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Jon Flint
The Great Hall had been dressed for celebration, though Winterfell never quite shed its old, cold bones. Firelight leapt from iron sconces set deep into the stone, painting the walls in gold and shadow, so that the direwolves stitched upon the banners seemed to stir and prowl when the flames guttered. The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat and warm bread, of honey and butter melting into winter roots pulled from frozen earth. Servants wove between the benches with jugs and pitchers, their steps quick, their smiles practiced, refilling cups before thirst could make itself known.
Jon sat at the high table, and Dacey Mormont sat to his right. She'd changed from her fighting leathers into a dress, a deep green wool that brought out the grey in her eyes, but somehow she still looked like she could kill a man with her bare hands. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders now, freed from the tight warrior's braid, and the dress did a good job showing the curves of her beautiful body.
"You keep staring," Dacey observed, not looking at him as she cut into her venison.
"I'm admiring the view," Jon replied easily. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" She glanced at him sideways, lips curving. "Because from where I'm sitting, you look like you're trying to figure out if I'm going to stab you with my dinner knife."
"The thought had crossed my mind." Jon took a sip of his wine. "You did promise revenge for this morning."
"Oh, I will have my revenge." Dacey's smile widened. "Just not with a dinner knife. Too obvious. I'm thinking something more subtle. Maybe I'll trip you during the dancing later."
"There's going to be dancing?"
"There's always dancing at northern feasts." She finally turned to look at him fully. "Unless you're too tired from all that 'tactical creativity' this morning?"
"Never too tired to dance." Jon leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Though I should warn you, my footwork is just as good on the dance floor as it is in the practice yard."
Dacey giggled at his words. "Gods, you're full of yourself."
"Confidence," Jon corrected. "There's a difference."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
Across from them, Robb had been listening to their exchange with growing amusement. He leaned forward. "Jon, are you flirting? Because it sounds like you're flirting. And it's possibly the most painful thing I've ever witnessed."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, brother," Jon replied without missing a beat.
"Jealous?" Robb snorted. "Of what? Your purple eyes? Your ability to beat women in sparring matches?"
Dacey kicked Robb under the table. Hard.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"For being an ass," Dacey said sweetly. "And for suggesting that losing to Jon was somehow shameful. He won fair and square."
"Thank you," Jon said.
"Don't let it go to your head." Dacey turned back to her meal. "You got lucky."
"Twice?"
"Very lucky."
Robb was still rubbing his shin. "You Mormont women are violent. Does it run in the family, or is it something they teach you on Bear Island?"
"Both," Dacey replied. "Mother says a woman who can't defend herself isn't worth the name."
"Your mother sounds terrifying."
"She is." Dacey said it with pride. "But she's also the best lady the North has ever seen. She held Bear Island against the ironborn when I was just a child. Fought them off with barely two hundred men and won."
Jon had heard the stories. Everyone in the North had. Lady Maege Mormont had become a legend in her own right, the she-bear who'd made the Greyjoys bleed for every inch of her island.
"I believe it," Jon said. "This morning I saw where you get your strength from."
Dacey looked at him. "Was that a compliment, Flint?"
"An observation. But if you want to take it as a compliment, I won't stop you."
Further down the table, Lady Maege sat in conversation with Grandmother Lyarra, but Jon noticed the way the she-bear's eyes kept drifting toward him and Dacey. She was watching them like a hawk.
Let her watch, Jon thought.
At the high table, Lord Anden Flint dominated the space as he always did. Even seated, his three-meter frame made everyone else look like children. His massive beard bristled as he laughed at something Father had said, the sound booming across the hall like thunder.
"YOUR CUPS ARE EMPTY!" Anden's voice carried over the general noise. "WHAT KIND OF FEAST IS THIS? MORE WINE! MORE ALE! WE'RE CELEBRATING VICTORY!"
Servants scrambled to comply, rushing forward with fresh pitchers.
Lady Maege raised her cup toward Anden. "Lord Flint, at the rate you're drinking, we'll empty Winterfell's entire cellar before midnight."
