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Jon Flint took his seat at the high table of Winterfell, his purple eyes scanning the familiar faces of his family as servants moved efficiently between the tables, their footsteps echoing softly against the ancient stone floors.
At thirteen, Jon had grown tall and lean, his features sharpening into what promised to be striking handsomeness. His unusual violet eyes drew glances from serving girls as they passed, though he maintained the composed demeanor expected of the heir to Breakstone Hill.
"The harvest reports from the mountain clans came in yesterday," Ned said, breaking his fast. "Lord Flint writes that the yields are better than expected, despite the early frost."
Jon set down his spoon, straightening slightly. "That's welcome news, father. I'd wondered how the higher elevations would fare after that cold snap in the seventh moon. Did Grandfather mention anything about the grain stores?"
Lyarra's eyes flickered toward her grandson with approval, though she said nothing. Ned nodded. "He did. They've managed to put aside enough to last through a hard winter, with surplus to trade."
"Trade could be profitable this year," Jon mused, his tone carefully neutral. "With King's Landing's appetite for northern grain always growing, the mountain clans might find themselves in a stronger position than usual."
Catelyn glanced at Jon with something that might have been surprise. She'd grown accustomed to his insights over the years, though wariness still lingered in her blue eyes. "You think like a merchant, Jon. That's... practical."
"Someone has to," Asha Greyjoy's voice cut across the table like a blade through silk. At nineteen, she'd grown into a formidable woman with sea-green eyes that held storms. "Though I wonder what experience taught such practical lessons to one so young and... sheltered."
The word 'sheltered' dripped with disdain. Jon met her gaze without flinching, his expression remaining pleasantly thoughtful.
"Experience comes in many forms, Lady Asha," he replied smoothly. "Sometimes it's in books, sometimes in listening to those wiser than yourself. I've been fortunate to have both." He paused, letting a small smile play at his lips. "Though I suppose those who've lived by raid and reaving might find such peaceful methods foreign."
Asha's knuckles whitened around her cup, but before she could respond, Sansa spoke up. "Jon, did you see the embroidery I finished yesterday? The one with the winter roses?"
"I did," Jon said, turning to his sister with genuine warmth softening his features. "The stitching was exquisite, Sansa. You've mastered that particular pattern better than most ladies twice your age."
Sansa's cheeks pinked with pleasure. "Do you really think so?"
"I know so," Jon assured her. "You have a gift for bringing beauty into the world. It's a rare talent."
Arya rolled her eyes dramatically. "Sansa's been preening about those roses all week. Anyone would think she'd conquered the Iron Islands single-handed."
"Now there's a thought," Jon grinned at his wild sister. "Though knowing you, Arya, you'd probably try to do it with a wooden sword and sheer stubbornness."
"I could too!" Arya protested, though her eyes sparkled with mirth. "I've been practicing my movies. I am getting better."
"I'm sure you are," Jon said fondly. "Just promise me you won't sail off to conquer anything without telling someone first. Some of us worry about our fierce little wolves."
Bran giggled from his seat beside Catelyn. "Arya's not little. She's taller than me!"
"And you're growing like a weed," Jon reached over to ruffle the boy's auburn hair. "Soon you'll be taller than all of us. Then who'll be the little wolf?"
"Rickon!" Bran declared, pointing at their youngest brother, who was more focused on getting porridge into his mouth than listening to the conversation. Robb laughed while Asha looked like she wanted to stab someone with a fork.
"Ravens came in from the south this morning," Ned mentioned, his voice carrying a note that suggested importance. "Lord Arryn writes that there's been some... interesting developments in King's Landing."
Jon's attention sharpened, though he kept his expression casually interested. "Nothing troubling, I hope?"
"Political maneuvering, mostly. The sort of thing that rarely affects us directly in the North." Ned's tone suggested the conversation was closed, but Jon filed the information away.
A serving girl approached to refill Jon's cup, and he caught himself noticing the graceful curve of her neck, the way sunlight caught the copper threads in her brown hair. She smiled shyly when she saw him looking, and Jon returned it with practiced charm.
"Thank you, Mira," he said, using her name deliberately. "How is your father's cough? The maester's remedy helping?"
Her smile widened with genuine gratitude. "Much better, my lord. Thank you for asking after him."
As she moved away, Jon was aware of Asha's calculating stare. The ironborn woman missed nothing, and he wondered what she made of his easy rapport with the castle's servants.
"Such concern for the smallfolk," Asha observed. "How... noble."
