Chapter 6 – Blood and Warnings
The courtyard lay hushed before dawn, its wide slabs glazed with a thin sheen of frost, glinting like glass in the flickering torchlight. Above, the towers loomed, shadows stretching long over Winterfell's keep as the last stars faded behind a soft gray veil of cloud. The banners hung still, caught in the breathless cold, while below the ramparts the great convoy stirred to life like a beast awakening from slumber.
I stood at the threshold of Father's study, arms folded against the chill, watching as the mass of caravans prepared to march north.
There were nearly two hundred and fifty wagons in total, arrayed in careful columns like a slow-moving army of industry. Some bore plate mail, new-forged, burnished to a dull shine, stamped with black direwolves on the breast. These were meant for the Watch's new cadre of rangers and officers, no more patched mail scavenged from corpses or centuries-old armor too rusted to mend. The swords that accompanied them, three and a half thousand longswords and arming swords forged in the Blackworks, were bundled in oiled leather, ready for immediate use. Alongside them lay racks of pikes tipped with dark iron for wall defenses, and dozens of heavy crossbows and ballistae, destined for the towers and gates of Castle Black.
The barrels of purified steel arrowheads would be distributed among the ranging parties, sharper and better balanced than anything they'd used before—capable of piercing wildling leathers, or the bones of darker things if it came to it, used in the more than two thousand fast-draw crossbows. Bolts of canvas, tightly rolled and tarred against the weather, were marked for new tents, windbreaks, and outer fortifications beyond the Wall—temporary shelters where no warmth would reach but the walls of black cloth.
Barrels of salted pork and beef stood stacked three high, beside baskets of dried beans and hardtack bread—supplies meant to last the winter and feed not only the brothers of the Watch, but the new builders and craftsmen Jon had quietly arranged to send. There were barrels of pickled vegetables, smoked fish, and fruit preserved in vinegar, all carefully rationed for long-term storage at cold temperatures. A few crates bore Winterfell's seal and were marked for the sick and wounded: willowbark, poppy milk, powdered sage, clean linen, iron tongs, and stitched bandages.
Behind them came wagons of treated lumber, long pine beams, carved and measured for palisades, scaffoldings, stairs, and repaired walkways atop the Wall. More wood had been cut from the Wolfswood and seasoned in preparation; it would be used to reinforce the crumbling towers at Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower, where the old wood had turned soft and rotten and rebuild the ones that have already collapsed. Resinous pitch in sealed clay urns would waterproof the beams and help line the fire trenches in front of The Wall, trenches meant not for warmth, but for burning things that might crawl through the snow.
Bales of wool and fur, woolen cloaks, leather gloves, padded underarmor, and new boots—all sewn or cobbled in the North—were stacked in heavy bundles. Ghost would've howled if he smelled the mountain of treated hides behind the linen wrappings.
And then there were the barrels of whiskey. Not the sweet kind brewed for feasting, but the bitter, biting spirits distilled in Winterfell's new cellars. The Watch would use it to dull pain, clean wounds, or perhaps to barter with wildlings, if my instincts proved right. Some would see it as luxury, but I knew better—it was survival in liquid form.
Pure alcohol to prevent infection, the distilleries are already proving their worth.
At the very rear, under guarded tarpaulins, were the first shipments of experimental goods from the Blackworks: mechanical winches, and a small forge designed to be transported and reassembled at Castle Black. They were still in their infancy, but Jon had plans. Small carts loaded with siege hooks, new chains, and spools of northern rope stood ready beside them—tools to secure pulleys or build lifts along the face of the Wall. When trouble comes, the Watch would not face it with torches and prayers alone.
Hundreds of men moved about, engineers barking orders, blacksmiths tightening straps and chains, wagon drivers checking wheel grease, carpenters hammering down last crates, laborers swinging sacks onto their backs or balancing loads atop carts. The yard echoed with the low murmur of voices, boots on stone, the clank of chain on steel and iron.
More than a thousand tons of supplies… and it's just the first caravan, hopefully many more will follow.
