-stop, drove us to death. They would not just get a
day's start.

He still couldn't figure out why the ship wasn't guarded, but Jon instead focused that Ryjar was
nervous about getting caught by the Braavosi. Which meant there was a chance they could be
detected by the Braavosi.
"We could be free," Jon whispered.

"What was that?" Harald asked.

Jon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Jon couldn't tell them, not yet. Mostly because he
wasn't sure he was right. Somewhere in him, he worried that he was making assumptions to
convince himself that this was true and if Jon shared this, and he was wrong, the men might do
something preemptively and get themselves killed.

"Nothing, I just need some rest."

Harald eyed him, warily, "Okay."

Jon closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind warred with itself and rest eluded him.

--

Jon hadn't had this much food since he became a slave. Jon had also never been this exhausted
either. The turns at the oar seemed to be twice as long, and it appeared that their shifts to rest were
significantly shorter. He still hated them all, but he couldn't stop his body from being grateful for
the extra rations they were receiving. Unfortunately, they were still only allowed up on deck to
relieve their bowels in the evenings.

It had been almost a week since they had raided that Braavosi ship. That was also the last time he
had seen or overheard anything from Ryjar, so Jon couldn't even guess what their captors were
thinking, but that didn't seem to matter. It was subtle, but there was a shift in the pirates' mood that
guarded them all. They reacted with harsh movements, responded to even the slightest unexpected
event with severe outbursts. This led to more beatings and uses of the Belt on Jon and his men, but
that also meant he had heard a few fights break out among the crew. Unfortunately, his men had
started to notice.

"If we make a move tonight we can get free, get everyone free and take over the ship-"

"And do what? Get slaughtered by the other two?" Jon said, interrupting Jorcho's righteous anger.
The young man's eyes flashed quickly to his back, it was still tender and scabbed, but they broke
apart less and less now.

Xano spoke up then, "One of the ships is gone most of the day, nearly on the horizon."

Larris nodded along, "They're all nervous, if enough of us get free, we can overwhelm them."

There was a snort behind him, "You think you thin pieces of shit can take the thirty-five maybe
forty-five depending on the time of day?" The attention shifted to Horo behind them, his angular
face held a sneer under his dark brown beard. The annoyance his words held were punctuated by
his dark olive eyes. "Then the forty or fifty on Ventarro's ship as well? Then hopefully, we can get
these men back on oars before the third ship returns?"

Their silence was interrupted, "Me and this fuck have no idea what you're talking about," Toregg
said in Westerosi while pointing to Ollo, and the remaining Dothraki twin, who was maybe his size
stared at him with a burning curiosity.

"I kill who killed Rorlo," the twin said in broken Valyrian.

Toregg rolled his eyes with mock betrayal, but Jon kept Ollo's gaze and nodded, "Soon."

"Soon?" Horo asked, imitating Jon's voice, "Don't give them false hope, boy? And who the fuck
are you to think you can fight them at all?"

"He's Muqqedes Cinder !"

Horo's eyes widened a fraction, and only for a moment, "He wouldn't be here if he was."

Jon looked at Jorcho, "I trained with them for a few months, but that doesn't matter. What matters
is when we make our move."

Jon took a deep breath, allowing himself to gather his thoughts, "We still need to wait." Jon held up
his hand to forestall Jorcho and Xano's interruptions, "Until we are near land, something with a
beach. If we are, we can try and take this ship and beach it to fortify the ship from the land."
Harald nodded, but Horo waved it away, "What's to stop them from coming back once they return
from Dramar's or any other port?"

Jon clucked his tongue, "I am not sure, but as they've said, they are all nervous about something.
Either they are being chased, or they are expecting to run into danger."

"Exactly, they are all armored even when they come to escort us up top," Horo said.

"You're right," Jon smirked, "They are bringing the weapons to us already. We just need to pick
our moment." The other's nodded, except Toregg, who stared intently, hoping the foreign words
would make sense by sheer force of will.

"They'll gut you before you can move two steps," Horo said.

"Probably, three in ten chance I'll die before I kill even one, six in ten chance I'll die before I can
free you all. Eight in ten chance this will probably fail".

"That low?" Jorcho said.

"Aye, but we will not be given a better one."

Horo chuckled, "You'll risk yourself for that?"

Jon stared at him, "Yes." Horo's smirk faded, and he looked away.

Harald shrugged, "I'm tired of this oar. I'll follow your lead Toli."

Xano and Jorcho agreed, Daleth and Larris were less enthused but still nodded. Then Jon felt the
Belt strike his back. His wounds cried in protest, and Jon's body shook in pain for moments.

"Enough!" yelled Pero, "I can hear your yapping from the godsdamn deck! Where the fuck-" Pero
trailed off, searching for someone and found it. "Szen!"

Their guard for the evening leaned against the timber, talking to the new man manning the pace
drum. He spun around, and his eyes focused on Pero, and Jon could see the guard fight to roll his
eyes.

"Szen! What the fuck are you doing?"

"Talking."

"So were the slaves, and Ryn has been waiting to feed them for ten minutes," Pero nearly shouted.

"And I am leading them up now, so quit speaking to me like you're the captain or even my god
damn bossman," Szen's hand went to his cudgel, and Pero's snarl stayed, but he turned and stormed
up the steps.

Jon gave Harald a look, and soon it was their turn to be led up to the deck. The sky was darkening
quickly, Jon thought he could see a few dark clouds on the horizon, but he wasn't sure. He could
clearly see the third ship in their small fleet approaching, and at the prow, there were two flags.
One was black, and the other was white. Jon assumed that meant all clear, but he wasn't too sure.
The pirates confirmed it a moment later as they all let out a relieved sigh and became far more
relaxed. Ryjar was there as well, and the wretch nodded his head but was still tense.

Jon's hand was soon filled with two rations of biscuit and a real hearty stew with some sort of fruit.
Apple maybe? His stomach didn't care as he tore through it quite quickly and quietly, as he tried to
listen for any information from the men guarding him.

Szen, the man who guarded them all afternoon was complaining as he bit into some salted fish, his
Tyroshi accent giving his Valyrian an annoying gurgling quality like his tongue was too large for
his mouth. "Alls I am saying, I do not understand the problem with the ship we took."

Pero glared at him, "Braavosi are weak, and their men couldn't fight to save their lives. Did you see
the man I hit, right between the eyes I did! Dead before he hit the ground."

"Your talkin' out your ass, Pero." Kylmer mocked, "I had to kill the bastard when I hopped over,
you barely scratched the sop's head."
"It wasn't the one you was thinking of, you floppy prick," Pero stabbed his finger at Kylmer.

A fight almost broke out, and Jon filed that information away for later, but once tensions had
simmered another pirate that Jon didn't know spoke up, "Can't believe there were no women, hadn't
gotten my dick wet since Lys." Jon started to ignore them as he had no desire to hear any more talk
of their conquests.

"Still, we took what? Ten sailors? And those clay jars that the Captain is going on about," Szen
spoke, returning to the previous topic.

"Maybe it has to do with that sailor we got that says he is a son of some savage Lord," Pero said,
and Jon's wavering attention snapped back and focused on whatever they were saying.

