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Jon sat cross-legged on the window ledge of the eastern tower, his slim fingers working a small piece of leather into a sheath for his kukri knife. The blade itself lay across his lap. From this height, he could see most of Winterfell spread below him—the practice yard now half-empty, the kennels where the hounds bayed for breakfast, and the Godswood with its blood-red leaves shivering in the autumn wind.
Winterfell without Father feels different, Jon thought. Like a wolf pack missing its alpha.
The castle had changed since Lord Stark had ridden south with the northern banners. The hallways echoed differently, the servants moved with less urgency, and even the stone walls seemed to notice his absence, waiting for their lord's return.
Jon tested the edge of the kukri with his thumb, careful not to cut himself. Derek had given him this blade before he left Breakstone Hill, and Jon treasured it above all his possessions. "A knife is only as good as its owner is wise," Derek had said. Jon wasn't sure if he was wise yet, but he was learning.
A commotion from the courtyard below drew his attention. Lady Catelyn was crossing toward the Great Hall, her auburn hair gleaming copper in the morning sun. Arya, barely two years old, toddled stubbornly behind her, refusing to be carried by the nursemaid who trailed after them anxiously.
"Lady Arya, please, your mother is in a hurry!"
"NO!" Arya's defiant shriek carried up to Jon's perch, making him smile despite himself. His little sister had the wolf's blood, that much was clear.
Lady Stark's face was pinched with exhaustion and annoyance. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and Jon could see the tension in her shoulders even from this distance. With Lord Stark away and three children demanding her attention, the Lady of Winterfell looked stretched thin as parchment.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite climbing wolf."
Jon nearly dropped his knife at the sudden voice. He whirled around to find Robb grinning at him from the stairwell entrance, William Stark peeking out from behind his legs.
"Seven hells, Robb!" Jon quickly sheathed the kukri in his belt. "Don't sneak up on someone holding a blade."
"Seven hells! Seven hells!" William repeated excitedly, his eyes wide with the thrill of forbidden words.
Robb clamped a hand over the younger boy's mouth. "Now look what you've done. If Lady Dustin hears him cursing, she'll skin us both."
Jon rolled his eyes but couldn't help smiling. "What are you two doing up here anyway? Shouldn't you be at lessons with Maester Luwin?"
"He's busy with Mother about storing grain for winter." Robb shrugged, releasing William, who immediately scrambled across the room to peer out the window beside Jon. "And Lady Dustin said we were underfoot and should find somewhere else to be."
"Lady Dustin doesn't want anyone around when she's arguing with Lady Stark," Jon observed quietly.
William tugged at Jon's sleeve. "Can I see your knife? Father has a big sword. He let me touch it before he left."
Jon hesitated, noting the boy's eager expression. William looked so much like Uncle Benjen—the same long face, dark hair, and grey eyes that marked most Starks. Except Jon, with his strange purple eyes that always made Lady Stark look away quickly.
"It's not a toy," Jon said finally, remembering Derek's stern warnings about blade respect.
William's face fell. "I won't hurt it. I promise. I just want to see."
"Let him look," Robb urged. "We all know you sleep with that thing under your pillow."
"Fine," Jon relented, carefully removing the blade from his belt. He held it flat across both palms. "Look, but don't touch."
William's eyes widened with wonder. "It's crooked!"
"It's a kukri," Jon explained, feeling a strange pride. "From the mountains. It's meant to chop, not stab."
"Why would you want to chop someone?" William wrinkled his nose.
A sudden clamor of voices from below drew their attention back to the window. Lady Catelyn and Lady Barbrey were facing each other in the courtyard below.
"Uh oh," Robb muttered, pushing forward to see better. "They're at it again."
Jon shifted to make room, and all three boys peered down at the confrontation unfolding beneath them.
Lady Barbrey Dustin stood tall and angular, her dark hair streaked with iron grey and bound in a severe Northern style. Unlike Lady Catelyn's flowing gowns, she wore a practical riding dress with a fur-lined cloak clasped with the trout of House Tully.
"—my husband's absence grants you no authority over household matters, Lady Dustin," Catelyn was saying, her voice carrying up to the tower window.
"And your southern sensibilities grant you no special insight into Northern traditions, Lady Stark," Barbrey shot back. "The old gods must be honored properly if we want our men to return safely."
"I have never prevented anyone from worshiping as they choose," Catelyn replied, her tone icy. "But slaughtering a goat in the Godswood is excessive and wasteful when we need to conserve resources."
Barbrey's laugh was sharp as broken glass. "Wasteful? Your Seven may be content with pretty words and flowers, but the old gods require blood sacrifice in times of war. It is the Northern way."
"My gods?" Catelyn's voice rose slightly. "I am the Lady of Winterfell!"
"For now," Barbrey said, the words hanging in the air like frost.
Jon watched Lady Stark's face flush with anger.
"Do they hate each other?" William whispered, his grey eyes wide.