Their breaths fogged the air like smoke.
Later, those sounds would rise north, to the foot of The Wall and the frostbitten ramparts of Castle Black.
One thing at a time, first this talk, tomorrow the supplies.
"Come in, Jon," Father said, even before I reached the door.
His voice, calm and low, carried a weight that tugged at the air. When I stepped into the study, I found him standing beside the tall window, one hand pressed to the dark wood of the desk, as though steadying himself. The light from the lanterns cast long shadows across the stone walls, throwing the outlines of maps, scrolls, and old swords into a flickering dance. His frame, usually so certain, looked smaller somehow—drawn, like the taut strings of a bow left too long under tension. There was resolve in his posture, but grief too.
Father motioned to a chair. I hesitated, glancing out the window first. Beyond the thick glass, the last wagons of the supply convoy rumbled through the courtyard gates. Their wheels ground against the frost-slick stone, steel-bound and heavy. Riders in wolf-cloaks flanked the column. Smoke plumes rose from chimneys and torches guttered in the wind. It looked like something from a song: the North, armed and proud.
"I wanted to speak to you before I left," he said, voice quieter than before.
I crossed the room and slowly lowered myself into the offered chair. The carved armrests were cold beneath my fingers. "I assume it's about the convoy," I said.
He shook his head. "Not just that."
My stomach tightened. I steeled my voice. "It's about my name. And the lands."
"Yes."
The lanternlight trembled, flickering against his face. He turned, pacing slightly, hands clasped behind his back like a commander before a campaign. "You've heard the rumors of why I gave you land. Why I asked to legitimize you."
"I have," I said. My voice didn't waver. "But I'd rather hear the truth from your lips."
He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Good. Because you deserve the truth. You deserve it—for what you are and what you've done."
A sudden tightness clenched my throat. I said nothing.
"You've seen Winterfell change, Jon. You made it change. The Blackworks, the distilleries, the fields, the rice, the towers and supply lines—it all carries your mark. But it's more than that. None of it would mean anything if the people of the North didn't believe you belonged here. That your name means something."
He reached to his desk and lifted a scroll bound in black ribbon and a map. The seal was his own: the direwolf of Stark in dark wax.
"Moat Cailin stands in your name. Lands from the Saltspear to The Bite to the headwaters of the Fever. You are the lord of those lands, as long as the North endures."
My eyes swept over the map stretched across the table, its thick parchment grooved with the creases of age and use. But this time, his gaze was not aimless. My name was there now—etched in ink and intent—along the Fever River's course, and lines demarked my new lands. From the salty shores of the Saltspear to the jagged inlet of the Bite, nearly three hundred miles from sea to sea, and a hundred miles to both sides of the Fever River. Forest, marshland, and fertile lands fell beneath the boundary lines that defined my domain. The river carved its path eastward, threading through hills, hollows and marshes until it vanished into the sea, where the springs were born from stone and snow. The territory was vast—larger than most southern kingdoms' fiefs, with enough holdfasts, crofts, and villages to demand bannermen of his own. It hit him slowly: this was not a token gift. It was a command that rivaled the power of Karhold, or Last Hearth, or even the Dreadfort. Jon Snow—no, Jon Stark—was now a lord in truth.
This makes me a major lord of the North.
I was now the owner of the rice farms and had tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of people that flocked to the area with the fields, the rebuilding of the moat and all the projects being done in the area. Now I must develop that potential.
My hands trembled slightly as I took the scroll. Its weight was modest, but the meaning behind it felt like iron. My voice came as a whisper:
"Father... thank you."
The words weren't enough. Not even close. But they were all I had. I looked down at the rolled parchment in my palm—tied with black and grey ribbon, sealed with the direwolf sigil of House Stark. It didn't feel real. Even after everything I'd done, everything I'd fought for and bled toward, part of me still thought this was something he'd take back. That the old cold silence between us would return, that the man before me would revert to that careful, quiet distance he always wore like a second cloak.
But he didn't.