"If the ponce ain't lying to any of us," Kylmer grumbled.

"Ryjar says he's telling the truth."

"Ryjar hopes he's telling the truth," Kylmer corrected.

"Most like, he is lying," Another guard said, "What kind of name is Woodman?" Woodman? Jon
didn't recognize that name, maybe they had meant House Woods. Then again, they were speaking
the House name in Westerosi while the rest of their speech was in Valyrian, and perhaps they had
mistranslated the words.

"It wasn't 'woodman' you daft cunt," Kylmer said, "It was Forest or Forestling."

Jon spoke before he could think, "Forrester?"

The guards turned to him, "Aye, that's the one!" Kylmer said, then his eyes narrowed on him. Shit.

Three of them advanced towards him, and Jon braced to receive another beating, "Wait!" Jon
looked to see Ryjar staring at him, "How do you know this name?" Jon looked down, trying to
think of a way out of this. When he didn't speak, he felt the whip of the Belt to the stomach, and
Jon felt the familiar pain and tried to stay upright. "I will ask one more time. How do you know
this name."

"Father was from," Jon took a deep breath, "the North."

Ryjar studied him like he was seeing him for the first time.

Kylmer spoke up, "He has some of that look, of the Northmen."

Pero spoke up, "Only the eyes! The rest looks like he was bred in a whore house in Lys!"

Ryjar ignored the last remark, "Have you seen them before?"

Jon thought for a few moments, knowing this could lead to trouble . But I have to know. "Aye, it
has been some time."

Ryjar frowned, "How long?"

Jon shook his head, his ability to recall his time on the galleass was still hampered. The Belt struck
him again, this time on his back, and his lashings and sore back caused bright white spots to
multiply in his vision. "How long?" Ryjar asked again.

"Two months before I was taken, I was in the Northern city, and some of them fought in a
tournament." The memory of the tourney flashed quickly before him. Fighting next to Robb,
Harmond, Cley, and Asher. Winning the squire's tourney, fighting again with Tamir, Medvjed, and
Arridos. Dancing with Ella. Lenfred's hands. Holding a bloodied girl.

Jon cuffed his eyes, a few tears had escaped. He wasn't sure if it was from the memories giving
him a sense of joy or pain. Maybe it was both.

"Could you recognize him?"

"Maybe."

He felt the Belt again as Szen shouted, "He asked yes or no!"

"Enough Szen, maybe, is adequate. We'll know the truth one way or another. Ryndellos!"
Someone shouted back in response. "Signal The Parçalandi, Ventarro will want to hear this."

Jon knelt there, the sting slowly fading as he picked up his fallen meal, sopping up the spilled stew
with the last bit of his biscuit, and slowly ate it off the deck. He had barely finished when he was
roughly picked up. Ryjar spoke again, "Take the small Braavosi one, just in case this one starts
lying." Jon looked to Jorcho, whose eyes started to widen in fear, but Jon just nodded to him. At
sword point, they were marched over to one of the skiffs. Jon and Jorcho sat side by side in the
rowboat, and two men held swords to their back as they were lowered down to the water.

Jon had a bizarre sense of panic as they hit the rolling waves. Six other sailors climbed down to
row them over, but Jon couldn't focus on them. All he could think was that this was the first time
he had been taken off the boat since Lys, and he felt his heart start to pound in his chest. Sweat
gathered on his brow, and Jon fought to control his breathing while the rhythm of waves jostled
him as oars sliced through the saltwater, propelling them towards the Parçalandi .

Jon looked back to the galleass and could now see Xano, Daleth, and Larris standing there, looking
at him and Jorcho. Jon raised his shackled hands in a fist. A red line appeared on his right wrist,
followed by the pain as the blade disappeared behind him again.

Jon groaned as he grasped his right wrist with his left hand as he felt the flat of the blade strike the
back of his head. "Keep your hands in front of you, sikilmis orvorta !"

Jon put pressure on the cut, blood welling between his fingers. It wasn't deep, but it was bleeding
enough to annoy him.

By the time they made it to the deck of the Parçalandi , darkness had started to envelop the sea.
The caravel wasn't as long as the galleass, but it was much taller, with a forecastle and aft castle.
Both were equipped with two scorpions each, all four of them manned. The aftcastle, however,
contained a quarterdeck with three separate doors. Ventarro came out of the center with black
trousers and a striped tunic with a sword at his waist. It was shorter than a longsword with a slight
curve and ornate sheath, and Jon racked his brain if the captain had it on him the day the Pearl's
Kiss was attacked.
It didn't matter as the Captain was wearing a frown, "What is the small one for?"

"Incentive for the truth, Ryjar says," Szen said.

Ventarro's eyebrow lifted, "Cocksuckers?"

The crew laughed, and Jon shook his head while Szen shrugged, "Ryjar thinks this one is another
holy man."

Ventarro became slightly amused, "So nothing permanent? Fine, Ryjar does love his helpers. His
arm?"

"Distracted the oarsmen."

Ventarro shook his head and snapped his fingers, and a small man handed him a threadbare tunic
and threw it at Jon, "I need some sleep tonight, throw him down below with the others."

"But sir!" one of the guards spoke up, "We need them back on the oars."

Ventarro was already turning around when he shouted, "Grab two of the Braavosi cinselsi !" Some
of the pirates chuckled as Jon pressed the tattered clump of cloth to his wrist. Then he and Jorcho
were led down to the lower deck. Jon tensed as flashes of the leading his men below deck came to
fore. Before Jon knew it, they were down below, walking through the crew's quarters. Some were
all hanging up their hammocks for the evening, while others were changing.

They continued to march as Jon held the tunic to his arm. It had too much fabric, and holding like a
clump, although effective at stopping the bleeding, was becoming a hassle for his left hand. When
he looked forward, he could see the galley as the cook was yelling at two younger-looking men.
No, not men, they were hardly more than children.

Jon wanted to get a better look, but his wants didn't matter as they descended another ladder to the
hold. Jon thought they must be at the end of the ship as it was a small space with only fifteen or so
barrels of supplies that were stacked and roped to the hull. It was dark save for a lantern, rocking
back and forth. A couple of pirates passed them, smiling and adjusting their breeches with a
mouthful of biscuit. They finally reached a locked door surrounded by wooden walls that split the
hold, where a man sat on a stool.
It was damp, and Jon was hit with a terrible smell that must have emanated from behind the door of
iron. The hold where he had lived for so long had a distinct smell, but it seemed like these
individuals must have done everything in here. Why in hells did I speak?

The guard, who was wearing a padded gambeson and was armed with a cudgel, a dirk, and a
couple of small knives, and Jon noticed this man had a short boarding ax leaned against the wall.
The guard looked up, and behind the scarf covering his face were hopeful eyes, "Am I relieved for
the night?"

The two that had led them down laughed, "Don't think so. They all chained up?"

The guard glared at the two of them, "Of course."

"Well, we need two of the new Braavosi, they are taking these two shits' places at the oar."

"Alright, alright, you have the keys?" One of the two that led him produced a ring of keys and
unlocked the door. When it opened, the smell hit him in force, and Jon coughed, and Jorcho
gagged, and the darkness enveloped him as the light of a lantern was blocked by his jailor.