"Don't worry, Lady Asha, knowing where you come from, you can be forgiven for being unfamiliar with the concept of nobility as you said it." Jon said with a smile, and Asha glared at him.
As the family began to disperse, Robb lingered, ostensibly helping himself to more bread. When most had left the table, he leaned closer to Jon, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
"I've been thinking," Robb began, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "We're both thirteen now. Old enough to... well, you know."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "Old enough for what, exactly?"
"There's a place in Wintertown," Robb continued, his cheeks reddening. "A house where... where men go for company. I heard some of the guards talking about it."
"A brothel," Jon said bluntly, causing Robb to flinch at the direct word. "And you want to visit it."
"Don't you?" Robb's voice cracked slightly. "We're men grown, or near enough. It's natural to be curious about... things."
Jon's lips curved in a sardonic smile. "I can just picture our lord father's reaction to that news. 'Yes, my lord, we've taken your counsel about honor and duty to heart by visiting the local whorehouse.'"
"Father doesn't have to know," Robb protested. "We could go quietly, just to... see what it's like."
"Right," Jon drawled. "Because nothing stays secret in Winterfell for long." He studied his brother's eager expression with amusement. "Though I'm curious—until about two weeks ago, you were mooning over Asha like a lovesick puppy. What happened to wanting to fuck her?"
Robb's face went pale, then red. "Gods, Jon, don't say things like that!"
"What? It's true. You couldn't look at her without getting that glazed expression, like she was some sort of goddess." Jon's grin widened. "You even wrote her that terrible poem about 'sea-green eyes like jewels.' Remember that disaster?"
"I was not—" Robb began, then shuddered visibly. "No. Just no. I'm not in the mood to become a eunuch, thank you very much."
Jon's expression sharpened with interest. "Did she threaten you or something? Because if Asha—"
"No, no, nothing like that," Robb said quickly, waving his hands. "It's just... she's our guest. Father's ward. The heir to Winterfell shouldn't be seen trying to bed his father's wards. It would reflect poorly on the family."
Jon snorted with laughter. "Since when do you care about propriety? Besides, isn't it the heir's job to make guests feel... welcomed?"
Robb made a choking sound that might have been laughter or horror. "You're terrible. That's exactly the kind of thinking that would get me gelded."
"Or married," Jon suggested cheerfully. "Though I suppose that amounts to the same thing in some cases."
At the far end of the hall, where Ned and Lyarra had moved to speak privately, their conversation took a different turn entirely.
"The candle-making venture continues to prosper," Ned was saying, his voice carrying a note of pride. "Jon's innovation has brought real prosperity to Wintertown. The guild has tripled in size since spring."
Lyarra nodded approvingly. "The boy has a gift for seeing opportunities others miss. It reminds me of his—" She caught herself before saying too much, glancing around to ensure they weren't overheard. "It reminds me of certain qualities that run in bloodlines."
"Indeed," Ned agreed quietly. "Though we must be careful how we speak of such things."
"Of course." Lyarra's voice carried the weight of shared secrets. "But success brings its own challenges. I was thinking we might organize another hunting party soon. The castle's meat stores could use replenishing, and it would give the men something to do."
Ned frowned thoughtfully. "That's a good thought, though Maester Luwin mentioned some concerns about meat preservation. With the summer heat, we've had several cases of spoilage in Wintertown. The smallfolk have been complaining about meat going bad before they can use it."
"Ah," Lyarra said, her expression growing thoughtful. "That explains some of the requests I've been hearing for different preservation methods. Perhaps it's time to look into salting techniques, or smoking houses."
"Jon might have ideas about that too," Ned observed. "He seems to have a talent for practical solutions to everyday problems."
Back at their end of the table, Jon and Robb were still debating the merits of their theoretical brothel visit.
"Look," Robb said, lowering his voice even further, "all I'm saying is that we're both curious. It's natural. And if we're discrete about it—"
"Discrete," Jon repeated with amusement. "Yes, because the heir of Breakstone Hill and heir of Winterfell visiting a whorehouse would never attract attention. I'm sure the entire establishment would keep it absolutely quiet."
"We could disguise ourselves," Robb suggested hopefully.
"As what? Merchants? With your auburn hair and my purple eyes?" Jon shook his head. "We'd be recognized before we got through the door."
Robb's shoulders sagged in defeat. "So what do you suggest? That we just... wait?"
Jon's expression grew more serious, though a hint of calculation flickered in his violet eyes. "I suggest we learn patience, brother. Good things come to those who plan carefully." He glanced toward where Mira was clearing dishes, appreciating the graceful line of her figure. "And sometimes opportunities present themselves closer to home than you might expect."