"Shhh," Robb hushed him, clearly torn between loyalty to his mother and fascination with the argument.
Jon studied both women carefully. "They're fighting over more than just gods," he murmured, more to himself than the others.
"What do you mean?" Robb asked.
Jon hesitated, organizing his thoughts. "Lady Dustin wants Winterfell to remember it's Northern. Lady Stark wants respect as its lady. They're using the gods as arrows."
Robb frowned, considering this. "You sound like Father when you talk like that."
Something cold and sharp twisted in Jon's chest. But I'm not like Father, he thought. Father would have killed that wildling woman immediately. He wouldn't have shown mercy and gotten Bella killed.
Below, the argument continued, Lady Barbrey's voice rising. "Perhaps if you spent more time in the Godswood instead of your southern sept, the gods would favor our cause more strongly!"
"The welfare of the North is always my first concern," Catelyn responded, her composure cracking slightly. "Unlike some who seem more interested in old grievances than present necessities."
Jon watched Lady Dustin's face darken. Everyone knew she still resented Lord Stark for not bringing her first husband's bones home from Dorne after Robert's Rebellion.
"Come on," Jon said suddenly, backing away from the window. "We shouldn't be listening to this."
"Why not?" William asked, still staring down in fascination. "It's interesting."
Jon returned the kukri to his belt. "Because knowing things others don't think you know can be useful later," he said, surprising himself with the thought. "But only if they don't realize you know it."
Robb gave him a strange look. "Where did you learn that?"
Jon shrugged, remembering the silent hours he'd spent watching Lord Anden negotiate with mountain clansmen at Breakstone Hill. "Just something I noticed."
"I'm hungry," William announced, apparently losing interest in the argument below. "Can we go to the kitchens? Cook promised me a honey cake if I stayed out of the storage rooms."
"You made a deal with him?" Jon asked, suddenly more interested in the five-year-old.
William nodded proudly. "He said 'stop pestering me in the store rooms and I'll give you a honey cake tomorrow.' And I did! So now he owes me."
A slow smile spread across Jon's face. "You're right, he does." He glanced at Robb. "We should make sure he keeps his word."
As they descended the tower stairs, Jon found himself watching William with new interest. The boy was young, but he already understood exchanges of promises and rewards. That could be useful.
The kitchen's warmth enveloped Jon like a cloak as he slipped through the doorway, followed closely by Robb and William. Cook Gage, a massive man with forearms thick as tree trunks, looked up from the dough he was kneading and narrowed his eyes.
"No stealing tarts today, young lords," he warned. "Lady Dustin has ordered a special supper for the household, and I'll not have fingers in my pies before they're served."
William stepped forward, chest puffed out importantly. "You promised me a honey cake if I stayed out of the storerooms. I did. Now you owe me."
Jon watched with interest as the cook's expression wavered between annoyance and amusement. It reminded him of how Derek would look when Jon had cleverly solved one of his training challenges at Breakstone Hill.
"Did I now?" Cook Gage's bushy eyebrows rose. "And when was this promise made, little lord?"
"Yesterday," William replied promptly. "When I asked what was in the big barrels, and you said 'flour and don't touch it,' and I asked what was in the sacks, and you said—"
"Aye, aye," the cook interrupted, raising floury hands in surrender. "I recall now. Persistent as a fox at a henhouse, you are."
As Cook Gage turned to fetch the promised treat, a sharp voice cut through the kitchen's warm air.
"What's this about promises and honey cakes?"
Lady Barbrey Dustin stood in the doorway, her tall frame silhouetted against the light from the corridor. The kitchen fell silent, save for the bubbling of a pot over the fire and the distant chopping of vegetables.
Jon felt Robb stiffen beside him, but he kept his own face carefully blank. Lady Dustin unnerved many at Winterfell with her direct gaze and cutting words, but Jon had faced Lord Anden's scrutiny during training. This woman was a gentle breeze compared to his great-grandfather's storm.
"My lady," Cook Gage offered a hasty bow, dusting flour from his hands. "Just settling a small debt with young Lord William."
Lady Dustin's eyes swept over the three boys, lingering longest on Jon. Unlike Lady Stark, who always seemed to look through him as if he were made of smoke, Lady Dustin's gaze was direct, assessing.
"I see," she said finally. "And does this debt interfere with preparations for tonight's supper?"
"No, my lady," the cook assured her quickly. "All is proceeding as ordered."
"Good." Lady Dustin stepped fully into the kitchen, her dark riding dress swishing against the stone floor. "Because the steward has just informed me that several Northern lords' messengers have arrived with dispatches from the war. They'll be joining us tonight."
Jon watched as the cook's demeanor transformed. Where moments before he had been ready to argue with William, now he straightened his spine and nodded deferentially.
"How many additional guests should we prepare for, my lady?"
"Five," Lady Dustin replied. Then, to everyone's surprise, she turned to Jon. "Flint. You've spent time in the mountains with Lord Flint, have you not?"