The sight that greeted him caused him to clench his fists, causing pain to radiate from the cut on
his right forearm. There were five men huddled in the front, but fourteen women, freefolk women
in the middle and twenty, maybe twenty-five children, emaciated and huddled in fear in the back of
the hold.

Four of the men looked up with bloody faces, and the two guards pointed at the front two, "You
and you no sudden moves, or you'll be gutted."

The two Braavosi were unlocked, and Jon and Jorcho took their places and were soon chained. The
fifth man laid motionless, but before the door closed, taking the light with it, he saw the man shift.
Then they were left in the damp darkness.

"Why the hell am I here, Toli?" Jorcho said in Valyrian, and he must have leaned against the wall
as there was a sound of something against the wood.
Jon slowly laid down flat on his back, and a contented sigh escaped him, then he gave a small
chuckle.

"Toli?" Jon didn't answer right away, enjoying how his back stretched then relaxed for the first
time in what seemed like a lifetime. "Toli!" Jorcho shouted.

Someone banged something against the iron door, and the echo pounded within their prison. Jon
turned to where Jorcho's voice came from, "They think if they hurt you, I'll talk truthfully. For
some reason, they seem unwilling to hurt me too badly."

"Fuck you, Toli."

Jon shrugged, but realized in the dark Jorcho couldn't see him, "Sorry Jor, this won't take long,
either this man is an imposter, and he'll get killed in front of us. Or this man really is from a minor
Northern House, and they'll keep him separate and decide to kill him or sell him to someone else
for ransom."

"How do you know about Northmen?" Jorcho asked.

"From there, fought in a tournament with one, and saw the older brother and a sister. Regardless I
don't know how a Forrester would end up here," Jon told him in Valyrian, but when he said the
name Forrester, someone stirred sharply.

That someone then spoke in Westerosi, and Jon was greeted with a Northern burr, one that seemed
somewhat familiar, "Which one of you foreign fucks said my name!"

Jorcho spoke up in Valyrian, "What did he say?"

Jon responded in kind, "He's angry, I'll talk to him." Then he switched to Westerosi, "I was brought
over from the galleass to identify the one claiming to be someone named Forrester."

"How the fuck would some foreign asshole be able to recognize me?"

Jon sighed, "Honestly? I don't know why they think so, but it will be in the morning, and I'd like
some sleep."

The potential pretender sighed, "Good luck."

Jon didn't know what that meant, so he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, hoping that he
would dream of being a bird or a cat instead of his usual nightmares.

His hopes were naught as this time, as Ella was chained and screaming prayers, and instead of
Ryjar taunting him, it was Lenfred Rykker.

The sound of a door slamming open thrust him out of his nightmare. The light from the lantern
blinded him for a moment.

Their guard led two sailors in, "Remember, none of the children or the younger of the women. Any
of those five are free to be used."

One of the two who were led in spoke, "Come on, I've been on edge since we took the Braavosi
cog and trying to outrun that small storm means one or two days of work straight, need a clear
head."

"Ventarro's orders."

"No, it's that white-eyed fuck, Ryjar's."

Their guard snorted, "Maybe, but we've been paid well since he'd come aboard."

"Half my week's pay, for the younger woman with a bit of red in her hair."

There was silence as their guard nodded, and the two men grasped forearms in agreement. They
grabbed one of the younger freefolk women. She had dark-red hair. D arker than Robb's . She
thrashed wildly, and when her hand connected with one of the sailors, they struck her across the
head, and the women stopped fighting, dazed.
"Can't believe you want that one, Tylo," One of the two said to each other.

"Ha! Still has a little fight, and that red shade in the brown seems a bit of fun." Jon tensed, feeling
his anger rise and sensing it in Jorcho as well. However, the one claiming to be a Northerner
jumped to his feet, his chained legs stopping him before he could reach either of them.

He shouted in Westerosi, "You filthy fucks! If I get out of these chains, I'd rip your godsdamn
throats out and stuff your-" A cudgel hit him on the side of the head, and the man crumpled, and
something settled in Jon's mind. Could it actually be?

Then the two grumbled as they hit the man high on his back, and the man laid still. The two said
nothing and took the woman away as the door shut.

Jorcho eventually croaked out, "What...what, are they doing with her."

One of the sailors responded, "What all evil men do to powerless women."

Jorcho was silent, and Jon spoke, "How often?"

"Every day for those five, sometimes multiple times a day."

Jon felt bile rise in his throat. He had thought his life had been a living hell, he couldn't imagine
what these women had gone through. The disgust started to melt and reform into malice, a black
hatred threatening to overtake him and consume him. Lock that away. He told himself. Unleash it
when there is an opportunity.

Jon spoke up in Westerosi, "Women, children." A few people rustled in the dark. "Are you all
Freefolk?"

No one answered, so Jon tried a different tactic, "I've rowed with Toregg. Are you all Toregg's
people?"

"Toregg?" A small girlish voice pierced the dark. "Toregg is alive?"

Jon smiled at the question, "He is rowing on the galleass. Are you Munda, his sister, and Dryn, is
he here as well?"

"Yes," the girl asked, but it sounded like she was close to tears, or had already succumbed. "He's
alive still?" Like she didn't trust her own voice like she wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

"Yes," Jon affirmed. "I saw him not more than a couple hours ago. He is alive and is thinking
about you."

A little child raised his quivering voice, "Why isn't he here? He said he would protect us." Jon
wasn't sure how to respond to that and instead stayed silent.

One of the Freefolk women interrupted him, "Damn fool got us all captured. Others take him and
curse him and may what has come upon us be done to him a thousand times!"

A clang on the iron door came again, and the red-headed freefolk woman was dragged back in and
tossed roughly to the ground where she whimpered in pain. She was chained back into place, and
even before the two men closed the iron door, Jon could see the other women crowd around her.

Jon sat there in anger as the Northman's words came back to him. "Forrester?"

No one responded, but Jon heard the ragged breathing, and he let the man stay unconscious. What
seemed a long time later, his eyes closed as new nightmares came to him.

---

Jon stared at the spread of food in front of him. There were no utensils, and the fare was quite plain
—stale bread and stew old enough that some film had built upon it. Jon still ate it with his left
hand. His right arm had the large clump of the cloth tied tightly around his wrist, making it
unwieldy and awkward, but not necessary to continually hold. Jorcho ate as well while the third
slave at the table stared blankly, unwilling to partake. Jon had a few bites left when he was
interrupted.

"So, now that you have seen him in sunlight, what do you think, slave? Is he a son of that Lord?"
Jon shifted his view from the third slave to Ventarro, leaning back in his ornate chair, fork in hand
eating some sort of beef that smelled incredible. The chair was made of rich, dark wood with
ornate carvings of various beasts that Jon had never seen before. It fit well in the captain's private
quarters, where the captain seemed to store a part of his worldly wealth. There were silks, velvet
garments, silver, and gold furnishings, including the cup he held in his other hand. Jon wasn't sure
if it was pure gold or was covered in gold leaf, so he decided it didn't matter. Ventarro's fingers
were covered in jewelry, nothing ostentatious, plain bands made of gold and silver, and Jon thought
one might have been jade.