Robb followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. "You're not thinking of—"
"I'm not thinking of anything improper," Jon said smoothly. "Just observing that there are many forms of education available to those who keep their eyes open and their reputations intact."
"That's... actually quite devious," Robb said with grudging admiration.
"That's practical," Jon corrected. "The difference between wanting something and achieving it is usually planning."
As they finally rose to leave the hall, Robb shook his head in amazement. "Sometimes I think you're older than all of us, Jon. How do you always seem to have everything figured out?"
Jon's smile was enigmatic as they walked toward the doors. "I don't have everything figured out, Robb. I just try to think a few moves ahead." His purple eyes glinted with something that might have been ambition or amusement. "It's a useful habit to develop."
Training Yard
Jon stepped out into the crisp autumn morning, the familiar sounds of Winterfell's awakening filling his ears. The castle was alive with activity—servants hurrying about their duties, guards changing shifts, and the distant ring of hammer on anvil from Mikken's forge. As he and Robb made their way toward the training yard, Jon found himself the recipient of numerous warm greetings.
"Good morning, Lord Jon!" called out Hullen, the master of horse, his weathered face creasing into a genuine smile. "The new saddle padding you suggested has worked wonders for the older horses."
"Glad to hear it, Hullen," Jon replied, slowing his pace slightly. "How's your grandson's apprenticeship coming along? Last we spoke, you were worried about his handling of the more spirited mounts."
"Much improved, my lord, thanks to your advice about patience and treats." Hullen's gratitude was evident. "The boy's got a way with horses now that would make his grandfather proud."
As they continued walking, a group of young women emerged from the kitchens, carrying baskets of bread for the morning meal. Jon caught their eyes immediately—at thirteen, his striking purple eyes and increasingly handsome features had begun drawing attention he was only just learning to navigate. One girl, perhaps seventeen with auburn hair and bright green eyes, blushed furiously when he smiled at her.
"Good morning, ladies," Jon said with practiced charm. "That bread smells wonderful. Nan's recipe?"
"Y-yes, my lord," the auburn-haired girl stammered, while her companions giggled behind their hands. "She says the secret is in the kneading."
"I'm sure skilled hands make all the difference," Jon replied, his tone perfectly innocent while his eyes suggested something else entirely. The girls dissolved into fresh giggles, and Robb elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
"Smooth," Robb muttered under his breath as they moved on. "Very smooth."
Practice makes perfect, Jon thought with amusement. Though I suspect I'm developing skills Grandfather Flint never intended to teach.
Near the smithy, Mikken looked up from his work, his face breaking into a broad grin when he spotted Jon. "Lord Jon! Just the man I wanted to see."
"Problems with the forge?" Jon asked, though he suspected otherwise from the blacksmith's pleased expression.
"Problems? Seven hells, no!" Mikken laughed heartily. "That candle-making guild of yours has been the best thing to happen to my business in years. All those families with steady work now, they're buying new tools, wanting repairs done proper-like instead of making do with bent nails and cracked hammers."
"I'm pleased it's working out," Jon said, his tone modest while internally cataloging another success. "Prosperity shared is prosperity multiplied."
"Aye, that it is," Mikken agreed enthusiastically. "My Mikka's been able to put proper boots on her children for the first time in three years, thanks to the coin coming in from guild work."
A carpenter named Jacks approached from across the yard, sawdust clinging to his leather apron. "Lord Jon, blessings on you this morning. My wife wanted me to thank you again for suggesting we approach the guild about wooden molds for the candles. The work's kept us fed through what would have been lean times."
"Everyone deserves the chance to use their skills," Jon replied warmly. "I merely pointed out an opportunity. You did the hard work."
Several guards nodded respectfully as they passed, their expressions holding more than mere deference to rank.
Another group of young women crossed their path, these carrying laundry. A dark-haired beauty of perhaps nineteen smiled boldly at Jon, her brown eyes dancing with mischief.
"Lord Jon," she said, her voice carrying a slight tease. "My sister was wondering if you might have any suggestions for removing candle wax from fine fabrics. She's been helping with the guild work, but she's... not as careful as she might be."
"Tell your sister to use a warm iron and brown paper," Jon replied, stepping closer than strictly necessary. "Apply gentle heat, and the wax will transfer to the paper. Though perhaps she might benefit from a more... hands-on demonstration of proper technique?"
The woman's smile widened. "I'm sure she would appreciate your personal attention, my lord."
"I live to serve," Jon said gallantly, earning another round of giggles as the women continued on their way.