Ned Stark just stood there, eyes on me, not like a liege lord looking upon a bannerman—but like a father seeing his son for the first time in full. Something shifted in his face. Something unguarded, rare, almost vulnerable. He took a slow breath and said, "I should have said it sooner."
My brows furrowed.
"Said what?"
He crossed the room, no longer stiff-backed or formal, just a man whose duty had carried too many silences. "That I am proud of you, Jon. That I have always been."
The words hit like a hammer blow. They shouldn't have undone me, but they did. My throat tightened.
He continued, quieter now. "You've never made things easy. Gods know I didn't make it easy either. I thought—perhaps foolishly—that if I kept you at arm's length, I could protect you. From whispers. From questions. From the truth."
I didn't speak. I couldn't. My heart pounded in my chest like it wanted to escape.
"I know what people said," he went on, voice low. "About you. About me. About your mother. I know what I made you carry without answer. And still you rose above it. You never once brought shame to my name. Not once. You bore every wound and doubt with more grace than I did."
I stared at him, the same way I had a hundred times as a child—hoping for some sign of warmth, of acknowledgment. And now that it was here, I didn't know how to hold it.
"I…" My voice cracked. I clenched my jaw and tried again. "Even when we fought, even when I hated your silence—when I thought you chose Robb, or the name Stark, or your own pride over me—you were always there when it mattered. You had the right words when no one else did. Maybe you weren't always kind, but you were steady. And I needed that more than I knew."
He exhaled. "I was afraid, Jon. Afraid that if I loved you too openly-" His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him—wet with held-back storms. "You are my son in every way that matters. I raised you. I watched you grow. You are blood of my blood, and I would have died for you a thousand times over if that could've protected you."
Something sharp and old inside me cracked—something I hadn't let myself look at in years. I'd spent so long pretending I didn't need to hear those words. Pretending that being strong meant being self-made, self-hardened, untouched by the quiet ache of a boy who had longed for his father's pride. Because of all this… I didn't bring up how his words could be constructed to me not being his son.
I had never been a Stark in name, and still he'd given me everything else, his discipline, his lessons, his look when I failed, his rare approval when I didn't. Even his silences were a kind of love, measured and aching.
I wiped at the corner of my eye before it could betray me. "You didn't have to give me Moat Cailin. Or your name."
He shook his head. "No. I didn't do it out of obligation. I did it because you've earned more than I ever gave. And because I am tired of watching the world pretend you are less than you are. Let them see what I see. Let them know what I know."
His voice was hoarse now. "You are the best of me, of us, Jon."
I looked away, because I couldn't look at him and keep my composure. The scroll in my hand felt like it was burning now. I let out a breath, thick with everything I wanted to say and couldn't.
So instead, I whispered, "I will make you proud." I will keep everyone safe.
"You already have."
The fire crackled softly beside us, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Ghost lay curled near the door, his red eyes half-closed, but watching.
A long moment passed between us. The space felt full now, not empty. Not like all the years before. This was not duty. This was not command. This was something harder. Something truer.
I stepped forward, uncertain for a heartbeat—then I reached out and pulled him into a brief, rough embrace. He stiffened, startled, but only for a breath. Then his hand came up and rested against my back, firm and quiet. No words. No grand gesture. Just presence. Solid and real. When we stepped apart, neither of us said anything more about this moment. We didn't need to.
He inclined his head. "This unrest in the South, it may become more than words. More than daggers in the dark. You have the right to brace your land. To protect your people."
"I will," I said, glancing again to the flickering silhouettes of the last wagons vanishing beyond the gate.
"Come," he said.
We stepped into the corridor. The cold stone greeted us like an old friend. The echoes of the departing caravan faded behind us, clatter of hooves, shouted commands, the jangle of steel-bound casks. Ahead of us stretched a different silence: the quiet of parting, of things left unsaid.
"Jon," he said gently. "I've heard from Robb you wanted you ask me to come south with me—to serve in King's Landing."