Still, Jon kept returning his eyes to the sword that was within its ornate sheath. The blade hung on
the wall, and Jon couldn't help but look at the hilt made of some black material with silver inlay.

Jon felt his back bloom with pain as an instrument similar to the Belt hit him across his shoulder.
The wounds from the lashings were mostly closed, but they were still very tender. But Jon wouldn't
show weakness here, so he absorbed the pain, and let it feed the malice that was locked within
him.

"Captain asked you a question!"

Jon looked back at the pirate, the man named Tylo. He was the one who woke him and, with force,
took Jorcho and the groggy slave and marched them all out of the slave hold. When they reached
the main deck, the cloudy sky greeted them, and they all entered through the middle door that led
into what must have been the officers' cabin, then walked into the captain's lush quarters behind it
where Ventarro had greeted them.

Jon looked at the third slave, to the Forrester, to the young man. A young man near his own age
who stood with him in a line against the best young fighters in the North. Asher sat there staring at
his food, anger in his eyes, mixed with regret and despair. All feelings that Jon knew well.

Jon turned back to Ventarro, "Yes. His name is Asher Forrester, second son of a Lord of the
North."

"Oh?" Ventarro said, raising an eyebrow and corner of his mouth, making the scar on his lip more
visible. While Asher looked at Jon and studied him, trying to place his face, looking for something
familiar. Then Asher's eyes widened.

"Aye," Jon said. "Saw him fight in a tourney at White Harbor."

"And when was this?" Ventarro asked, mirth and feigned interest dripping off the words.

Jon shook his head, "One...maybe two months before I was captured." Jon said, unsure of how long
ago that actually was.

Ventarro didn't seem to know either and was silent for a while before he spoke again, "You...you
were taken from the Pearl's Kiss?" Then Ventarro lifted his eyes to Jorcho, and the captain slapped
his forehead, then Ventarro hit the table. "And you are the merchant's son! Ha! Marcelino, no?"
Ventarro turned to the seven other pirates in the room. "How long ago was that, five...no six
months?"

"Six closer to seven, I believe," One of the officers answered.

"Six!" Ventarro exclaimed. Jon felt his stomach turn hollow. Six months? That is all it has been?
Jon struggled with that number. Or was that longer than I thought? Jon couldn't be sure. His body
and mind couldn't understand it as his fugue state seemed to have been an eternity, or was it a
blink?

Ventarro ignored Jon's rumination, "Good haul if I remember right. The two girls sold for a good
price, the one in Lys and the one we sold in Bloodstone." Jon glanced at Jorcho, whose face was
turning purple, and Ventarro cocked his head at him. "Your sisters, no?"

Jorcho said nothing, but his shoulders shook while Ventarro must have thought the scene amusing
and just laughed and focused back on Jon. "So, slave. You expect me to take your word at seeing
this man once eight, nine months ago?"

Jon shrugged, "It doesn't matter, does it."

Ventarro smiled and switched over to Westerosi and spoke to Asher, "This slave says he recognizes
you from a competition of some sort."

"Aye," Asher said, his voice hoarse, "To celebrate a wedding between a Manderly and a Grafton."

Ventarro's brow furrowed, "That...that seems familiar."

Asher's expression seemed to relax a fraction, "A lot of lords of Westeros attended." Ventarro
nodded along.

Ventarro then spoke in Westerosi to Jon now, "And why were you there?"

"I was-" Jon started, but Asher interrupted him, and Jon looked at him.

"He was there because he is-" Jon's eyes widened, and he started to shake his head when Asher
finished, "The son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Bastard son at least, Jon Snow." Jon closed
his eyes.

However, Ventarro looked at Jon, really looked at him. His expression shifted to perplexion and
surprise. "Unbelievable."

"He is!" Asher said with more enthusiasm.

Ventarro shook his head, "All this time. A son of a Stark!."

"Lord Stark would pay handsomely for the return of his son!" Asher said again, and Jon hung his
head.

Ventarro stood up, and switched to Valyrian, "The son of a Lord, on my ship for months and never
mentioning it. A fortune lying in wait!" Ventarro was smiling now. "Incredible day! Wondrous
day!" Ventarro started to pace, then reached for the sword and tied it around his waist. He then
walked around the table and placed his hand on Asher's shoulder. "And I have this one to thank for
this information! Get these two men wine to celebrate our inevitable fortune. They deserve a gift."
No one moved, and Jon felt a chill crawl down his back.

Asher looked at Jon, relief now flooding his face. Ventarro then slammed Asher's head onto the
table in an audible thunk. Then did it again and again. "You think I am fucking fool you līve's
orvorta !" Asher laid there dazed. Blood started to pool on the table from what must have been a
cut that opened on his forehead. Ventarro looked at Jon and pointed at him, "I put you in the
slave's hold last night. I knew you would pull some half-minded shit like this!"
"No!" Jon cried in surprise, "No, we did-" something hit him in the back of the head, and lights
exploded in the corners of his vision.

Jorcho looked on in fear, and Jon tried to reach out to him, and someone kicked him. His stool
slipped over. Jon fell and knocked over his bowl, and Ventarro's plate and utensils spilled onto the
ground.

"You think I'm a fucking fool!" Ventarro shouted and then pointed at Asher, "I'll take your fucking
lying tongue and arms and chain you to the prowl you fucking piece of shit."

Asher was too dazed to respond, so Ventarro looked at Jon and Jorcho, "You two will lose fingers
for your goddamn lies, then we get to Dramar's I'll feed you to the pits." Ventarro moved quickly
to Jorcho.

"Hold his hands, we'll take his middle two fingers on his left hand first, then take Ryjar's pet's next
before we send them back." Jorcho's hands trembled as he unsuccessfully fought the pirates closing
all but the middle two fingers. Jorcho then stopped fighting and stared at the pirate captain with so
much hate that the captain paused and studied him. "More fight then your father."

Jon was shoved and coerced until he was kneeling as Ventarro unsheathed his blade. Every eye
was drawn to the sword. It was nearly pitch black and waved. How did…

Before Jon could think any further, Ventarro slammed the Valyrian Steel into the table, as two
fingers were taken from Jorcho's hand.

Everything was still for a moment as Jon stood still in shock and surprise. Jorcho looked numbly at
his fingers for a breath. Then he screamed in pain.

"No!" Jon wrenched forward and got to his feet, "You fucking bastard!" Jon felt a pair of hands on
his shoulder, but threw his head back and felt it connect against something, and the pressure on his
shoulders disappeared. Jorcho slumped to the ground whimpering in pain, and Jon was about to
lunge towards the captain when five swords pointed at him. Ventarro's wasn't one of them, as it
was buried in the table, two cleanly cut fingers right next to it.

Jon felt a blow on his back as Tylo hit him, and he fell to the ground. Ventarro just laughed, "I love
his fight! I'll enjoy watching him die in the pits!" Then he shrugged, "minus two fingers, but what
do they matter." Jon was forced to his knees, and his hands splayed on the table.
Shouts erupted from outside the captain, and someone burst into Ventarro's quarters. "Captain!
Capt-" The man stopped at the bloody scene.