Robb shook his head in amazement. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
"Generally speaking, yes," Jon replied with a grin. "Though I'm still learning the finer points."
They reached the training yard to find it already busy with morning practice. Men-at-arms worked through sword forms while others practiced with spears and shields. The familiar ring of steel on steel filled the air, along with the instructional shouts of sergeants correcting stances and techniques.
"Speaking of improvement," Robb said, picking up a practice sword and testing its balance, "word is that cousin William might visit soon. Uncle Benjen's considering a trip to Winterfell."
"Ah yes, dear William," Jon said dryly, selecting his own weapon. "I'm sure Lady Dustin will be delighted to leave Barrowton. Nothing she enjoys more than traveling, I'm told."
Robb snorted with laughter. "You know, sometimes I think she's the one actually holding the sword in that marriage, if you catch my meaning."
"Oh, I catch it perfectly," Jon replied with amusement. "Uncle Benjen may be the lord in name, but we all know who makes the real decisions. Though to be fair, after what he went through during the war, perhaps he's content to let someone else handle the more... demanding aspects of leadership."
A small crowd had begun to gather as word spread that the Stark heir and Flint heir were preparing to spar. Jon noticed several guards placing quiet wagers, and the attention pleased him more than he cared to admit.
Let them watch, he thought as he stretched his shoulders and tested his grip. A good performance here will be talked about for weeks.
"Ready, brother?" Robb asked, settling into a fighting stance. Over the years, he'd grown tall and strong, his auburn hair catching the morning light. His stance showed genuine skill—Ser Rodrik had trained him well.
"When you are," Jon replied, dropping into his own stance. Where Robb showed strength and determination, Jon moved like a snake, according to some people.
They circled each other briefly, the crowd falling silent in anticipation. Robb attacked first, as Jon had expected—a straightforward thrust followed by a quick slash, both executed the way Ser Rodrik had taught him. Jon parried easily, feeling out his brother's rhythm and style.
Still fighting like a knight from a song, Jon observed with fond exasperation. Honor before practicality, every time.
Robb pressed his attack, his blade work impressive but predictable. He fought with Stark straightforwardness—direct, honest, and telegraphed well in advance. Jon gave ground deliberately, letting Robb think he was gaining the upper hand while studying his patterns.
Three beats between thrust and recovery. Always favors his right side. Gets excited and overextends when he thinks he's winning.
The evaluation took perhaps thirty seconds, after which Jon smoothly shifted from defense to offense.
Jon's counterattack came like lightning. A feint high drew Robb's guard up, leaving his midsection exposed for a quick thrust that stopped just short of contact. Robb tried to recover, but Jon was already moving, flowing around his brother's guard like water around stone.
Jon read Robb's intentions before Robb himself knew them, positioning himself perfectly to exploit every opening. His blade seemed to find gaps in Robb's defense that shouldn't have existed.
The final exchange was almost anticlimactic. Robb, growing frustrated with his inability to land a telling blow, overcommitted to a powerful overhead strike. Jon sidestepped smoothly, hooked Robb's blade with his crossguard, and twisted sharply. Robb's sword flew from his grip, and Jon's point came to rest at his throat.
"Yield," Jon said quietly.
"I yield," Robb replied, breathing hard but grinning ruefully. "Seven hells, Jon. Where did that come from?"
Jon lowered his sword and extended a hand to help his brother up. "Practice. Lots and lots of practice."
And three extra years in the mountains learning that fights aren't won by the most honorable fighter, he added silently.
The watching crowd murmured appreciatively, and Jon caught fragments of conversation—praise for his technique, observations about his speed, speculation about future prowess. He accepted the attention gracefully while helping Robb dust off his clothes.
"Good match," one of the guards called out. "I'm sure you will be as good as the Sword of the Morning within five years."
"Ser Arthur Dayne?" Jon replied with apparent surprise. "High praise indeed, though I suspect you're being generous."
"Don't let it go to your head," Robb said with good humor, though Jon could see the frustration beneath his smile. "I'll get you next time."
"I look forward to it," Jon assured him, knowing full well that wouldn't happen unless he allowed it to.
Luwin's Chamber
The spiral staircase to Maester Luwin's chambers seemed longer today, though Jon suspected that had more to do with his eagerness than any actual change in architecture. The ravens were particularly vocal this morning, their caws echoing through the stone walls of the rookery tower as he climbed. He found the familiar cacophony oddly comforting—it meant Luwin was likely in a good mood, as the birds always seemed to reflect their keeper's temperament.