I cut in before he could finish. I had prepared this speach "Yes... I thought I could help. The court. The politics. You know I can navigate them better than you, I can guide you. My knowledge—"
He stopped and turned to me. "You could help. You will. But not there. Not now. The North needs you. Moat Cailin needs you. The Watch needs you. Let me handle the snakes of King's Landing. You're needed here, where your strength matters more than your blood."
I swallowed the disappointment, even though I knew he would reject the proposal, nodded slowly. "I will not be idle." You can't have Rhaegar's son in the capital can't you?
His hand came to rest on my shoulder. The pressure was light, but it steadied me. "I know."
Ghost brushed against my leg again, circling once, as if sensing the strain in our voices. His red eyes met mine briefly before he padded down the hall, a silent shadow.
I drew a breath. "Father... the Lannisters."
He tensed. "What about them?"
"I can't prove anything," I said, slowly. "But I've seen things. Bits and pieces. Jaime's gaze is too calculating. Queen Cersei's too measured. I've felt it. They are snakes, you can't trust them."
He didn't scoff, didn't dismiss it. Instead he nodded. "I've sensed it too."
"And Petyr Baelish," I went on. "He plays both sides. Too eager to be useful. He has too many webs and no loyalty. I've heard whispers from the merchants —he's tied to brothels, debts, rumors."
Ned Stark's gaze darkened. "So, he's dangerous, but clever. A man like that survives because others ignore him."
"Don't ignore him," I said. "Use him if you must. But never trust him. Don't trust anyone."
"I won't," he said quietly.
A pause. We both knew what I wanted to ask next, and yet... the outcome was already decided.
I took another breath. "Father... my mother."
His expression changed. Not hardened. Softened. His mouth opened, then closed again.
"You may have my name now Jon.," he said at last, "And you carry my blood. That's more than most bastards ever get."
I nodded slowly. "It's enough. For now." I knew that if I pressed him it would end up in a fight like the last time. I can't have that after mending bridges like this…
He looked as though he wanted to say more. But he didn't. Instead, his hand returned to my shoulder, and we stood there, two men bound by secrets neither wholly chose.
"Go north, Jon, supervise the convoy to the wall and the repairs in Castle Black." he said. "Then make Moat Cailin a fortress worthy of its name. Keep Winterfell safe. Keep Rickon and my wife safe. Advise Robb like you always have. Keep the North ready."
"I will," I said.
He met my gaze, unblinking. "Be wise. Be strong."
"I will."
We embraced again, and in another life this would be one of the last times we saw each other, but not this one, I would make sure of it.
I watched him turn away, his cloak a shadow beneath the torchlight.
I clenched the scroll in my hand.
Winter is coming.
The yard was chaos.
Horses snorted and stamped as stable boys rushed to harness them. Wagons creaked under the weight of steel and timber. Lannister guards barked orders with the easy arrogance only red cloaks could manage so far from home, while Stark men worked quietly alongside them, flashing looks but saying nothing. Snow crunched underfoot, muddied from the endless comings and goings.
I stood near the line of wagons marked with the direwolf of Stark and the black crow of the Night's Watch. Each one stacked with crates of swords, spears, shields, furs, chainmail, and barrels of preserved food— my doing.
I had spent weeks on this. Pulling favors. Talking to Garrick, Seren and the smiths. Trading excess lumber from the wolfswood for better ore. Bargaining with merchants to secure hardened oats and dried meat. Lord Stark had signed the orders, but it was me who had written them, organized them, driven the effort forward.
In canon, the Watch had been a starving shadow of itself.
Not anymore.
"You sure they're not for your own little rebellion?" Tyrion asked from beside him, sipping mulled wine and watching the caravan. "Hundreds of these big steel reinforced wagons of yours," he said. "You'd think the Night's Watch was planning to invade the South."
"Only if the South forgets what's coming from the North."
He sipped, then smiled. "You sound almost like a Stark now. Grim, ominous, entirely without punchlines."
"You've been too long in the capital. Here, people mean what they say."
"An unfortunate habit," he muttered. "No wonder you all wear so much fur—must keep the honesty from freezing your bones."
I let out a breath, not quite a laugh.