"GOOD!" Anden declared. "Wine's meant to be drunk, woman, not saved for some distant tomorrow that might never come!" He drained his cup in one massive swallow, then held it out for more. "Besides, you're one to talk! I've seen you match your men drink for drink!"
"Only when the occasion calls for it," Maege replied coolly.
"And this doesn't?" Anden's black eyes gleamed with challenge. "My great-grandson just beat your daughter in single combat! If that doesn't call for drinking, nothing does!"
"He beat her through trickery."
"He beat her through SKILL!" Anden slapped the table, making dishes rattle. "The boy fights like a true Flint! All brain and speed and no mercy!"
Dacey muttered under her breath, "He could have shown a little mercy."
Jon heard her anyway. "Would you have wanted me to?"
She considered that, then shook her head. "No. If you'd held back, it would have been insulting. Better to lose to someone fighting their best than to win against someone playing gentle."
"I'm glad to hear that." Jon's smile turned wicked. "This means when I beat you again next time, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."
Dacey's eyes narrowed. "Next time?"
"You said you wanted a rematch."
"I said I wanted revenge. There's a difference."
"You keep saying that," Jon echoed her earlier words, grinning.
She threw a piece of bread at his head.
Jon caught it without looking, took a bite, and winked at her.
Further down the table, Jon spotted Alysane Mormont pouring herself another cup of wine. It was her fourth—no, fifth—since the feast had begun. Her face was flushed, and she was scowling at nothing in particular, occasionally shooting dark looks in Dacey's direction.
Jon lowered his voice. "Is your sister alright?"
Dacey glanced over, her expression tightening. "Alysane gets... difficult sometimes. Especially when she's drinking."
"Difficult how?"
"Bitter." That's all Dacey said as she looked at her mother, then moved her head towards Alysane's direction.
"MAEGE MORMONT! I propose a challenge!" Anden's voice suddenly echoed in the hall like a horn of war.
The hall quieted as everyone turned to look at the giant lord.
Lady Maege raised an eyebrow. "What kind of challenge, Lord Anden?"
"A drinking challenge!" Anden held up his massive cup. "You and me! We drink until one of us falls! Winner gets bragging rights for the rest of the year!"
Maege smiled. "You want to challenge me to a drinking contest, my lord? A woman half your size?"
"Size has nothing to do with it! It's all about CONSTITUTION!" Anden's grin was fierce. "Unless you're afraid?"
"I fear nothing, least of all a man who thinks his size makes him invincible."
"HAR! That's the spirit!" Anden gestured to a servant. "Bring us the strong stuff! The winter mead from the deep cellars! We'll settle this like proper northerners!"
Father looked like he wanted to object, but Grandmother Lyarra put a gentle hand on his arm. "Let them have their fun, Ned. They're not hurting anyone."
"They're going to hurt themselves," Father muttered, but he didn't stop the servants from bringing out two large pitchers of mead, the kind that could strip paint from walls if you weren't careful.
The hall erupted in cheers and laughter as Anden and Maege faced each other across the high table, cups filled to the brim.
"Agreed," Maege said. "And when I win, Lord Anden, you'll admit that Bear Island produces the toughest fighters in the North."
"When I win," Anden countered, "you'll admit that the mountain clans breed stronger stock than island folk!"
"HAR! We'll see about that!" Maege's eyes gleamed with competitive fire. "The sea makes us hard, old man. Harder than your mountains ever could."
The entire room dissolved into laughter, even Father cracking a reluctant smile.
Anden raised his cup. "TO VICTORY!"
"To victory," Maege echoed, and they both drank.
Jon watched as the two Northerners began their contest, each downing cup after cup of mead. The hall had fully embraced the spectacle now, people placing bets, shouting encouragement, laughing at the increasingly elaborate insults Anden and Maege traded between cups.
"Your mother is amazing," Jon said to Dacey.
"She's going to have the worst headache of her life tomorrow," Dacey replied. "But yes. She is."
Robb leaned across the table. "Ten coppers says Lord Anden wins."