Or maybe I'm just imagining patterns where none exist, Jon thought with amusement. Though if studying people has taught me anything, it's that everything connects to everything else, even ravens and maesters.
He knocked on the heavy oak door and entered at Luwin's called invitation. The chamber was its usual organized chaos—scrolls scattered across every available surface, books stacked in precarious towers, and loose papers covered in the maester's precise handwriting. A large map of the North dominated one wall, marked with pins and colored threads that tracked everything from trade routes to grain production.
"Ah, Jon," Luwin looked up from his writing desk, his grey eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Perfect timing. I was just reviewing the quarterly reports from Wintertown."
Jon settled into the chair across from the maester's desk, noting the satisfied expression on the older man's face. "Good news, I hope?"
"Excellent news," Luwin confirmed, setting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. "Your candle-making guild has exceeded even my most optimistic projections. The economic impact has been... well, remarkable doesn't begin to cover it."
"I'm pleased it's working out. What do the numbers show?"
"Where shall I begin?" Luwin shuffled through several scrolls before finding the one he wanted. "Employment first—the guild has created steady work for forty-three families in Wintertown alone. That's not counting the secondary benefits to suppliers, transporters, and merchants."
Forty-three families who now look favorably on Jon Flint, Jon thought with quiet pride. Forty-three reasons for people to speak well of me around their hearths.
"The technical innovation has been equally impressive," Luwin continued. "Using animal fat and beeswax instead of relying purely on southern tallow has reduced costs by nearly sixty percent while actually improving quality. The candles burn longer and cleaner than the imported ones."
"It seemed logical," Jon replied with practiced humility. "We had the materials readily available—why pay southern prices for inferior products when we could make better ones ourselves?"
"Logical, yes, but most people don't see such opportunities," Luwin observed. "The social benefits alone justify the effort. Improved lighting for the common folk, especially during our long winters, has demonstrable effects on health and morale."
Jon nodded thoughtfully. "Light drives back more than just darkness. It drives back despair too."
"Precisely!" Luwin's enthusiasm was infectious. "You know, Jon, you continue to amaze me. Your mind works in ways that would make you an exceptional maester. Have you ever considered—"
"The chain would suit me poorly," Jon interrupted gently. "My talents seem better suited to... practical applications. Speaking of which, I've been thinking about another project that might benefit the North."
No offense, Maester, but I have no intention of taking vows of celibacy and obedience when there's a world to conquer. Besides, I've seen how you have to dance around lords' egos.
Luwin's eyes sharpened with interest. "Oh? What did you have in mind? Your last idea was quite revolutionary—I'm curious to see what you've dreamed up this time."
Jon leaned forward, his purple eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. "Icehouses. Specifically, a network of them throughout the North."
"Icehouses?" Luwin frowned thoughtfully. "For storing ice through the summer months? I've heard of such things in the far north, but the construction costs..."
"Would pay for themselves within three years," Jon finished confidently. "During winter, when ice is abundant, we cut and store it in specially constructed buildings. With proper insulation and drainage, that ice can last well into summer, even through an entire year if managed correctly."
Luwin was already reaching for parchment and quill. "Go on. How would the construction work?"
"Stone foundations are essential," Jon began, his voice taking on the measured tone he used when explaining complex ideas. "You need excellent drainage to carry away meltwater—standing water ruins everything. The walls need to be thick, with multiple layers of insulation. Sawdust works well, as does straw, even packed earth if it's dry."
"The roof design is crucial," he continued. "Peaked to shed rain, with good ventilation to prevent condensation, but not so much that you lose the cold. Underground storage is ideal where possible—the earth provides natural insulation."
Luwin was scribbling furiously, occasionally pausing to ask clarifying questions. "And the economic benefits?"
"Preserved food means less spoilage, better nutrition year-round, reduced dependence on costly preservation methods like smoking and salting." Jon ticked off points on his fingers. "For military applications, imagine being able to keep meat fresh during long campaigns. For common folk, it means winter's abundance can stretch into summer's lean times."
"The health implications alone..." Luwin murmured, still writing. "Fresher food, reduced disease from spoilage, better nutrition for children and pregnant women. Jon, this could revolutionize how the North manages its resources."
"That's the idea," Jon said with a smile. "The North has always prided itself on endurance and survival. Why not give ourselves every advantage possible?"
"The organization would need to be carefully planned," Jon continued. "Ice cutting is skilled work—timing, technique, safety procedures. Storage requires discipline and knowledge. But once established, the system could operate for generations."