Jon blinked, startled at being directly addressed. "Yes, my lady. At Breakstone Hill."
"Good. One of the messengers is from the mountain clans. I want you to help Robb greet him properly. The mountain folk have their own ways, and I won't have them thinking Winterfell has forgotten Northern courtesy while its lord is away."
Jon felt a sudden flush of pride mixed with suspicion. "Me, my lady?"
Lady Dustin's mouth curved into what might have been a smile on another face. "Yes, you. Unless you'd prefer I ask Lady Stark to handle it?"
The subtle barb wasn't lost on Jon, young as he was. Lady Dustin knew perfectly well that Catelyn Stark would never allow Jon a formal role in welcoming guests.
"I would be honored, my lady," Jon replied carefully.
"Good." Lady Dustin turned back to the cook. "Now, about tonight's meal. The ale should be served in the stone tankards, not the wooden ones. Northmen prefer them."
"But my lady," Cook Gage protested, "the wooden ones are larger and—"
Lady Dustin raised a single finger, silencing him mid-sentence. "The stone tankards show respect for tradition. Our guests will appreciate that more than an extra swallow of ale." Her voice had shifted, becoming somehow both softer and more authoritative. "Don't you agree, Cook Gage?"
The large man's resistance melted away. "Of course, my lady. Stone tankards it is."
Jon watched, intrigued by how she had changed her approach. With him, she had been direct and challenging. With the cook, she'd used a different tone entirely—one that made her suggestion seem like the obvious choice.
Lady Dustin continued giving instructions, moving through the kitchen. Jon noticed how differently she spoke to each person—gentle encouragement for the young kitchen maid struggling with a heavy pot, blunt commands for the experienced servers, flattery for the old woman who made the best bread in Winterfell.
And they all obeyed. Not from fear, like some of the servants did with Lady Stark, but almost willingly, as if Lady Dustin had merely voiced the best idea they'd already been considering.
She wields words like Father wields Ice, Jon thought with sudden clarity. Different cuts for different purposes.
Lady Dustin finished her instructions and turned back to the boys. "As for you three, I suggest you spend the afternoon making yourselves presentable for supper. William, there's mud on your boots that I expect gone by evenfall. Robb, you'll sit at my right hand tonight as Lord Stark's heir. Flint—" she paused, studying Jon with those sharp eyes. "You'll attend as well, but mind you're properly dressed. No stable clothes at the table."
With that, she swept from the kitchen, leaving a strange quiet in her wake.
"Even father is afraid of her," William whispered, accepting the belated honey cake from Cook Gage.
"She's strong," Jon corrected without thinking. "Like the mountain winds."
That evening, Jon watched Lady Dustin from his place. The five messengers—road-worn men with weathered faces—sat interspersed among Winterfell's household. As promised, one wore the distinctive fur-trimmed leathers of the mountain clans.
Jon had greeted the man earlier, using the formal phrases Lord Anden had taught him, and had been rewarded with a surprised smile and a rough pat on the shoulder. Now the clansman was deep in conversation with Lady Dustin, his initial reserve melting away as she deftly steered their talk.
"More bread, Flint?" Vayon Poole, the steward, offered Jon a basket.
"Thank you," Jon replied, deliberately softening his voice and tilting his head slightly—just as he'd seen Lady Dustin do when thanking the servants who pleased her. "The meal is excellent tonight."
Poole looked momentarily taken aback by the courtesy, then nodded with more warmth. "Cook outdid himself, that's true."
Jon hid his smile behind his cup. It had worked—just a small change in how he spoke, and the steward had responded differently.
Later, when William and some of the other children were playing a game of knights and dragons in the corner of the hall, Jon stepped in to settle a dispute over who would play the dragon.
"Beth," he said to the steward's daughter who was about to burst into tears, "you should be the dragon." He used Lady Dustin's firm-but-reasonable tone.
"But I don't want—" she began.
"Dragons are the most powerful," Jon continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially and bending slightly to meet her eyes—another of Lady Dustin's techniques. "And your red hair would make you the most fearsome dragon the North has ever seen. Much better than being a boring old knight, don't you think?"
Beth's protests died away as she considered this. "The most powerful?" she asked, blinking away tears.
"Absolutely," Jon nodded seriously. "Dragons command respect."
Within moments, Beth was happily roaring and chasing the "knights" around the hall, her earlier distress forgotten.
Jon felt William tugging at his sleeve. "How did you do that?" the younger boy asked. "She was going to cry, and then she wasn't."
Jon shrugged, but inside he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. "I just told her what she needed to hear."
As the evening wore on, Jon continued to watch Lady Dustin, storing away her methods like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter. The way she leaned forward when she wanted someone's full attention. How she used silence to make people uncomfortable enough to fill it with thoughts they might otherwise keep hidden. The subtle changes in her address—"good master" for some, "trusted friend" for others—that made each person feel specially regarded.