He peered at me sidelong. "You've done something remarkable here. That shipment will buy the Watch another generation—perhaps a future."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe it just means they'll die slower."
Tyrion studied me, and something sharpened in his gaze. "You carry too much weight for your years. It's almost unnatural."
I glanced down at him. "And you drink too much wine for your height."
"Touché," he said, grinning. "But I'm not wrong. You walk like a man ten years older. Maybe twenty."
"Bastards grow twice as fast in mind and three times bigger beneath the pants."
He laughed and kicked me in the leg. At least the journey north wont be boring with Tyrion there.
The farewells began soon after.
Arya found me just as I was checking the final wagon. One moment I was speaking with Arren about saddle straps, and the next, a missile of wool and fury slammed into my ribs.
"You promised," she muttered into my chest, her voice breaking, her fists clenched into the back of my cloak like she could hold me there by force of will.
I froze. Just for a second. Then I wrapped my arms around her and held her close, tighter than I should have. She smelled like leather and fresh pine. Like Winterfell. Like home.
"I know," I whispered. "And I meant it."
"You said you wouldn't go far. And now you're staying, and we're leaving."
Her voice trembled, but she didn't cry. Arya never cried. She just held on, defiant to the end, as if daring the world to take one more thing from her.
"I'll be here when you come back," I said, pulling back to look her in the eyes. "And I'll write. You won't even have time to miss me before you're back in the yard yelling at me."
"I don't yell," she lied.
I reached beneath my cloak and pulled out the bundle I'd hidden all morning, wrapped in grey fur and tied with a leather cord.
Her eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
I handed it to her. "Open it."
She did, fast and impatient, unwrapping the fur with calloused fingers and holding the blade reverently once it was revealed. A short sword. Slim, pointed, made for piercing rather than slashing. Black leather hilt. Northern steel.
Her breath caught. "You made this?"
I nodded. "Sansa has her Needles and now you have yours. It's light. Quick. Suits you."
Arya turned it in her hands with something like awe. "She's perfect."
"She's yours," I said. "Stick them with the pointy end."
She laughed, but it was cracked, raw at the edges. Then she hugged me again, harder this time, tighter, like she could brand the memory of me into her bones.
"You better not die," she whispered fiercely. "Or I'll find you and kill you again."
I kissed the top of her head. "Deal."
Bran was waiting on the steps of the keep, getting ready to leave.
"I thought I'd see you before we left," he said. "Arya said you were hiding in the armory."
"Not hiding. Making things." I knelt in front of him and pulled out a Steel long sword, a bit thinner than most, but with a mean edge. "For you."
His eyes widened. "Really?"
"It's not Valyrian, or magic, or anything like that. Just steel. But it's real. And it's yours, every warrior needs a sword."
Bran took it carefully, as though it might break in his hands. "I'll practice every day."
"I know you will."
He smiled, and it was wide and bright and proud. "I'll be a knight someday."
I swallowed the ache in my throat. "You'll be the greatest of the seven kingdoms, they will whisper your name in the same breath as Barristan and Arthur Dayne, the next time we see each other I hope you are able to beat me, little brother."
He threw his arms around me. I held him for as long as I dared.
Sansa came last.
She approached like she was walking through court—spine straight, chin high, every gesture polished until it gleamed. There were guards and ladies-in-waiting behind her, but they kept a respectful distance.
"Jon," she said with a small curtsy. "I'm glad we had a chance to say goodbye."
So formal. So distant. And yet… I could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
"I have something for you," I said. I opened a small wooden box and held it out.
She blinked and stepped closer. Inside, a delicate necklace rested on velvet—silver strands woven with lapis and moonstone. The colors of House Stark and the cold northern skies.
Her hand hesitated, then lifted the necklace from its bed. "It's beautiful."
"You always liked pretty things," I said softly. "This one comes from home."
She didn't smile exactly, but her mouth twitched, and her fingers traced the stones like they meant more than she could say.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Truly."
I inclined my head. "Be careful in King's Landing, Sansa. The courtiers there smile with their teeth."