Luwin set down his quill and stared at Jon with something approaching awe. "Where in seven hells did you learn about such things? This isn't knowledge that comes from books alone."
Jon shrugged casually. "Grandfather Flint's people have always dealt with harsh conditions. You pick up practical knowledge when survival depends on it. Plus, I listen when people talk about their problems—solutions often hide in complaints."
"You continue to astound me," Luwin said, shaking his head. "The implications of this proposal... it could change how every northern house manages its resources. Imagine House Umber with proper ice storage, or the mountain clans being able to preserve meat through entire summers."
"Each house that adopts the system successfully would serve as an example to others," Jon agreed. "Success breeds imitation, especially when the benefits are obvious."
And each house that benefits will remember who brought them the idea, Jon thought with satisfaction.
"I need to speak with Lord Stark about this immediately," Luwin declared, already gathering his notes. "The construction costs will be significant initially, but the long-term benefits... Jon, this could be as revolutionary as your candle guild, possibly more so."
"I'm glad you think it has merit," Jon said modestly. "I just hate seeing waste when solutions exist."
"Merit? Jon, this is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant." Luwin paused in his note-gathering to study Jon with curious eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you're really thirteen years old. Your mind operates on levels that would challenge men twice your age."
Jon felt a flush of pride but kept his expression humble. "I've been fortunate in my teachers. And perhaps growing up knowing you need to prove yourself sharpens the mind faster than most."
True enough, though not for the reasons you think, Jon mused. Bastards—even legitimized ones—learn early that charm and competence are the only currencies that matter.
"Well, whatever the reason, the North is fortunate to have you," Luwin said warmly. "I'll draft a formal proposal for Lord Stark this afternoon. With detailed cost projections and implementation timelines."
"I'd be happy to provide any additional technical details you need," Jon offered. "This kind of project succeeds or fails on proper planning."
As Jon descended the spiral staircase a short while later, he felt deeply satisfied with the morning's work. Another innovation proposed, another step toward making himself indispensable to the North's prosperity. Luwin's enthusiasm would translate into Ned's attention, and from there...
Tomorrow - A FAMILY MEETING
Jon knocked twice on the heavy oak door of his father's solar before entering. The room was warm despite the autumn chill, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Ned sat behind his desk, but he wasn't alone—Lyarra Stark occupied the chair beside him.
"Grandmother," Jon said warmly, crossing the room to place a gentle kiss on her beautiful cheek.
"My dear boy," Lyarra murmured, patting his hand affectionately. "You grow taller every time I see you."
Which was yesterday at breakfast, Jon thought with amusement.
He turned to Ned with a respectful nod. "You sent for me, father?"
Ned's mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. "These days, Jon, I suspect I'm the one who should be asking what I can do for you."
Jon raised an eyebrow, genuinely puzzled. "I'm not sure I follow."
"Maester Luwin visited me yesterday evening," Ned explained, leaning back in his chair. "He was quite... enthusiastic about your latest proposal. Ice houses, was it?"
"Ah." Jon settled into the remaining chair, trying to gauge his father's reaction. "I hope he presented it clearly. The concept can seem complicated at first."
"Complicated, perhaps, but brilliant," Lyarra interjected, her grey eyes bright with pride. "Though I must say, I'm beginning to wonder where you get these ideas. Ice houses aren't exactly common knowledge."
From listening to people complain about spoiled meat and thinking there had to be a better way, Jon thought.
"Grandfather Flint's people have always had to be creative about preservation," Jon replied diplomatically. "Harsh conditions breed practical solutions."
Ned nodded slowly. "Luwin believes this could revolutionize food storage throughout the North. He's already begun calculating costs and benefits."
"And?" Jon asked, though he kept his tone carefully neutral. Inside, he felt like a merchant waiting to hear whether his goods had sold.
"The initial investment would be substantial," Ned admitted. "But the long-term benefits... Jon, this could save lives. Not just coin, actual lives."
Jon felt a genuine warmth at his father's approval, separate from any calculations about reputation or influence. "That was the hope, father. Better preservation means better food, especially for children and the elderly."
"It's decided then," Lyarra said firmly. "We'll begin with a trial project—one ice house in Wintertown and one in Winterfell, properly constructed according to your specifications. If it proves successful..."
"We'll consider expanding the program," Ned finished. "Though I suspect word will spread on its own if the benefits are as significant as Luwin believes."
"There's something else we wanted to discuss," Lyarra said, her tone shifting to something more significant. "Your future, specifically."
Jon's attention sharpened. Conversations about his future tended to be either very good or very complicated. "What about it?"