"Twenty says Mother does," Dacey countered immediately.
"Done."
They shook on it.
The contest continued, cup after cup disappearing down their throats. After the fifth round, Anden's face had taken on a ruddy glow, his massive beard glistening with spilled mead.
"YOU DRINK LIKE A WOMAN!" Anden bellowed at Maege.
"I am a woman, you great fool!" Maege shot back, her words only slightly slurred. "And this woman is going to drink you under the table!"
"HAR! Big words from a she-bear who can barely see straight!"
"I can see well enough to know you're an oversized mountain of hot air!"
The crowd roared with laughter.
By the eighth cup, even Anden was swaying slightly in his seat. His booming voice had dropped in volume, though not in enthusiasm. "You're... tougher than you look, Mormont."
"And you're exactly as stupid as you look, Flint." She drained her eighth cup with only a slight grimace.
The ninth cup came. Anden lifted it with both hands. He drank deeply, then set the cup down with exaggerated precision.
"Your turn," he rumbled.
Maege picked up her cup. Jon noticed her hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She drank, but slower this time, and when she finished, she had to grip the edge of the table to steady herself.
"Cup ten," the servant announced nervously, pouring fresh mead into both cups.
The hall had gone quieter now, everyone leaning forward to watch.
Anden reached for his cup. His massive hand closed around it, lifted it halfway to his mouth, then... paused.
He set it back down.
"No," Anden said, his voice still carrying despite the mead. "No more."
Shock rippled through the hall.
"You yield?" Maege asked, her own voice sounding deeper and sleepier.
"I yield." Anden's black eyes fixed on her with something like respect. "You win, she-bear. You've got the constitution of a gods-damned ox, and I'll not be the one to send you to your grave with drink."
He stood—unsteadily, but he stood—and raised his empty hands in surrender. "BEAR ISLAND PRODUCES THE TOUGHEST FIGHTERS IN THE NORTH! I ADMIT IT! FREELY AND WITHOUT SHAME!"
The hall erupted in cheers and laughter. Maege remained seated, wisely not attempting to stand, but her smile was triumphant.
"Thank you for the contest, Lord Anden. You drink well for a man of your... advanced years."
"Advanced years!" Anden laughed, the sound still booming despite the mead. "Woman, You just caught me when I was being merciful!"
"Merciful, he says. After nine cups of mead that could strip rust from steel."
"Nine and a half! I had a sip of the tenth!"
"A sip doesn't count, old man."
"Old man! I'm in my prime!"
Robb groaned as he counted out twenty copper coins to Dacey. "Your mother is terrifying."
"I told you," Dacey said smugly, pocketing her winnings. "Never bet against a Mormont woman."
Jon leaned close to her. "Does she do this often?"
"Often enough." Dacey's grey eyes sparkled with amusement. "Last year she out-drank three northern lords during a winter feast. They were unconscious before the eighth cup. Mother walked back to her chambers on her own feet."
Music started up from the corner where a small group of musicians had been quietly eating. A fiddle, a drum, and a flute began playing a lively northern tune, and people started pushing tables aside to make room for dancing.
"Oh no," Robb said, recognizing the signs. "Here it comes."
Jon looked at Dacey. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
Dacey's smile was brilliant. "I thought you'd never ask."
Jon stood and offered his hand. Dacey took it, and he led her to the cleared space where other couples were already beginning to move. The music was fast and cheerful.
Jon placed one hand at Dacey's waist, took her other hand in his, and they began to move.
Jon and Dacey started dancing; he made sure to remember what his grandmother had told him. "Any lady likes to dance, Jon, it's one of the many ways a lady shows their passion, and a man must always learn to dance, to met that passion and make it grow. Dancing is a conversation without words. It's trust. It's a connection. When you dance with Lady Dacey tonight, don't just move through the steps. Listen to her. Match her. Show her that you can meet her strength with your own, and not just in the Training Yard. Make her enjoy it."
The fiddle sang. The drum answered. And they moved.
Partners spun together, broke apart, rejoined with different dancers, then found each other again.