"What is it!?" Ventarro shouted.

The pirate took only a moment before he looked at the captain, "Sails! Purple Sails on the
Horizon!" Tylo let go of Jon, and he slumped to the floor as everyone looked at Ventarro.

Ventarro's anger faded, but determination set in, "How many? The fleet the captain spoke of
couldn't have caught us yet." No one paid attention to Jon as he laid on the floor.

The pirate shook his head, "Just four!"

Ventarro shook his head, "Just four? What kind? Can we tell?"

Jon saw Ventarro's utensils, including a cutting knife.

"Two galleys, two...they aren't cogs, but they are sailing ships. Tall and long, look fast." Jon
reached out and grasped it. Then looked at the bulky tunic tied around his wrist. It was almost long
enough to hide a knife.

Ventarro nodded and wrenched his blade free from the table. Jon looked at it briefly. The blade
was made like a falchion. Single-edged and slightly curved and as short as an arming sword. The
sword widened a bit towards the end before tapering into a deadly point. Ventarro wiped the blood
off on Jorcho's dirty tunic, then sheathed it as he shouted. "All hands! All hands! Send the signal to
the other ships. I need to see them, but we will need to split apart, forcing them to split as well, and
have them give chase." Jon slid the knife against his skin and adjusted the bulky tunic to hide the
blade, an inefficient process with his arms chained.

"The storm?" One of the officers asked.

Ventarro looked at them all, "How bad is it?"

"Probably small, rough waves, not fun. We'll need some luck."

Ventarro nodded then smiled, "No storm has ever sunk me, and this one will be the same. Head for
the storm. Signal Jyndylo to take his ship and split to the east, for Tyrosh. Ryjar and Ryndellos
will be able to outrun them south. If we chart a southeasterly course, we can try to make it into the
storm, and if the Braavosi ships are as thin as you say, they won't follow us. "Then Ventarro
pointed to Tylo, "Take them below deck, guard them with Ryto for the duration of the storm, or
until we relieve you." Tylo nodded. Jorcho continued to mewl like an injured puppy staring at his
hand with only three fingers. Asher was dazed, shaking his head, trying to clear it while Jon felt the
blade unsecure in the tunic wrapped around his arm. Jon pressed the tunic firm against his arm like
he was trying to stop something bleeding.

"Move!" Tylo shouted.

They walked down below deck to the sailor's quarters as pirates flooded out like ants, shouting and
handling ropes, and putting on coats, and covering themselves in what looked like fat and laying
stores of crossbows and bolts on the deck. As they walked down the path, even the cook and his
two young assistants were above, helping the other pirates prepare.

They descended into the hull, Jorcho first, stuffing his left hand into his armpit, crying while he
tried to stop the bleeding. Asher was next, initially unsteady, but slowly becoming more sure-
footed, while Jon followed lastly with a blade against his back. The few storage areas next to the
slave hold were abandoned save for their guard this morning, Ryto. The man had a scarf covering
his face to block out the smell. He also had a padded doublet and was armed with a short sword,
cudgel, and dirk on his person, the same as Tylo. Though Jon noticed the boarding ax was
missing.

"Oi!" Ryto said as he pulled off his scarf, "What's going on?"

"Four Braavosi ships, all hands, heading into a storm, and we guard the slaves for the duration."

"Thank gods," Ryto said, and Tylo agreed as he produced the keys.

They opened the iron door, and Ryto entered first, followed by Jorcho and Asher. Jon stumbled
and fell to his knees, a coughing fit overtaking him. "Fucking move!" Tylo shouted, but Jon stayed
his hands and knees, coughing so hard he felt his muscles contract hard enough to hurt.
"Tylo, get him moving," Ryto said, locking Jorcho in place. Jon felt an arm under his left armpit,
and he allowed himself to be lifted up, then went to grip the tunic and grasped the hilt of the knife.
Jon wrenched it from the hiding place and felt the blade cut his wrist as it was unsheathed. Jon
turned, gripping the cutting knife with his left hand, and shoved Tylo back into a wall with his right
forearm and ran the table knife through Tylo's neck.

"Tylo?" Ryto asked. Jon shifted, ripping his weapon free as Ryto turned, the lantern light lighting
the man's widening eyes. Jon saw his hand gripping his sheathed sword. Asher kicked the man's
knee, and Ryto fell to the ground. Jon drove forward and kicked the man in the head, then he fell
on the man and stabbed the man in the neck and covered his mouth and nose with his right hand.

Blood dripped from Jon's newest cut on his wrist and flowed onto Ryto's face as the man's eyes
were panicked. Jon held his right-hand firm and stabbed again with his left. Ryto stopped
struggling under his grip, while Jon took a breath and sat on his ass.

"Others take me, Jon," Asher said as he stared at the dead men. Jorcho, however, while in a lot of
pain, nodded his approval. The two Braavosi sailors and the freefolk women all stared at him with
awe.

Jon spoke then, "Sorry for not talking to you last night, it seemed you needed sleep." Asher didn't
say anything, still staring at the dead men. Jon then looked at Jorcho. The young man was now
fixated on his mutilated hand, "Jor." His friend didn't say anything, "Jor!" Jon hissed. Jorcho
looked at him, "We'll make them pay, and soon." Jorcho didn't seem to understand him, so Jon
went back to the dead man. He patted the man for the keys and found them, and unlocked the
shackles on his wrists and ankles. The skin had been rubbed raw, and he noticed the scabs and
scars as he was free from chains for the first time in months. Jon ignored the relief. Not yet. Jon
started to unlock the rest of them.

The red-headed freefolk woman was inpatient, "Unlock me so I can climb up there and cut off their
cocks and force them to eat it!" The threat came out as a pained cry.

"Shut up!" Jon nearly shouted. Luckily for them, all hands were on deck, and they were two levels
down. They could barely hear the crew shouting orders to each other as they tried to flee from the
purple sails chasing them. "Now, we need to be calm and patient. This will be our best chance to
get free, we cannot waste it in our haste! First, strip the two of all their clothes and give the one
called Ryto's clothes to me."

"Why you?" One of the sailors asked in heavily accented Westerosi.

Jon ignored him and hissed, "Follow my orders, so we aren't all slaughtered!" When none of them
moved, Jon nearly yelled in frustration, "I need to pretend to be him, and I need one of you to
pretend to be the other one."

"Why not take the ship now?" One of the Freefolk women asked, "All us freefolk women know
how to fight."

Jon continued to unlock them, "Listen to me. Four ships are chasing us. Every one of the sailors
could be armed right now, but they are on edge. Ventarro is splitting the ships and sailing his ship
into a small, but fierce-looking storm to try and lose them. If they are caught and engage in battle,
we will attack from below. If they make it into the storm, they will ditch their weapons to work. If
that is the case, we will wait until they are exhausted, and then we will attack."

One of the Braavosi nodded, "It could take a few hours."

Jon nodded, "I know, me and Asher here will wear the uniforms and take the swords. Distribute
the cudgels and knives amongst yourselves. I'll grab some of the rations stored outside. Eat as
much as you can, we will need as much strength as possible."

"If someone comes down to check on us?"