"Lord Flint will be arriving within the fortnight," Lyarra announced, watching Jon's face carefully.
Jon's expression brightened immediately. "Grandfather's coming? Why didn't you mention this earlier?"
"Because we wanted to discuss the details first," Ned replied. "He's planning to visit the Wall, and he's requested that you accompany him."
"The Wall?" Jon frowned thoughtfully. "Is there some trouble with the Night's Watch? Or the wildlings?"
Lyarra shook her head, a small smile playing at her lips. "Nothing so dramatic. He believes it's time for you to undertake a certain... family tradition."
Understanding dawned on Jon's face like sunrise. "The climb."
"The climb," Lyarra confirmed. "From bottom to top, as every Flint heir has done for generations. As I did, before I married your grandfather."
Jon felt a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension. Climbing the Wall was a test of skill, courage, and endurance that marked the transition from boy to man in House Flint. The fact that Grandfather Flint deemed him ready...
Seven hundred feet of ice. Straight up. With nothing but rope, picks, and whatever skills I've managed to develop. Jon swallowed hard. Well, at least it will be memorable. Assuming I survive it.
"When?" he asked simply.
"That depends on several factors," Ned replied. "Weather, primarily. And the arrival of our other companions."
"Other companions?"
Lyarra's eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief. "Lady Maege Mormont and her daughter Dacey will be joining the expedition. Lady Maege expressed interest in witnessing this particular tradition and she wants to talk with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
Jon's mind immediately began working through the implications. Lady Maege was known for her fierce protection of House Mormont's interests, and she wasn't the type to undertake unnecessary journeys for mere curiosity.
Dacey Mormont. Seventeen years old, heir to Bear Island, famous for being nearly as formidable as her mother despite her youth. And they just happen to want to watch me climb the Wall. Jon's lips curved in a knowing smile. How very... coincidental.
"I see," he said carefully. "And I suppose Lady Dacey shares her mother's interest in northern traditions?"
"Among other things," Lyarra replied innocently. "She's said to be quite accomplished—skilled with weapons, intelligent, well-educated, fierce and very beautiful. The sort of young woman who might appreciate... quality companionship."
Lady Maege wants to see if the legitimized bastard with the unusual eyes and growing reputation might be suitable for her daughter. Jon found the situation more amusing than concerning. Though I suppose there are worse fates than being evaluated by the Mormonts.
"I'm sure I can make Lady Dacey feel welcome in my company," Jon said with practiced charm.
"Not too welcome," Lyarra warned.
Ned's expression grew more serious. "Jon, Lady Dacey is a guest and the heir to an important house. Whatever... attention you might pay her, remember that honor matters more than momentary pleasure."
Ah, the talk about not dishonoring noble daughters. I wondered when we'd get to this part. Jon kept his expression appropriately solemn. "Of course, Father. I would never do anything to compromise Lady Dacey's reputation or my own."
"See that you don't," Ned replied, though his tone was more paternal than threatening. "The Mormonts are proud people, and Lady Maege has little patience for young men who mistake courtesy for approval."
"I'll be the picture of respectability," Jon assured him. "Polite, helpful, and appropriately distant."
Though if Lady Dacey happens to appreciate wit and charm along with respectability, well... that's hardly my fault.
Lyarra studied his face with knowing eyes. "You're growing up, Jon. Faster than I sometimes realize. But remember—reputation is easier destroyed than built, and some mistakes can't be undone."
"I understand, Grandmother." Jon's voice held genuine respect. "I won't disappoint you."
"You rarely do," she replied softly. "Which is why we trust you with this responsibility."
Ned leaned forward slightly. "The Wall expedition serves multiple purposes. The climb itself, yes, but also the chance to observe the Night's Watch, to understand the challenges they face. Knowledge that may prove valuable in the future."
"And the chance to spend time with potential allies," Jon added, understanding the unspoken implications. "Lady Maege's opinions carry weight throughout the North."
"Precisely," Lyarra nodded approvingly. "Though I suspect you've already worked that out for yourself."
"I try to understand all aspects of a situation."
"A useful trait," Ned observed. "One that will serve you well as you take on greater responsibilities."
The conversation continued for another quarter hour, covering logistics for the Wall expedition and details about the ice house project. Jon found himself genuinely excited about both prospects—the climb represented a personal challenge he'd been anticipating for years, while the technical project offered another chance to demonstrate his value to the North's lords.
As he prepared to leave, Lyarra caught his arm gently. "Jon, about Lady Dacey... she's not some serving girl to be charmed and forgotten. She's a lord's daughter and heir in her own right."