Jon had learned the steps from his grandmother, practiced them in empty halls when no one was watching. But knowing the steps and dancing were two different things, as Grandmother Lyarra had said. The steps were just words. The dance was the conversation.
Dacey moved like water over stone. When they spun together, her hand tightened on his, anchoring them both against the centrifugal force. When they separated, she turned with her shoulders back and her chin high, meeting other partners with the same confidence she brought to everything. And when they came back together, her grey eyes found his purple ones.
Jon matched her. Step by step. Spin for spin. When she moved left, he was already there. When she turned, he turned with her. The music flowed through them both, transforming two separate people into a single moving thing.
He remembered Grandmother's words: Meet that passion and make it grow.
So when the music called for a lift, the woman's hands on her partner's shoulders, the man's hands at her waist, spinning her through the air while other couples did the same, Jon didn't hesitate. He gripped Dacey's waist firmly and lifted, and she rose with him, trusting him.
Then her feet found the ground again, and they were moving once more, closer now. Jon's hand slipped slightly lower on her waist. Dacey's fingers tightened on his shoulder. Neither pulled away.
"You weren't lying," Dacey said as they spun, her voice slightly breathless. "You do know how to dance."
"Grandmother made me practice," Jon admitted. "Said a lord needed to know how to move in a hall as well as on a battlefield."
"Smart woman."
They moved through the pattern, joining the circle of other dancers, spinning apart and coming back together. Jon caught glimpses of others as they danced: Robb partnered with one of the Mormont sisters, various household guards dancing with serving girls.
When the music brought them back together. "You're full of surprises, Jon Flint."
"I try to keep things interesting."
"It's working."
The music slowed slightly, transitioning into a more intimate melody. The crowd thinned as some dancers left the floor, leaving only those who wanted to stay close to their partners.
Jon pulled Dacey slightly closer, very aware of how she fit against him.
"This morning," Dacey said quietly, "when you had your sword at my throat... I wasn't angry."
"No?" Jon's voice was low.
"I was impressed." Her grey eyes met his purple ones, and there was heat in them now. "You made me work for every second of that fight. Most men your age would have rushed in trying to prove something." She paused, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "It was very arousing."
Jon's lips curved into a slow smile. "I've always believed in taking my time. Rushing leads to... disappointment. For everyone involved."
Dacey's breath caught slightly.
"Besides," he continued, spinning her gently as the dance required, then pulling her back closer, "I had something to prove."
"What did you want to prove?"
"That I know exactly how to handle a strong woman." Jon's voice dropped lower. "That I can match your intensity. Meet your passion. And when the moment is right..." he paused, letting the tension build, "finish decisively."
Dacey's eyes had darkened. "Are we still talking about the fight?"
"Are we?" Jon countered, his smile turning wicked. "I was. What were you thinking about?"
She laughed. "You're dangerous, Jon Flint."
"Only when I need to be." He leaned slightly closer, his voice a near-whisper. "But I promise I'm very, very good at knowing when to be gentle... and when not to be."
"What if I don't want you to be gentle?" Dacey asked with a smile, her eyes filled with hunger.
"I believe in my abilities." Jon's voice was pure silk. "And I always make sure my partner is... thoroughly satisfied with the outcome."
"Your partner?"
"In sparring, of course." His purple eyes glinted with mischief. "What else would I mean?"
"Jon Flint," Dacey said, her voice low and dangerous, "if you don't stop talking like that, I'm going to do something very inappropriate right here in the middle of your father's hall."
Jon's smile was pure sin. "Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both."
"Good." He met her eyes directly, no longer hiding behind double meanings. "Because I meant every word."
Dacey squeezed his hand once before releasing it. "Thank you for the dance, Jon Flint."
"The pleasure was mine, Lady Dacey."
As they returned to their seats, Jon noticed Robb watching him with knowing amusement.
"You're just jealous," Jon said before his brother could speak.
"Absolutely," Robb agreed without shame. "The prettiest, strongest woman in the hall chose to dance with you instead of me. Of course I'm jealous."