By the time the hall began to empty, Jon had cataloged a dozen new techniques. They were weapons of a sort, he realized—not steel like his kukri, but perhaps more useful in some ways.
Bella died because I didn't understand that sometimes mercy is weakness, he thought as he prepared for bed later that night. But Lady Dustin never shows weakness, and people do what she wants without her drawing a blade.
Jon lay in his bed, purple eyes staring into the darkness as he practiced modulating his voice the way Lady Dustin did. Soft then firm. Warm then cool. A different edge for every purpose, just like a good blade.
I can learn this too, he decided. Another kind of hunting.
.
.
Steam rose from the porridge in Jon's wooden bowl, swirling in the cold morning air of Winterfell's Great Hall. He pushed the gray mush around with his spoon, watching as Robb and William argued about knights and swords across the table.
"Father says southern knights are all for show," Robb declared with the certainty only a seven-year-old heir to Winterfell could muster. "They wear fancy armor that's too heavy and they fall off their horses when real fighting starts."
William shook his head fiercely, dark hair flopping over his forehead. "My father says some of them are great warriors! He told me about Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning!"
Jon's ears perked up at the name. He had heard whispers of Ser Arthur Dayne, the legendary knight who had died at the Tower of Joy. Father never spoke of him, but the servants sometimes did when they thought no one was listening.
"Ser Arthur was different," Jon said quietly. "He was from Dorne, not like the knights from the Reach or the Westerlands."
Both boys turned to look at him, surprised that he'd joined their conversation. Jon rarely spoke during meals, preferring to watch and listen.
"How do you know?" William challenged.
"Everyone knows Dornishmen fight differently," he said finally. "They learn to fight in the desert heat wearing lighter armor. Lord Anden told me."
That seemed to satisfy William, who nodded sagely as if he'd known this all along.
"When I'm older," Robb announced, "I'm going to ride south with Father and see what these knights are really like. Maybe even fight in a tourney."
"Can I come too?" William asked eagerly.
"Of course! Jon too—we'll all go together!"
The hall's massive oak doors swung open, interrupting their debate as a gust of cold air swept through the room. Maester Luwin hurried in, clutching a rolled parchment in his gnarled hands. Jon immediately noticed something was wrong—the old maester's face was drawn, his usual unhurried pace replaced by an urgent stride.
Lady Dustin rose from her seat at the high table before Lady Stark could react. "Maester Luwin, what troubles you this morning?" Her voice carried across the hall, silencing the scattered conversations.
Lady Stark's mouth tightened at Lady Dustin's presumption, but she kept her silence, watching the maester with growing concern, while Lady Lyarra looked concerned.
"My ladies," Luwin bowed slightly, his chain links clinking softly. "A rider has just arrived with urgent news." He hesitated, glancing at the children present before continuing. "There has been an attack on Lord Benjen, my lady."
The hall fell silent. Jon felt his stomach drop as if he'd jumped from the broken tower. William's face drained of color.
"What?" Lady Dustin's voice was sharp as Valyrian steel. "Speak plainly, Maester."
"They are bringing him to Winterfell as we speak," Luwin continued. "He should arrive within a few hours."
"My father?" William's voice cracked as he scrambled to his feet, knocking over his cup of milk. "What happened to my father?"
Lady Dustin's face had gone as pale as the snow outside, but Jon marveled at how she kept her composure, her back straight as a spear.
"Is Lord Benjen still alive?" she asked, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands.
Maester Luwin nodded. "Yes, my lady. Based on the letter I received, the attack happened nearly a moon's turn ago. Unknown assassins tried to kill Lord Stark, but mistook Lord Benjen for him in the darkness."
"Gods be damned," Lady Dustin cursed under her breath, loud enough for Jon's sharp ears to catch. Then, louder: "Ready his chambers at once. I want fresh linens, water for washing, and a fire built. Bring the best furs from storage." Her commands rang through the hall, spurring servants into immediate action.
"Summon the healer from Winter Town," Lady Stark added, finally finding her voice. "And have hot broth prepared."
Lady Dustin grabbed Maester Luwin by the elbow and pulled him slightly away from the gathering crowd, speaking in hushed tones. Jon couldn't make out their words, but he saw the maester's face grow even graver as she questioned him.
William suddenly bolted from his seat, porridge forgotten, and rushed toward his mother. "Is Father alright? Will he die?" His voice rose with each question, fear making it shrill.
Jon watched as Lady Dustin knelt to her son's height, placing her hands on his shoulders. Her face transformed, the hard edges softening as she spoke to the boy.
"Your father is coming home to us, William," she said firmly. "He's a Stark of Winterfell, strong as the Wall itself. He's just tired and needs to rest in his own bed with his family around him."
Jon noticed how she didn't actually answer the question of whether Uncle Benjen was alright, but William seemed reassured, nodding solemnly as he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
"Can I help?" the boy asked.