She gave a small, weary nod. "I'm not a child anymore."
"No," I said. "But you will always be my little sister."
I hugged her even if it wasn't proper in her mind. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, just a moment, I saw the little girl who used to braid Arya's hair and cry when snow melted. I wanted to say more, to warn her, to beg her to stay, but the words died in my throat.
There was nothing more to say.
Gods I hope I can change things.
I stood on the battlements as they disappeared into the snow-dusted horizon.
Wheels cracked over rutted ice. Horses kicked up cold earth. The banners—Baratheon's stag, Lannister's lion, Stark's direwolf—whipped and tangled in the wind like omens. From up here, the procession looked like a creature dragging itself to war.
And maybe it was.
Below, the forges still burned. Men shouted. Chains clinked. The last of the crates bound for the Wall were being sealed and marked. I watched it all as if from a great distance, like I was floating behind my own eyes.
I should have felt proud.
Instead, I felt… haunted.
I'd changed the path, bent the future, stocked the Wall and saved lives not yet lost, but the Game was still in motion. The pieces still moving.
Ned Stark would go south. And if I didn't intervene, he would still die.
He told me to stay. Told me to take care of things here. Told me to let go.
But I wouldn't. I couldn't.
He was my father—even if he wasn't. And I was done letting good men die while I kept my silence.
I walked back down into the blackworks, where the smoke stung your eyes and everything was shaped by fire. Garrick gave me a thumbs-up from the far end of the forge. He was shaping a double-headed axe now, big and brutal, too fine for common use.
He was getting better. We all were.
I watched the last crate get sealed. Marked for Castle Black. It would be weeks before we arrived. But when the Wall stood its last stand, they'd have more than rusted swords and empty bellies.
In the days before the royal procession left Winterfell, I'd spoken with a handful of those I trusted. People I met in my work for the north, capable and loyal. Quiet conversations, always in passing, always veiled in other matters. I couldn't afford to speak plainly—not yet. But the time was right to begin.
Seren had been the first. He understood instinctively what I was trying to build. He was Northern, but sharp in ways the lords overlooked—literate, patient, good with people. He asked all the right questions, and he didn't flinch when I spoke of long roads and hard change. I told him what I needed: someone to begin organizing the land around Moat Cailin, someone to take the bones of a dead stronghold and breathe life into it.
"I need more than a banner," I said to him. "I need roads. Mills. Training yards. A place that doesn't just hold the Neck—but feeds and arms the North. We have talked extensively about this Seren, and you have everything you will need in these books. You know what to do land divisions and reform, settlement incentives, four field crop rotation, steel ploughs, watchtowers, the bones of a bureaucracy to handle everything in the lands. Cort will go with you; he has his orders too."
He'd nodded without hesitation. "I'll ride tonight."
Along with him, I sent two blacksmiths, men I trusted from the Winterfell forges, and three score engineers, administrators, carpenters and stonecutters mostly, to begin laying foundations.
By the time I rode south myself, I wanted something waiting—walls rising, fields cleared, stores measured. And most of all, people. A future.
I told them to start drawing up maps of the land, listing every village and farmstead, to find the men willing to train and the boys old enough to hold a sword. An army wouldn't grow overnight, but it would grow. Not just a fighting force, but a professional one, disciplined, loyal, capable. Not beholden to fading bloodlines or feuding bannermen but bound to a purpose. Bound to do something more.
They would not fight for the old North.
They would fight for the one I intended to build.
The beginnings of my Royal Army.
I turned back toward the gates, where the dust of the procession still lingered in the cold.
I thought of Arya, brave and wild. Of Bran, so eager to fly. Of Sansa, walking headlong into a den of lions. And of Ned—burdened, noble, doomed.
They didn't know what was waiting for them. But I did.
And I wasn't going to watch them die. Ned didn't want me to go to Kings Landing? I would find an excuse to go anyway, stop Robert's death and delay the war or in the worst case get everyone out of the capital safe.
If I could save them, I would.
And if I couldn't?
Then gods help the ones who took them from me.
-END-