"We cut them down and pray that some god somewhere is on our side." All of them grudgingly
accepted this, and soon even the children were free. Terrified, but free.

They had found a barrel of salted fish and fruit and had rolled it into the hold and let all of the
slaves eat as much as they could, and after ten minutes, Jon and Asher were in the bloodied clothes
and sitting in front of the closed but unlocked iron door. It was nearly too dark to see as they had
left the lantern with the rest of them.

Asher leaned against the hold, eating his fill while Jon had rolled up the sleeves of his gambeson
and worked to tie a piece of his slave's tunic around his new wound. His self inflicted cut
intersected the oars and chains tattooed on his forearm. He covered it and tightly wound a scrap of
cloth around his new cut and the one inflicted yesterday.

Asher must have gotten bored, so he asked, "How did you get here?"
"I was taken as a slave, chained, and forced to row ever since. You?"

Asher told him about Gwyn, about their plans to run away and wed in Braavos. How he had
traveled to White Harbor first, and how Gwyn was caught before she could leave to meet him, and
then him being exiled. He took the first cog out of White Harbor, intent to join the Demons of
Braavos as there was a rumor they were preparing for an assault somewhere and were taking on
more men.

After he was done, he just stared at Jon, "How. How are you alive?"

Jon shook his head, "I shouldn't be. For a long time at the oar, I thought I was dead."

"We...your family...they think-"

"I'm dead," Jon said while Asher looked solemn. "Still might be," Jon finished.

"They...they didn't take it well, or so I heard. Your father offered gold for any information, they
sent eight ships with seven Braavosi a month or more before I left to attack the Stepstones." Jon
just nodded, but he didn't give a damn about Eddard Stark and his empty gestures, especially not
now. "Your brothers are well last I saw, your sisters I am not so sure. I'm sorry." Jon couldn't think
about his family now, couldn't hold hope to see them again while he'd still probably die.

"Enough, Asher," Jon grit out. "I...I can't, not right now." Jon unsheathed the short sword and held
it, it felt foreign, but still comforting in his hands. Jon stood and ran through some forms he
remembered. "I'm out of practice."

"I could probably beat you now," Asher said and smiled.

Jon didn't, "Unfortunately for all of us."

Asher frowned, "You took care of those two. I've never killed before, but for your first two kills-"

"They weren't my first," Jon said.

"Lenfred-"

"Isn't who I'm talking about."

Asher was silent for a few minutes, "How many?"

Jon thought about it, "Nine. Ten? Maybe eleven now."

"What's it like?"

Jon thought back to the first few and compared them to these two, "Thrilling, horrifying. You feel a
rush of power that lasts up until it's done, then you feel nothing but disgust. Then you live with it."

Asher looked disappointed, and they sat there in silence, ready for the pirates above them to enter
into battle.

Battle never came, but the storm did.

---

Jon didn't know how long it had been as the ship rocked back and forth. It wasn't the worst storm
Jon had been in, and not being in a galleass made it shifting of the waves easier to bear. Still, Asher
looked worse for wear, and Jon hoped that the pirates were at least tired, as their sea legs were at
home on rough waves, which gave them an advantage. Another advantage.

They had been left alone in the hold so far as the pirates were too busy to check in on a pair of lazy
guards. Jon regretted killing both of them, he needed to know if their weapons were stored
anywhere else as only a fool would keep them in the small store near the slaves. Yet Jon knew
traveling through the crew quarters would be a death sentence. Hence they had only two swords,
two cudgels, two dirks, and a kitchen knife for eighteen fighters. Five older women, nine younger
women (barely older than himself), the two sailors, himself and Asher. Jorcho and the children.
But Jon didn't want Jor to fight, and he needed the children to stay safe.
After speaking to the Braavosi sailors, Adaridos and Gyllido, they both agreed to the plan and said
for a ship this size, the crew would be anywhere from thirty-five to forty-five. Seven poorly armed
fighters, and eleven unarmed ones against at most forty-three men. Surprise is the only chance we
have.

The angry red-haired Freefolk woman, Yrna, opened the iron door a crack. "Cockless cowards,"
she whispered. The nicknames she gave to them weren't the most charming, but Jon didn't care,
Asher, however…

"Fuck you," he grumbled.

Jon could only see part of the woman's head and thought there was a sneer, but he knew it was
most likely a trick of the light. She continued, "We have sat here for an eternity, let me up and kill
those bastards!"

Jon noticed Asher looking at him when she said the last word, but Jon didn't hear it anymore, and
instead responded, "Soon. Hours of ship work in the rain will tire them." A crash of thunder
overtook the sounds of the waves and rain.

As the thunder faded, there were sounds of someone walking above them, and Jon held his hand
out to silence any remark. Another clap of thunder.

"Tylo! Ryto!"

Jon felt a pit in his stomach and readied to imitate one of them, decided against it, and gave a
general, "Eh?"

The man must not have noticed, "Me, Syno, and 'Los are taking your place. Your turn in this
fucking mess!."

Jon looked at Asher and nodded, and Jon received one in return as Asher hit behind a stack of
barrels. Footsteps echoed through the hold, while Jon hovered his hand above the hilt his side-
sword.

Jon covered his face and hair with cloth, similar to how Ryto had his and looked down, knowing
his eyes may give him away. Luckily, the lantern was inside the slave pen. Covering Jon in
darkness with only enough light to see shapes of men. "Ryto! Where is Tylo?" Jon pointed to the
iron door, and the three laughed. Jon stood slowly as the first knocked on the door and started
mocking Tylo, "Letting the ship do the work for you? You lazy shit."

The door cracked open, light spilling into the dark hold, and the man gurgled as a dirk pierced
through the throat. The other two staggered back, and Jon stabbed one in the back and through the
heart as he held his mouth. Asher gutted the other, pushing him back towards the wall.

Thunder roiled as the man groaned in pain. Jon moved quickly and covered the dying man's
mouth, and his wide eyes emanated terror, and Jon didn't look away as the life left his eyes. Forty
more at most.

Jon turned and opened the door and handed out the dead men's weapons. Three hatchets, a few
more dirks, and some more knives. They were soon armed one way or another, and Jon looked at
them all, then noticed Asher, who was pale-faced.

"Asher, if you are going to be sick, do it now. Get it out of your body as there will be more death
tonight." Asher turned to the corner and vomited for half a minute before standing back up, looking
a little more steady. A ridiculous thought passed his mind. He was probably the youngest of his
gathered group, yet they hung on his command.

"When we move up, me and Asher and three of the women will move toward the crew quarters,
and Adar and Gyl will clear out the galley with two more. The rest follow us as best you can. Do
not hesitate, kill any you come across and try to do so quietly if possible."

The thunder was so loud they all flinched. "We need to delay them knowing we are free for as long
as possible."

They all nodded, but Jon felt apprehension and fought it from showing. They were still severely
outnumbered, and if the rest were still armed like the dead men, this would be a short fight. He was
about to turn when Jorcho stepped through the door, his three-fingered hand was bandaged but
bloody. "Jor, stay inside, keep the children safe," Jon said in Valyrian.