"I know, Grandmother," Jon replied seriously. "I'll treat her with all the respect she deserves."
"Good," Lyarra nodded. "Because if you don't, you'll answer to me. And Lady Maege. And possibly the entire population of Bear Island."
So I should not anger the woman who killed a giant with a bow while protecting her children. Jon grinned despite himself. "I understand. I'll be on my absolute best behavior."
"See that you are," Ned added. "The North has enough enemies without creating new ones through thoughtless behavior."
As Jon left the solar, his mind was already working through the implications of the coming expedition. A chance to prove himself through the ancient climb, an opportunity to build relationships with important allies, and the intriguing prospect of meeting the famous Dacey Mormont.
All in all, he reflected as he descended the stairs, it promises to be a very interesting few weeks.
Later
As Jon made his way back to his chambers, his footsteps echoing softly in the stone corridors, his mind drifted to thoughts he rarely allowed himself to entertain during daylight hours. The excitement about the Wall expedition and Lady Dacey's visit faded, replaced by memories of violet eyes and dark hair that belonged to someone he hadn't seen in seven years.
Rhae.
He paused at a window overlooking the godswood. It had been so long since he'd dreamed of her—not since that night when he'd sung to her. The memory of her reaction still puzzled him; she had claimed that she hated him, that she no longer wanted to be his friend, yet, when he had sung, he had seen her cry, he had seen her smile. But as if someone had decided, that night had been the last one that Jon ever saw her, and he never had the opportunity to ask her why she cried when he sang to her.
Seven years, Jon mused, continuing toward his chambers. I wonder if she even remembers the bastard boy who used to share her dreams. Probably not. She called herself a Sand, which was obviously a lie. Her chamber was too good to be a simple bastard's chamber; he had known for a long time now that Rhae Sand must be an important bastard, probably a woman grown with more important things to occupy her thoughts than childhood fantasies.
Still, he found himself wondering about her sometimes—usually late at night when sleep eluded him, or during particularly boring lessons when his mind wandered. Had she grown as tall as he had? Did she still have that sharp wit that could cut like a blade? Was she happy, wherever she was?
Foolish thoughts, he chided himself as he reached his door.She didn't want to be your friend anymore, so don't bother.
But even as he dismissed the thoughts, he felt a familiar stirring of anticipation. Tonight was different. Tonight was a full moon, which meant—
Dany.
Jon's mood brightened considerably as he entered his chambers and moved to the window facing east. The sun was already beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber. In a few hours, the moon would rise full and bright, and with it would come dreams of silver hair, violet eyes, and beautiful face.
Unlike his memories of Rhae, which had grown distant, his dreams of Dany continued every full moon without fail. They'd been meeting in the dreamscape for years now, sharing stories and laughter in that strange house with the red door and lemon tree. She always insisted she was just a merchant's daughter from across the narrow sea, but Jon wasn't entirely convinced.
Silver hair like spun moonlight, eyes the same shade as mine, Jon thought with amusement. If she's a merchant's daughter, then I'm the King of the Summer Isles.
The evidence was all there, really. The Valyrian features were unmistakable, and her mannerisms suggested noble birth despite her protestations. More than once, Jon had wondered if she might be Princess Daenerys Targaryen—the daughter of the Mad King who had supposedly fled across the narrow sea after Robert's Rebellion with her brother, Viserys Targaryen.
But that would be impossible, he reasoned, settling into the chair by his window. Why would I dream of a Targaryen? What connection could there possibly be between a legitimized bastard from the North and the last remnants of the dragon kings?
It was a puzzle that had occupied his thoughts for years, though he'd never found a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it was simply coincidence—the world was large, and Valyrian blood wasn't limited to the royal line. There could be any number of explanations for Dany's appearance and bearing.
Though the timing is curious, Jon admitted to himself. I started dreaming of Dany right after I stopped dreaming of Rhae. And both of them have those distinctive features...well, Rhae had purple eyes like his, he remembered them having a dark shade.
He shook his head, dismissing the speculation. Whatever the explanation, he was grateful for his monthly conversations with Dany. She had a quick wit and an infectious laugh, and their discussions ranged from the mundane to the profound. In a way, she felt more real to him than many of the people he interacted with during his waking hours.
Probably because I don't have to perform for her, Jon realized with a start. I don't have to be the helpful heir to Breakstone Hill, or the dutiful pseudo-son, or the charming young lord. I can just be... myself.
Outside his window, the first stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
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