Dacey laughed. "I'm sitting right here."
"I know. I'm hoping flattery will convince you to dance with me next."
"It won't."
"Worth a try."
Across the hall, Jon spotted Arya standing with Lyanna Mormont near one of the pillars. The two girls were deep in conversation, their heads close together, clearly plotting something. Joanna Stark stood slightly apart from them, looking uncertain.
As Jon watched, Joanna approached the other two. "Arya? Do you want to dance?"
Arya made a face. "That's stupid lady stuff."
Joanna looked puzzled. "But... I like dancing. What's wrong with that?"
"It's just stupid," Arya insisted.
Joanna's face fell, and Jon felt a pang of sympathy for his young cousin. She was only four, still figuring out the world, and Arya's casual dismissal had clearly hurt.
But before Jon could intervene, Arthur appeared beside his little sister. The boy bowed formally, his serious face softening as he looked at Joanna.
"Would you like to dance, Jo?" Arthur asked.
Joanna's face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yes!"
Arthur took her small hand in his and led her to the dance floor, and Jon watched as the eleven-year-old boy carefully guided his four-year-old sister through a simplified version of the steps. Joanna beamed with joy, and Arthur looked genuinely happy to be there with her.
Good man, Jon thought. Taking care of his sister even when the other girls don't appreciate her.
Unfortunately, Lady Catelyn had also noticed Arya's location and was now approaching with that particular expression that meant trouble.
"Arya," Lady Catelyn said in her most patient voice. "You should be with the other girls. Sansa is over there with Jeyne—"
"I don't want to be with Sansa," Arya interrupted. "Lyanna and I are talking about important things."
"Lyanna Mormont is being a proper young lady. You should follow her example."
Lyanna, who had been listening to this exchange with growing incredulity, spoke up. "My lady, we were discussing sword training techniques."
Lady Catelyn's smile became slightly strained. "I see. Well, perhaps you could discuss needlework instead? Or appropriate conduct for young ladies of noble houses?"
"Mother," Arya said with exaggerated patience, "I don't like needlework. I've told you this a hundred times."
"And I've told you a hundred times that what you like is less important than what's proper. Look at Joanna—she's your cousin, and she knows how to behave like a lady."
Arya's face went red. "Joanna betrayed me! She said she wanted to learn to climb with me and Jon, and now she's dancing like... like some stupid southern lady!"
"Joanna is being sensible," Lady Catelyn said firmly. "As you should be. Now come along—"
"No!"
The word came out louder than Arya probably intended, and several people turned to look. Lady Catelyn's face flushed with embarrassment and anger.
"Arya Stark, you will—"
"Let the girl be, Cat."
Grandmother Lyarra's voice cut through the tension like a knife. The older woman approached with the kind of quiet authority that made even Lady Catelyn pause.
"She's spending time with another northern girl," Lyarra continued. "Learning about her heritage and her people. There's nothing wrong with that."
"But she should be learning proper—"
"She's nine years old," Lyarra said gently but firmly. "Let her be nine. There's time enough for proper conduct when she's older."
Lady Catelyn looked like she wanted to argue, but arguing with Lyarra Stark was a losing battle. Everyone knew that. After a moment, she inclined her head stiffly and walked away, her back rigid with frustration.
Arya looked up at her grandmother with adoration. "Thank you, Grandmother."
"You're welcome, little wolf." Lyarra touched Arya's hair affectionately. "But do try to be kinder to your cousin. Joanna is family, and family shouldn't fight."
"But she—"
"Should be allowed to like dancing if that's what makes her happy, just as you should be allowed to like swords. Different doesn't mean betrayal, Arya. It just means different."
Arya didn't seem like she agreed with what she said; instead, she just looked away, while Lyanna said that her sister was good at fighting, but she enjoyed dancing just as much.
"Your sister is a proper lady," Lyarra said approvingly.
Jon was glad that his grandmother was there to talk with Arya. While learning to fight, Arya should not think that ladies who like to dance are any less.
Eventually, Father stood from the high table and raised his hand for quiet. It took several minutes for the hall to settle, but eventually the noise died down enough for him to speak.