"Of course. Go with Septa Mordane and help prepare your father's room. Make sure his favorite blanket is on the bed—you know the one with the direwolf sigil your grandmother embroidered."
As William scurried off with the septa, Jon caught Lady Dustin's eyes briefly returning to their worried state before she masked it again. She's afraid, Jon realized with a jolt. She's just hiding it, like a warrior hides a wound in battle.
Jon looked at Robb, who sat frozen at the table, his face pale beneath his auburn hair. "Will Uncle Benjen be alright?" Robb whispered to Jon.
"Of course," Jon said with more confidence than he felt. "He's a Stark." But inside, his mind was racing. Assassins tried to kill Father and got Uncle Benjen instead. Someone wants Father dead.
The thought chilled him more than any northern winter ever could.
The next few hours passed in a blur of activity. Winterfell transformed from a sleepy castle to a bustling hive, with servants rushing to prepare for Benjen's arrival. Jon and Robb had been shooed away from the Great Hall, told to stay out from underfoot, but Jon had no intention of missing his uncle's return.
Instead of going to the training yard as instructed, Jon led Robb to the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep. From there, they had a perfect view of the main courtyard without being easily spotted.
"We'll see everything from here," Jon explained as they settled into their hiding spot.
Robb nodded, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "Do you think Uncle Benjen is badly hurt?"
Jon thought of the hushed conversations, the worried looks, the urgent preparations. "I don't know," he admitted. "But he's alive, and that's what matters."
They didn't have to wait long. Just before midday, the warning horn sounded from the gatehouse. Moments later, the heavy ironwood gates of Winterfell swung open, admitting a small procession. Jon counted five riders escorting a covered wagon pulled by two horses.
"There," he pointed, nudging Robb. "That must be him in the wagon."
The courtyard below quickly filled with people. Lady Stark emerged from the Great Keep, wrapped in a blue cloak, while Lady Dustin appeared from the direction of the armory, William clutching her hand tightly, and Lady Lyarra looking worried, and was murmuring under her breath. Maester Luwin hurried toward the wagon, his chain bouncing against his chest.
"I want to see closer," Robb said, already scrambling toward the bridge exit.
Jon hesitated only a moment before following. They wouldn't be allowed near Uncle Benjen once he was inside, so this might be their only chance to see him.
They slipped down the stairwell and darted between servants until they reached the edge of the gathering crowd. Jon pulled Robb behind a cart, giving them a clear view while keeping them partially hidden.
The wagon came to a stop in the center of the courtyard. The rider, a weathered man in Stark colors, jumped down and moved to the back, pulling aside the leather covering. Two men carefully helped someone out of the wagon bed—a pale figure wrapped in furs.
Jon's breath caught in his throat as he recognized his uncle. Benjen Stark stood unsteadily, leaning heavily on his escorts. He looked thinner than Jon remembered, his face gaunt and pale as milk. But what drew Jon's attention was the angry red scar that ran along the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
They tried to cut his throat, Jon realized with horrible clarity. Just like I did to that wildling woman.
Lady Dustin stepped forward, her composure perfect save for the slight tremble in her voice. "Welcome home, my lord husband."
Benjen attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace. When he spoke, his voice came out as a rough, painful-sounding rasp. "Barbrey," he managed, the single word seeming to cost him great effort.
William broke free from his mother's grasp and ran forward. "Father!"
Jon saw something flash across Benjen's pained face—fear, perhaps, that he might frighten his son with his appearance. But the man squared his shoulders and dropped carefully to one knee as William crashed into him, tiny arms wrapping around his neck.
"Careful, William," Lady Dustin cautioned, moving swiftly to her son's side. "Your father needs gentle handling."
"Are you hurt badly?" William asked, tears streaming down his face as he pulled back to look at his father. "Maester Luwin will make you better, won't he?"
Benjen's hand, noticeably shaking, came up to ruffle his son's hair. "I'm..." he rasped, wincing with the effort of speaking, "...stronger now. Just need... rest."
Jon could see the strain it took for his uncle to speak those few words. Whatever had happened to his throat, it was serious. Yet Benjen was clearly trying to appear strong for his son, forcing his back straight despite the pain evident in his eyes.
Jon watched his grandmother's face as she caught sight of her wounded son. For a heartbeat, her stern composure faltered, her hand rising involuntarily to her throat in a mirror of Benjen's wound. Then, like ice reforming over disturbed water, her expression settled back into the dignified mask of a Stark matriarch.
"My son," she said. She moved forward, taking Benjen's face between her hands and studying him with a mother's piercing gaze.
Benjen attempted another smile. "Mother," he rasped, the single word seeming to pain him.
Lady Lyarra's thumb gently traced the edge of the angry scar on his neck, her eyes hardening like winter frost. "Who did this?" she asked quietly, but the question carried the cold promise of northern vengeance.
"Later," Benjen managed, his gaze flicking meaningfully toward William, who still clung to his hand.