Jor glared at him and shut the door behind him, "I have more a reason to kill these bastards than
you do, Toli." A dozen arguments sprung to Jon's mind. His pain will slow him, his blood loss
would compromise him. He had never swung a blade. Instead, Jon just nodded and turned to the
ladder and climbed up to the crew quarters.
It was oddly serene while the heavy rain shuddered against the hull, and shouts of men above them
became more evident. It was interrupted by a white flash from where the ladder led to the deck. A
loud clap of thunder came soon after.

Asher came behind him, as did Yrna and two others. The two Braavosi were next and shuffled to
the galley. Jon moved forward quietly but with a determined purpose. A crash was heard behind
them as well as a muffled scream. Jon ignored it, hoping his men had taken care of whoever it
was.

Four pirates appeared from seemingly nowhere, and Jon didn't think and struck hard and fast,
hoping he could rely on those with him. It was sloppy and quick, but Jon felt like a warrior again as
he killed one, then another. He got his sword out of the second's chest when he turned to the next
one, but Asher and Yrna had taken care of the others.

"Gather the weapons and hand them to the others. We have but a few-"

"Slaves!" Jon turned to see a younger pirate sopping wet and struggling to get his blade free as he
yelled as loud as he could.

Jon said nothing but starred with cold fury and charged the young man. Another bright flash and
clap of thunder swallowed the young pirate's scream as he died without drawing his blade.

Jon grabbed it and now held two swords. Then he saw four men rush down the ladder, weapons
ensheathed, and soaked to the bone. Jon recognized two of the men as those that had visited Yrna
the night before.

A flash of dark red hair moved forward before he could and rushed them. Jon joined her moments
later with a burst of steel on steel. Jon stabbed one in the gut and another man in the leg, who was
finished by someone else. The four were dead, and only one of the older freefolk women suffered a
significant injury.

Thirty- one at most.

Jon started to go up the ladder to the main deck but saw Yrna yelling and stabbing the already
bloody corpse repeatedly.
He wanted to stop, wanted to pull her away as the dead man's chest was opened by dozens of cuts
before she started to work on the head. But Jon had more to kill and felt the bitter rain and harsh
wind bite into him. Two of the freefolk women rushed ahead of him as he stood frozen on the
steps.

Then the bright hammer of an angry god rent the night apart with a flash of light and a crack of
thunder. Time itself stopped as Jon was rendered blind and deaf as he stumbled on the wooden
steps.

It was a breath or an hour when Jon's vision returned, and as the dull ringing in his ear subsided, he
was overwhelmed by the cacophony of shouts and the red flame battling against cold rain.

Jon climbed onto the deck and saw the two freefolk that rushed ahead, both were pierced by shards
of wood. One had three in the chest, and the other had one in the leg.

Jon examined the source and saw that the main mast had a red stripe of fire through the wood. The
sails that were gathered at the top were aflame, and Jon saw some of the riggings were as well. A
few men struggled down them quickly as others on the deck, five or more, fared no better than the
two freefolk, while the rest scrambled away some bearing wounds, but all were dazed.

Jon thought he heard the sound of thunder, and Jon grabbed Yrna, who had rushed to get past him.
Jon ducked in fear for another bolt of lightning. However, the noise wasn't thunder, but of wood
splitting, as Jon watched in horror and fascination as what was left of the tall mast split and fell
sideways into the sea below. The entire ship lurched to the side, dragged by the weight of the mast.
Jon threw himself and Yrna to the ground as rigging, keeping the mast attached to the boat pulled
and snapped apart as the cries of a few pirates were swallowed by the waves, and the ship lurched
in the opposite direction free of dead weight. A spray of water crashed over them and seemed to
douse any remaining flames.

Jon looked up to see fifteen or so pirates who were already starting to recover, and then he saw
Ventarro standing tall, shouting and giving orders.

The rain was starting to lessen, but the wind still howled. Lightning exploded in the distance, and
the thunder bellowed soon after.

Jon got to his feet as the last sound of thunder faded and turned to those below deck, still finding
their feet. His voice was steady as he shouted. "The storm is on our side! Take this gift and earn
your freedom!"
Although they were still a bit dazed, they gave a riotous shout, and Jon turned to the pirates, who
had finally noticed the brazen cries. Jon locked eyes with Ventarro, who paused his orders, then
shouted something that was carried away by the wind, still staring at him.

Jon found the box filled with his hate, frustration, and anger at what had been done to him, to
Cason, to Jor, to his fellow Demons, and opened it and let it take over every thought and action.

Two men were close and met him with nothing but dirks, and Jon felt his muscles readjust to long-
forgotten practice, while his foes' tired limbs were slow and unsteady. He took one man's hand and
sliced through another's ribs before finishing them off as the deck continued to sway, and the dead
bodies rolled aside. Jon looked around at the chaos in the rain and could barely make out what he
thought was Ventarro. The man disappeared into his cabin with three others. Someone cried in
pain, and Jon saw one woman stabbed through the chest, and Jon rushed the man responsible, who
died with two red gashes across his torso and steel in his mouth.

Jon took a moment and saw two other freefolk women cut down, but not before severely injuring
their attackers who were finished by Asher. Jon turned to find another opponent and saw Yrna
engaged and backpedaling away from a man with a wooden splinter embedded into his left arm.

Jon started to move when something crashed into him from above, and he fell hard against the slick
deck as the man, who must have jumped from the rigging of one of the other masts, yelled curses
in a foreign tongue. Jon lost his grip on his swords and rolled away from his attacker.

The man who jumped him scrambled to his feet and unsheathed a dagger. Jon rubbed away the
rain from his eyes the best he could as a knife thrust down towards him. Jon caught the man's arm
and felt the skin tear on his forearm. Jon growled and rammed his forehead into the man's nose,
stunning him. Jon quickly thrust the man's own knife into his neck and released the corpse as
lightning flashed again, showing the hollowness of the man's eyes.

Jon looked up and saw one of his swords on the slick deck. Jon started to move to it when another
pirate swung his blade. He dodged the best he could but felt the cut across his chest, slicing his
soaked gambeson and a creating line of pain underneath.

The man positioned himself for a thrust through the heart, and Jon readied to charge him regardless
when someone flared across his vision and tackled the man. Jorcho, bloody and screaming, took
the man to the ground. Jon rushed over as the two struggled against the dirk Jor was trying to
impale the man with. The bloody stump where Jorcho's fingers should have been were bleeding
and mixed with the rain as it seeped into the man's eyes. Jon stomped on the man's head with as
much force as he could muster. Then he did it again and again, as Jor's knife finally punctured the
man's chest.

"Fucking bastard!" Jorcho screamed as Jon got him back to his feet. Jon gathered his sword and
surveyed the bloodshed. Bodies littered the main deck, the blood made thin from the rain washing
it away. Two more pirates interrupted him. Both were injured, one with a splinter in the leg and
another with a gash across his head. Jon advanced, and unfortunately, so did Jorcho as the young
man barely parried a slash before Jon grabbed him and thrust him back out of the way.