"My friends," Father began, his voice carrying across the space. "We gather tonight not just to celebrate this morning's excellent display of skill, but to honor our guests from Bear Island and Breakstone Hill. The bonds between our houses grow stronger with each passing year, and I am grateful for that."
There was polite applause.
Father continued. "In three days' time, a group will depart from Winterfell for the Wall. Jon will undertake the traditional Flint climbing trial, witnessed by members of the Night's Watch and accompanied by Lord Anden Flint, Lady Maege Mormont, and others. This is a significant moment—a boy becoming a man in the eyes of the old gods and the new."
Jon felt dozens of eyes turn toward him. He kept his face neutral, though his heart had started beating faster. Three days. Three days until he had to climb seven hundred feet of ice with nothing but his skill and determination to keep him from falling.
"We wish them safe travels," Father said. "And we look forward to their triumphant return."
More applause, louder this time. Lord Anden stood—the motion drawing every eye simply because of his massive size—and raised his cup.
"TO JON FLINT!" Anden's voice boomed. "MY GREAT-GRANDSON! MAY HE CLIMB HIGHER THAN ANY BEFORE HIM!"
"TO JON FLINT!" the hall echoed.
Jon stood and bowed to acknowledge the toast, feeling the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Everyone was watching. Everyone was judging. Everyone had opinions about what this meant, what he should do, who he should be.
Perform, he thought. Give them what they want to see.
"I'm honored by your faith in me," Jon said, projecting his voice so everyone could hear. "And I promise not to embarrass House Flint by falling off the Wall and breaking my neck."
Laughter rippled through the hall.
"Though if I do fall," Jon continued, "I expect a very nice funeral. With good wine and better music."
More laughter.
Jon sat back down, and Dacey leaned close. "That was well done."
"Years of practice," Jon admitted.
"At what? Being charming?"
"At being what people want to see."
Dacey's expression grew thoughtful, but before she could respond, voices from across the hall called out.
"Jon Flint! Give us a song!"
"Yes! Sing for us!"
"We want to hear the voice that made the gods weep!"
Jon felt his face heat slightly. He'd known this was coming—it always came at feasts—but that didn't make it less uncomfortable. Singing felt different from other performances. More personal. This was something he wanted to do in private places.
"I don't think—" he started.
"SING!" Lord Anden bellowed. "The boy has a voice like an angel! Let him use it!"
There was no refusing now. Jon stood again, aware of every eye in the hall fixed on him. He walked to the space near the musicians, his mind racing through possible songs. Something northern. Something traditional. Something that wouldn't make him think too much about things he'd rather not think about.
"What'll it be, my lord?" the fiddler asked quietly.
"The Winter Rose," Jon decided. It was an old ballad, sad and sweet, about a northern girl who died waiting for her love to return from war.
The musicians knew it. Everyone in the North knew it.
The fiddle started, soft and haunting. Jon took a breath, found the melody in his mind, and began to sing, and he felt home.
""The wind did howl across the keep, The snow lay heavy, soft, and deep. But in the glass, amidst the cold, A story of a promise told.
There grew a flower, pale and blue, The only warmth the maiden knew. She tended it with hands of ice, A winter rose of rare price.
Her lover stood in armor bright, To ride down south and join the fight. "Oh, wait for me," the soldier said, "Before the winter rose is dead."
"I shall return with glory won, Beneath the warm and golden sun. And I will crown you amidst the snow, My lady where the cold winds blow."
He rode away to fields of red, While she kept watch where angels tread. The seasons turned, the years did fade, But still she waited, unafraid.
The summer burned, the autumn fell, She stood as silent sentinel. But silence answered every prayer, And frost began to claim the air.
The chill crept in, her heart slowed down, She wore the frost like silver crown. They found her still, they found her pale, A ghost within the winter gale.
He came back home when wars were done, Beneath a weak and weeping sun. He found no maid to hold him close, Just snow upon the winter rose.