Lady Stark stepped forward then. "Brother," she said formally, but her voice held genuine concern. "Winterfell welcomes you home. Your chambers are prepared, and the Maester is waiting."
Benjen nodded weakly in acknowledgment. Lady Lyarra slipped her arm through her son's, supporting him subtly while allowing him to maintain his dignity.
"You," she commanded one of the escort riders, "will tell me everything about this attack once my son is settled." The man bowed his head in immediate acquiescence—few in the North would dare refuse Lady Lyarra anything, especially regarding the welfare of her children.
Benjen was being led away, surrounded by a protective circle of family and servants. Lady Lyarra walked on one side, her arm still supporting him, while Lady Dustin flanked his other side. William wouldn't leave his father's hand, clinging to it as they slowly made their way inside.
"He looks bad," Robb whispered beside him. "Worse than when Arya had the sweating sickness last winter."
Jon nodded silently. Uncle Benjen had always seemed invincible to him—like Father and Lord Anden, men who couldn't be broken. Seeing him so weak and wounded shook something in Jon's young understanding of the world.
As the courtyard began to empty, Jon noticed Lady Dustin had returned and was lingering behind, speaking intensely with one of the men who had escorted Benjen. Her face was composed, but Jon recognized the carefully controlled anger in her posture—the same way Derek would stand when holding back his temper during training.
"...and Lord Stark believes what?" he heard her ask as they moved closer, her voice kept deliberately low.
"That it was meant to look like Lannister work, my lady," the man replied. "But too obvious to be true. Someone wants the wolf and lion at each other's throats."
Lady Dustin's mouth thinned to a hard line. "And my husband paid the price for it," she said coldly. "I won't forget this."
The man glanced nervously over his shoulder. "Lady Lyarra has demanded a full accounting as well. She'll want to speak with you after."
"Good," Lady Dustin nodded sharply. "Between us, we will get to the truth of this matter."
Jon filed the exchange away in his mind, another piece in the growing puzzle of the adult world. Lannisters. Lions. Someone trying to trick Father.
"Come on," he whispered to Robb, tugging at his sleeve. "We should go before they notice us."
As they slipped away, Jon couldn't shake the image of his uncle's scar—the red line across his throat that had almost ended his life. Someone had tried to kill Father and nearly killed Uncle Benjen instead.
I need to get stronger, Jon thought fiercely as they ducked behind the smithy. Smart enough to see traps coming. Strong enough to stop them.
Jon touched the handle of his hidden kukri knife, a comforting presence against his side. Uncle Benjen had survived his attack, but barely. Next time—and Jon was suddenly certain there would be a next time—the Starks might not be so fortunate.
I won't let anyone hurt my family, he promised himself. Not while I live.
Ten Months Later
Jon peered down from his perch atop the covered bridge, watching the frantic activity in Winterfell's main courtyard below. Ten months had transformed both the castle and himself. He was taller now, his once-round face beginning to lengthen in the Stark fashion, though his eyes remained the same unusual purple that sometimes earned him curious glances from visitors.
"They're coming! They're coming!" William Stark's excited voice carried across the yard as the six-year-old raced past, nearly colliding with a servant carrying linens.
Jon smiled despite himself. After almost a year of waiting, Father was finally returning from the Greyjoy Rebellion. The castle had been in an uproar since the raven arrived three weeks ago announcing Lord Stark's imminent return.
Ten months, Jon thought. So much has changed.
Uncle Benjen had recovered slowly from his wounds, though his voice remained a harsh rasp that rarely rose above a whisper. Baby Bran had been born three moons past—a squalling, red-faced Stark with auburn hair like Lady Stark.
"There you are!" Robb's voice came from behind him. "Mother's looking everywhere for you. We're supposed to be in our best clothes to greet Father."
Jon turned to see his brother dressed in his finest—a dark grey doublet with the direwolf of House Stark embroidered on the chest. Jon was wearing better clothes than he usually did, since taking the name Flint, his grandmother made sure he always wore better clothes.
"Coming," Jon replied, taking one last look at the preparations below. Winterfell's household had spent days cleaning, cooking, and decorating for their lord's return. Even Lady Stark, usually so composed, had been caught singing softly to baby Bran as she supervised the arrangements.
An hour later, Jon stood in the courtyard beside Robb as the first outriders appeared beneath Winterfell's main gate. The entire household had assembled in neat rows—Lady Stark at the front holding baby Bran, with Sansa and Arya beside her, Sansa standing perfectly straight in her blue dress while three-year-old Arya fidgeted impatiently.
Jon and Robb stood in the second row alongside Lady Lyarra, Uncle Benjen, and Lady Dustin, with William bouncing on his toes between his parents. The household guard formed an honor line from the gate to the Great Keep, their polished armor gleaming in the autumn sunlight.
"Do you think Father will have brought us gifts?" Robb whispered to Jon.