The two advanced, and Jon struggled to fend them off as they were much more skilled than the
others. He retreated, and the two pushed their advantage of numbers, forcing him to work through
the pain in his chest, back, and forearm. He received another cut on the left arm, and Jon saw a
flicker of disappointment flash across their faces as it didn't affect him. Jon gave a feral smile as
the pain just fed his anger. The deck rolled beneath them, causing them to lose their footing, and
Jon lunged desperately at the one on the left. His blade slipped past the guard and pierced the
man's gut. Jon turned as the other found his footing, but a sword split the man's skull, and blood
and brain spilled to the deck as Asher raised Jon to his feet.

"Snow!" Asher shouted, "We've almost done it!"

"How many do we have left!"

"Seven of ours dead! Six wounded, but can still fight!" Before Jon could ask about the pirates,
Asher continued, "Most of theirs dead!"

"Ventarro?"

At that moment, Ventarro and three others walked out of the cabin. Ventarro held only his sword as
the others bore shields and short swords. Ventarro wore a doublet and chainmail loosely thrown
over it and donned a steel half helm while brandishing his Valyrian Steel weapon . The black blade
became more apparent as the rain started to lessen its pounding, and the grey clouds began to give
way to an evening sky.

Jon looked around and found a boarding ax and held it in his left arm, and tightened his grip on the
sword in his right. Jon moved forward with Asher and two women, one of the sailors and Jorcho,
who ran straight to Ventarro, but slipped on the deck covered in gore and rain.

Jon met one of the pirates who struck at his left shoulder, and he parried it desperately. He then
used the ax to hook the rim of the shield and pull it down. The man thrust the blade again at his
head, and Jon took it roughly on the hilt while angling his own sword into the man's neck as one of
his freefolk stuck him in the side. Jon disengaged to see Ventarro's Valyrian steel blade decapitate
one of the Braavosi sailors, Aradaridos.

"Ventarro!" Jon shouted at him as he advanced, but Asher attacked before he could as one of
Ventarro's lieutenants charged him. Jon stepped back and slipped on the deck, his foot moving
further than he intended. Jon fell to a knee, and the pirate swung too eagerly, and Jon lunged
sideways and swung his ax, which connected with the man's side. However, the man still thrust his
blade, and Jon felt it slice into his own doublet and cut his shoulder.

Jon yelled in pain, and in frustration, he gave a wild swing, like a butcher cutting a side of beef and
buried his sword in the man's head so deep Jon couldn't remove it.

Jon heard a cry of anguish as Asher stumbled to his knee, as a gash had opened in his thigh.
Ventarro raised his blade to finish Asher, but Jorcho intercepted him with nothing but his dirk.
Ventarro laughed darkly as the winds started to calm enough that Jon could hear the man's words,
"The son of a whore!"

Jorcho slashed once, and Ventarro contemptuously knocked it to the side and kicked Jorcho back.
"The son of the women who sucked my cock eagerly, begging me to fuck her to ' spare her
children.'"

Jorcho cried out in anger as Jon looked around and tried to pull the ax free from the dead pirate's
side. Ventarro's voice carried again, drawing Jon's attention back. "No memory of your mother's
mouth will spare you now, boy!" Jon pulled desperately at the ax, and it finally gave way.

Jorcho yelled again and lashed out, but the slash was futile, and Ventarro headbutted the boy hard.
Jorcho was about to slump when Ventarro held him up. Jon started to move with desperation.
Ventarro pointed at Jon with the sword and spoke in Jorcho's ear loud enough for Jon to hear.
"When you see your father! Tell him what I have done."

Ventarro shoved the boy back and thrust his sword through Jorcho's stomach, and the end of the
blade burst from his friend's back.

"NO!" Jon screamed as his vision went red. He charged madly, gripping the boarding ax with two
hands. Ventarro, who was holding Jorcho to him, tried to wrench the blade free, but like a vice,
Jorcho's hand gripped the hilt, keeping the sword in his body.
Jon was steps away when Ventarro realized what was happening, and his confident, arrogant,
angry eyes widened in fear, and Jorcho's head lifted, the faint words carrying to Jon, "Die with me,
muña qogra." Ventarro let go of the hilt and scrambled for the knife at his side.

The captain raised his hand, but Jon's ax cut threw it and bit into Ventarro's doublet and chainmail.
Jon kicked him to the ground and wrenched it free, some blood came with it as Ventarro gurgled a
cry in pain.

Jon said nothing but bellowed like a demon as he raised his ax again and slammed it down, and
Ventarro choked on blood trying to speak, and the memory of Evrett dying in his arms came to
him. Jon repeated the motion and saw Vimeras dead on the deck. He swung again, and there was
Sylvar with a knife in his eye. Then Haro, with his throat gone and Brachen dead with bolts
through his body.

Jon was a woodsman cutting lumber, but instead, he split skin and bone. Jon continued screaming
in frustration as his dead friends, the freefolk women, and Marcelino's family flashed through his
mind, bringing nothing but pain, and he released it all into his ax as it slammed down, again and
again. The light rain and warm-blood splattered him in equal measure, but Jon didn't notice. He
only continued his grisly work as his own pain wouldn't end.

"Jon," someone said behind him, but he didn't catch it. As the ruined corpse below him looked
more and more like meat for a stew. Jon didn't care. Even as the ax thudded against the wooden
deck.

Then a hand touched his shoulder, and Jon turned, yelling and raising his ax, but saw Asher
standing there. He was terrified, pale, and flinched back from Jon. The rage and anger left him as
he saw the dead around him. The Freefolk women that were left were injured and gathering the
others that were still alive. He saw Yrna, covered in blood going around to the pirates and stabbing
them in the chest for good measure. Gyl, the last Braavosi sailor, stared mutely at the slaughter.
Jon's eyes then landed on Jor, who had a sword through his gut, breathing raggedly and looking
back at him.

Jon didn't even look at Asher as he pushed him aside, "Stop Yrna from killing any more prisoners
and tie them, we need to search the ship for any remaining crew." Jon didn't wait for an answer and
knelt down next to Jorcho, who continued to look at him, then Jor smiled weakly.

"I-I'm s-sorry," Jon sputtered.

 Jorcho tried to laugh, but a gurgle came out instead, "I-, It's my own fault." He looked at Ventarro,
or what was left of Ventarro, "Gl-glad, I helped kill the fu-fucker." Then he looked at Jon, all joy
gone from his eyes. "Find," he coughed and tried to sit up, "Find, my family."

Jon grabbed his hand, "You'll be-"

Jorcho coughed again, interrupting him, blood coming from his mouth as he closed his eyes.

Jon sat down and stared at his friend, someone else he tried to protect, someone he had failed to
keep alive. Again .

Jon buried the ax into the deck and walked to the railing to collect himself. Jon wiped his face.
There were no more tears, only blood.

Chapter End Notes

Well, that was a long painful road and Jon still has work to do. That wasn't the most
fun arc to read or write and boy howdy that took longer than I intended (yes I
understand that's a running issue for me, I'm working on it I promise).

Anyway, some bad news, work has been kicking my ass and I haven't done much
writing over the past few weeks so it may be a while before you get another chapter.

Thanks again for everyone who has kept reading! It means a lot that you all have
chosen to even give this story any of your time!

Shout out to my helpful beta's :

Topone
BronzeTitan
MarvellousFaery

They have given me some great feedback have fics of their own so please support
them as well!

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!