Just snow upon the winter rose. ""
When he reached the final verse, the one where the girl's frozen body is found in spring, the winter rose still clutched in her hand, his voice dropped to barely more than a whisper, and the entire hall leaned forward to hear.
Then silence.
Complete, profound silence.
Jon opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and found the entire hall staring at him. Many ladies had tears in their eyes, and even Lady Catelyn seemed touched by his voice. Others looked stunned, as if they'd just witnessed something holy.
Dacey's expression made Jon's breath catch. She was looking at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
The applause started slowly, then built like a wave, crashing over him from all sides. People were shouting, cheering, demanding more.
"Another!" someone called.
"Yes, another song!"
Jon was about to refuse when a small voice cut through the noise.
"Please, Jon! Sing another one!"
Joanna had left Arthur's side and was standing at the edge of the dance floor, her small face bright with excitement. "But a southern one this time! With knights and ladies and happy endings!"
Arthur was right behind her, looking apologetic. "Jo, let Jon rest—"
"But I want to hear a happy song!" Joanna insisted. "All the northern songs are sad!"
She wasn't wrong. Northern music tended toward tragedy and loss, stories of honor and death and things that couldn't be saved.
Jon looked at his small cousin and felt something in his chest soften. She was only four. She still believed in happy endings.
"Alright," Jon said. "One more. A southern song."
Joanna clapped her hands in delight.
Jon turned to the musicians. "Do you know 'The Dragon's Daughter'?"
The fiddler nodded, and Jon recognized the irony of his choice even as he made it. A southern song about a Targaryen princess who married for love instead of duty, who chose happiness over power.
The music started, bright and cheerful this time, and Jon sang.
This song was lighter, faster, full of hope and joy instead of sorrow.
Joanna was dancing by herself, spinning in circles, lost in the story. Arthur watched his sister with a soft smile, and Jon caught the boy's eye as he sang.
The song ended on a triumphant note, the princess and her knight living happily ever after, their love strong enough to change the world.
More applause, though less stunned this time. The happy song had restored the festive mood rather than dampening it.
Jon bowed and returned to his seat, his throat slightly sore.
"That was beautiful," Dacey said quietly. "Both of them."
"Thank you."
"Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"I don't know." Jon took a drink of wine. "I just... can. Always could, as long as I can remember."
"Your mother, maybe?"
Maybe. Or maybe someone else. Noo...they always said he was good at....No. It's not him. It's your mother.
"Maybe," Jon said aloud.
Before they could continue, a raspy voice cut through the conversation around them.
"To... Jon... Flint."
Everyone turned. Uncle Benjen had stood at his table, his scarred throat working as he raised his cup.
"My... nephew," Benjen continued, each word carefully formed. "Fought... like... a true... Stark... today. Like... a true... northman."
He paused, gathering strength.
"Proud... of you... boy. Your... mother... would be... proud... too."
Jon's eyes burned for the first time in months. Benjen never spoke about Jon's mother. No one did. For him to mention her now, here, in front of everyone...
Jon stood, his eyes burning still. "Thank you, Uncle. That means more than you know."
Benjen nodded once, then sat back down, his wife Barbrey touching his arm gently.
The feast continued around him, but Jon felt distant from it now, lost in thoughts he couldn't quite articulate. He performed his part, laughed at jokes, made conversation, played the role of the charming young lord, but part of him was somewhere else.
He needed air. Space. Time to think.
Jon left. I'm tired he told someone as he left. He didn't know when it happened, but he found himself in God's Wood, the place of God. The place of truth. Yet, Jon was always denied the one truth he wanted.
Who is my mother? Jon asked the gods, but the tree did not answer him; its red eyes looked at him, but they held no answers.
Jon kneeled before the Heart Tree, his hand touched the tree, hoping for someone to answer him, but then he was no longer in Winterfell.
Jon stared at the snow before him. It was close; he leaned closer, and he could smell it. Blood. Jon felt hungry; he hadn't eaten in a while, and his brother and sisters were hungry too.