"He was in a war, not a Tourney," Jon replied, though gifts were the furthest thing from his mind.
The thunder of hooves grew louder, and then the first riders passed beneath the gate—Stark men in their gray cloaks, their faces weathered but triumphant. Behind them came more soldiers, and then, at the center of the column, the figure of Lord Eddard Stark himself.
Father looked older, Jon thought with a start. His beard was fuller, streaked with a few strands of grey that hadn't been there before. A new scar crossed his left cheekbone, pale against his wind-burned skin. But he sat tall in his saddle, Ice strapped across his back, his grey eyes scanning the courtyard until they found his family.
The smile that broke across Father's usually solemn face made Jon's chest tighten.
And then, riding just behind Father, came a sight that made Jon's heart leap—Lord Anden Flint, his great-grandfather, massive and imposing on his specially-bred mountain horse. The legendary warrior looked unchanged by the war, his ancient face as weathered and immovable as the mountains themselves. Beside him rode Derek, his loyal master-at-arms who had taught Jon so much during his time at Breakstone Hill.
As the riders dismounted, protocol momentarily dissolved. Lady Stark stepped forward with baby Bran in her arms, her usual reserve cracking as Father swept her into a one-armed embrace while gently touching his newborn son's cheek with his free hand.
"He has the Stark eyes," Father said, his voice thick with emotion.
"Yes," Lady Stark replied softly.
Sansa and Arya surged forward next, Sansa with a ladylike curtsy that quickly gave way to a hug, while Arya launched herself at Father's legs with a shriek of delight. He scooped her up with a laugh that Jon had almost forgotten the sound of.
"My wild wolf," Father murmured, kissing the top of Arya's dark head.
Jon hesitated, unsure of his place in this family reunion, but Father's eyes found him over Arya's shoulder. "Jon," he called, his voice warm. "Come."
The invitation was all Jon needed. He moved forward as Father set Arya down, and suddenly found himself wrapped in a firm embrace that smelled of leather, horses, and the faint metallic scent of armor. Father's hand clasped the back of his head briefly before releasing him to greet Robb with equal warmth.
"You've grown, both of you," Father said, looking between them with pride. "Have you been keeping up with your training?"
"Yes, Father," they answered in unison.
"Jon's still better than me, but I'm hitting him now," Robb said with a grin.
"Sometimes," Jon corrected with a small smile.
Father laughed again, the sound strange and wonderful after so many months of his absence. Then he turned to greet Lady Lyarra, Uncle Benjen, and the others.
Jon stepped back, watching as Lord Anden dismounted easily for a man his size and age. The giant northerner immediately sought out Lady Lyarra, taking her hands in his massive ones with gentleness.
"Daughter," he rumbled, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard. "You look well."
"Better now that you've returned safely, Father," Lady Lyarra replied, squeezing his enormous hands.
Derek caught Jon's eye and gave him a wink and a nod that promised stories and training sessions to come.
The reunion continued around him, a swirl of greetings and emotions, until a sudden hush fell over one section of the courtyard. Jon turned to see what had caused the change.
A slender figure had dismounted from a horse near the back of the column—a girl of perhaps thirteen, with short black hair and sharp, defiant eyes. She wore riding leathers instead of a dress, with the golden kraken of House Greyjoy still visible on her jerkin despite the road dust. Two Stark guards flanked her.
A Greyjoy, Jon realized with a sudden chill. Here in Winterfell.
Father had moved to stand beside the girl now, his hand on her shoulder as he addressed the gathered household.
"This is Lady Asha Greyjoy," he announced, his voice carrying the formal tone of Lord of Winterfell once more. "She will be fostered here as a ward of House Stark. I expect her to be treated with the courtesy and respect due her station."
Jon stared at the Greyjoy girl, unable to hide his confusion and distaste. The ironborn had rebelled against the crown, had raided, pillaged, and murdered. They were enemies. Yet here was their lord's daughter, standing proud and unbroken in Winterfell's courtyard.
She should be dead, Jon thought coldly. Or at least in chains. Not standing here like an honored guest.
The Greyjoy girl must have felt his stare, for her eyes suddenly locked with his. Instead of lowering her gaze as a captive might, she lifted her chin higher, her lips curving in what might have been a sneer or a smile—Jon couldn't tell which. Either way, the look held challenge rather than submission.
Jon didn't break eye contact, letting his own gaze harden. He had learned at Breakstone Hill never to show weakness to an enemy. After a moment, it was the Greyjoy girl who looked away, though not before giving a little scoff that made Jon's jaw tighten.
"Come," Father called, breaking the moment. "There will be time for proper introductions later. For now, let us get inside and wash away the road dust."
As the crowd began to disperse, Jon found himself walking beside Derek.
"You've grown, wolfling," the master-at-arms said, using the nickname he'd given Jon during training. "Taller, and unless I miss my guess, quicker too."
"I've been practicing," Jon replied, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "Even Lady Dustin says I'm the fastest climber in Winterfell now."