Stay near me, his mother told him, Jon looked up, and two pale blue eyes stared down at him, they were kind eyes. Jon felt safe and followed her. Jon knew how to be quiet; he was always quiet.
Soon they would find food. Mother always found food.
The trees around Jon were giants, vasts of white and grey that stretched up and up until they disappeared into the dark sky. Their roots twisted through the snow like frozen serpents, each one as thick as Jon's whole body. He had to scramble over them, his small paws sinking into the cold white stuff with every step.
Everything was big. Too big. A branch cracked somewhere to his left, and Jon's ears flattened against his head. He pressed closer to Mother's legs, taking comfort in her warmth, her strength, her smell.
Stay close, Mother's presence seemed to say, though she made no sound. The forest is hungry too.
Jon's siblings moved around him—grey shapes in the darkness. His brother bumped against him, whimpering softly. Hungry. They were all so hungry. Jon's belly hurt with it, a constant ache that made him want to curl up and sleep, but Mother kept moving, so Jon kept moving too.
The wind howled through the trees, and Jon shivered. Cold. Everything was cold. The snow numbed his paws, made each step harder than the last. But he couldn't stop. Stopping meant being left behind, and being left behind meant...
Jon didn't know what it meant. He just knew it was bad.
Something screamed in the distance, a rabbit maybe, or something smaller. Jon's head snapped toward the sound, his nose twitching. Food? But Mother didn't turn. She kept moving forward through the endless white and grey, her massive form cutting a path through the snow that Jon struggled to follow.
A bird exploded from a nearby bush, wings beating frantically as it fled into the night. Jon yelped and stumbled backward, his heart hammering in his small chest. The shadows could hide bears, or those things with the long claws Mother had warned them about with her growls. The trees themselves seemed to watch with hollow eyes.
Mother stopped.
Jon froze, his nose working frantically to understand why. His siblings pressed close, all of them small and frightened and hungry in the vastness of the forest.
Then Jon smelled it.
Blood. Fresh blood.
Man-smell, something whispered in the back of Jon's mind. Two-legs. Danger.
But Mother was moving forward again, and Jon followed because he always followed. Through a gap between two enormous trees, into a small clearing where the snow lay undisturbed and perfect.
Except for the shape in the center.
Jon crept closer, his belly low to the ground. The thing in the snow was long and still. It had the shape of the two-legged creatures Mother had taught them to fear and avoid. But this one wasn't moving. This one smelled of death and cold.
The two-legs had long hair, dark against the snow, spreading out like the roots of a tree. Its face was turned up toward the black sky, eyes closed, lips blue. It wore strange coverings, and there was blood frozen on its chest.
Dead, Jon understood. Not dangerous anymore. Just meat.
Mother circled the corpse once, twice, her pale eyes glowing in the darkness. Then she looked at her children and her meaning was clear: Eat. Survive. This is what we must do.
Jon's siblings moved forward eagerly, their hunger overcoming their fear. They were starving, and here was food, strange food, frightening food, but food nonetheless.
Jon approached more slowly. Something felt wrong. The man-smell was too strong, too familiar. He stared at the corpse's face, at the long dark hair spreading across the snow, at the frozen features that looked almost...
Almost like they were sleeping.
Not dead. Just sleeping.
But that was wrong. Jon could smell the death. Could smell the days this thing had been lying here, frozen and forgotten. The two-legs was definitely dead. Definitely just meat now.
So why did looking at its face make Jon's chest hurt?
Why did those closed eyes make him want to howl?
His siblings were already tearing at the strange coverings, trying to reach the meat beneath. Mother watched them with approval, her tail swishing slowly through the snow.
Eat, she seemed to say. This is the way of things. The weak die. The strong survive. We are strong.
Jon stepped closer. His stomach cramped with hunger, demanding that he join his siblings, that he tear and bite and fill the emptiness inside him. He was so hungry. So tired. So cold.
He opened his small jaws, leaning toward the corpse's arm where the skin was exposed, where one bite would—
Jon Flint woke with a gasp, and he fell backwards, landing on the snow. The face of the Weirwood Tree is looking down at him. Like a Judge.
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