Derek's weathered face creased in a smile. "Good. We'll see what else you've learned while I've been away."
Jon nodded eagerly, but his eyes drifted back to the Greyjoy girl, who was being escorted toward the Great Keep by one of the steward's assistants.
"Why is she here?" he asked quietly. "The Greyjoys rebelled. They're traitors."
Derek followed his gaze and sighed. "That's how the game is played, Jon. Her father keeps her head only so long as he keeps faith with the crown. She's a hostage to ensure House Greyjoy's good behavior."
"They should have executed them all," Jon muttered. "That's what happens to traitors."
Derek gave him a long, measured look. "Is it? And if they had, who would rule the Iron Islands now? Sometimes, Jon, mercy serves a purpose beyond kindness."
Jon frowned, unconvinced. "Mercy got Bella killed."
"Ah." Derek's voice softened. "You still think about her."
"Every day."
"That's good. Remember the dead, learn from them." Derek clapped him on the shoulder. "But don't let their ghosts make all your decisions for you."
Before Jon could respond, they reached the Great Hall, where servants were already bringing in platters of food for the welcoming meal. The smell of fresh bread and roasted meat filled the air, making Jon's stomach growl despite his solemn thoughts.
The feast that followed was unlike anything Winterfell had seen in months. Father sat at the high table with Lady Stark beside him, baby Bran cradled in her arms. The babe had slept through most of the commotion, but now he was awake, his grey eyes—so like Father's—wide and curious as they took in the colorful banners and flickering torchlight.
Jon watched as Father held his new son for the first time properly. The look of wonder on Father's usually stern face made something twist in Jon's chest. It was the look of a man who had found something precious he'd feared might be lost.
"He's strong," Father declared, loud enough for the hall to hear. "A true Stark of Winterfell!"
Cheers erupted around the hall. Jon clapped along with the rest, but his eyes kept drifting to where Asha Greyjoy sat at the far end of one of the tables. Unlike the rest of the hall, she didn't cheer. She sat straight-backed and silent, eating little, her eyes constantly moving as if memorizing the faces and exits.
Like a cornered wolf looking for escape, Jon thought. Or a kraken searching for weakness.
The meal progressed with toasts and tales from the campaign against the ironborn. Jon listened intently as Father described the final battle at Pyke, where the island's fortress had been breached and Balon Greyjoy had finally knelt in surrender.
"King Robert showed mercy," Father explained, his voice carrying across the now-quieter hall. "Lord Greyjoy keeps his life and his lordship, though his fleet is much reduced and two of his sons are dead."
Jon frowned at this. Mercy again. It seemed to him that mercy was what allowed enemies to rise again. If this Balon Greyjoy had been executed, there would be no threat of another rebellion.
His gaze returned to Asha Greyjoy. She sat perfectly still now, her face a mask as her family's defeat was recounted for the entertainment of her captors. Only the white-knuckled grip on her knife betrayed her feelings.
For a brief moment, Jon felt an unexpected flash of something like respect. She was surrounded by enemies, far from home, listening to stories of her family's humiliation—yet she neither wept nor raged. That took a kind of strength Jon understood.
But she's still a Greyjoy, he reminded himself harshly. Still the enemy.
As the meal began to wind down, Jon found himself seated beside Lord Anden, who had requested his presence with a crook of his massive finger.
"You've changed, boy," the giant northerner observed, his voice low like distant thunder. "I see it in your eyes."
Jon met his great-grandfather's gaze steadily. "I've been learning, Great-grandfather."
"Oh?" One bushy eyebrow raised. "And what lessons have you learned in our absence?"
Jon chose his words carefully. "That sometimes the strongest weapon isn't a sword or a bow. Sometimes it's knowing what people want... and what they fear."
Lord Anden studied him silently for a long moment, his ancient eyes seeing far more than Jon was comfortable with. Finally, he nodded once. "Useful lessons," he agreed. "Though dangerous ones too, if misused."
Before Jon could ask what he meant, the hall's doors opened to admit more servants carrying sweet treats and fresh pitchers of warm spiced wine. The talk and laughter around them grew louder as the evening progressed, but Jon remained quiet, watching.
He watched Father's face as he spoke with Uncle Benjen, concern etched in the lines around his eyes at his brother's damaged voice. He watched Lady Stark's careful attention to Asha Greyjoy, ensuring the girl was served properly despite being the daughter of an enemy. He watched the Greyjoy girl herself, noting how she observed everything while pretending to observe nothing.
And Jon decided he would wait to ask his questions about mercy and justice. Wait until the feast was done and the real stories could be told. For now, it was enough that Father was home, that Lord Anden and Derek had returned safely, and that Winterfell felt whole again.
But as he caught Asha Greyjoy's defiant glance across the hall, Jon knew that wholeness was an illusion. Enemies walked among them now, and mercy had made it possible. Whether that was wisdom or folly remained to be seen.
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