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Jon Snow
The Wall hit Jon like a fist to the chest.
He'd been riding for hours in that half-aware state that came from too many days in the saddle, his mind drifting between thoughts of Winterfell and what waited at Karhold, when Harmond had called out: "There it is, lads. The end of the world."
Jon had looked up, and there it was.
The Wall.
Even from this distance—miles, surely, maybe ten or more—it dominated the northern horizon like a wound in the sky. Not white as he'd expected from the stories, but gray-blue in the afternoon light, a massive shadow that seemed to swallow the landscape before it. Jon had read about it, heard Old Nan's tales, listened to his father speak of it.
None of it had prepared him for this.
"Big, isn't it?" Rickard said with obvious amusement at Jon's expression. "Seven hundred feet of ice and old magic. Makes a man feel rather small."
Small was an understatement. Jon felt like an insect staring at a mountain, like the Wall could simply decide to fall and crush everything for leagues around. And somewhere up there, freezing and standing watch against gods knew what, was Uncle Benjen.
Does he see us? Jon wondered, then immediately felt foolish. Of course not. They were specks from this distance, and the Wall stretched for hundreds of miles. But still, knowing Benjen was somewhere up there, wearing the black and keeping the realm safe from nightmares...
"Last Hearth's just ahead," Lord Karstark called from the front. "We'll make it before dark if we don't dawdle."
Jon tore his eyes from the Wall, though part of him wanted to keep staring. Instead he focused on what lay before them: Last Hearth, rising from the landscape like a challenge to everything north of it.
The castle was... well, calling it smaller than Winterfell was like calling a wolf smaller than a direwolf. Last Hearth was massive in its own right—thick walls of dark stone, four square towers that looked like they could withstand a siege from the Others themselves. But there was nothing beautiful about it.
The First Defense, Jon remembered Harmond saying. If the wildlings ever break through the Wall, they hit Last Hearth first.
The town surrounding the castle reflected that reality. Smaller than Winter Town, but every building looked defensible. Strong doors, few windows, walls that could be manned in an emergency. Jon noticed watch towers scattered throughout, always manned, always watching north.
These people lived with the reality of the Wall every day.
"Nervous?" Torren asked, pulling up beside Jon as they approached the gates.
"Should I be?"
"Lord Umber has a reputation for testing people. Likes to know what men are made of." Torren grinned. "Though you impressed him at that feast at Winterfell last year, so you've got that going for you."
Jon didn't remember seeing Lord Umber at any feast, but before he could say so, the gates swung open and a voice like rolling thunder boomed across the courtyard:
"KARSTARK! You old bear, what brings you to the arse-end of the North?"
The man who strode out to meet them was exactly what Jon had pictured when people said "Lord Jon Umber." Massive—easily six and a half feet tall, broad as a barn door, with a black beard that looked like it could house a family of birds. His laugh was loud enough to startle horses, and his handshake with Lord Karstark looked like it could crush stones.
"Jon," Lord Karstark said warmly, returning the grip without flinching. "Still terrorizing your household, I see."
"Someone has to keep them alert! Can't have them getting soft just because winter's a few years off." The Greatjon's eyes swept over their group, landing on Jon with obvious curiosity. "And who's this purple-eyed whelp? Didn't know you collected strays, Rickard."
Jon felt every eye in the courtyard turn toward him.
He swung down from his horse, his legs only slightly unsteady after a full day's ride. "Jon Snow, my lord. Lord Stark's son." Not bastard son. Just son. Let Umber make of that what he would.
The Greatjon's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "The Ned's boy? Seven hells, Rickard, you're fostering Ned Stark's bastard?" He threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "What's the Ned thinking, sending his boy to you? Trying to civilize him with your southern Karhold ways?"
"Karhold is hardly southern," Lord Karstark protested mildly.
"Everything's southern compared to Last Hearth! We're so far north we can piss on the Wall from here!" The Greatjon clapped Lord Karstark on the shoulder hard enough to stagger a smaller man. "Come on then, all of you. Inside before you freeze your balls off. We'll feast tonight and you can tell me what mad scheme has you dragging Ned's boy across the North."
As they moved toward the keep, Jon noticed a younger man watching from the top of the stairs. Tall, though not quite as tall as the Greatjon, with the same dark hair and broad shoulders. He had to be the son—Smalljon, people called him, though there was nothing small about him. Maybe seventeen or eighteen.
Their eyes met, and Smalljon grinned. "Another Jon. This'll get confusing."
"I go by Snow mostly," Jon offered. "Cuts down on the confusion."
"Smalljon," the younger Umber said, descending the stairs. "Though I'm not actually small anymore. Father refuses to change the nickname." He looked Jon up and down with open assessment. "You're younger than I expected. Twelve?"
"Thirteen in a few months," Jon said, adding the months because somehow it seemed important not to seem too young in front of this older, larger, clearly more experienced warrior.
"Still young enough that I could snap you like a twig." But Smalljon said it with a grin that took the threat out of it. "We'll have to spar tomorrow. See if the Stark bastard has any of his father's steel, or if those pretty purple eyes are all he inherited."
Pretty purple eyes. Jon wasn't sure if that was a compliment or an insult, so he decided to take it as neither. "Happy to spar. Though I should warn you, I've beaten men older than you."
"Have you now?" Smalljon's grin widened. "This'll be fun."
The great hall of Last Hearth was warm, but not as warm as Winterfell. Massive hearths at both ends threw heat that made Jon's frozen fingers tingle as blood returned to them. The hall was smaller than Winterfell's, but somehow felt more alive. Swords and shields hung on the walls, but they looked like they'd been used recently and would be used again.
"Sit! Eat! Drink!" The Greatjon commanded, gesturing expansively at the high table. "You've ridden hard and you look half-starved. Can't have Ned's boy wasting away at my table. He'd take it personally."
Jon found himself seated between Smalljon and Harmond, with the Greatjon holding court at the head of the table like a king of old. Serving girls brought food, good, hearty northern fare that made the trail rations of the past week seem like cruel jokes. Venison, fresh bread, turnips swimming in butter.
"So," the Greatjon said once everyone had food and drink, his sharp eyes fixed on Jon. "Ned Stark's bastard. I remember you from that feast at Winterfell—what, a year back? You were smaller then. Quieter."
"I was eleven, my lord. Most people are quieter at eleven."
"Most people are quieter at fifty around me," the Greatjon shot back. "I'm told I have a commanding presence." He took a massive drink of ale. "Your father's a good man, Snow. Finest man I know, if I'm being honest. Honor like iron, that one. But sending you to Karhold?" He looked at Lord Karstark with exaggerated suspicion. "What's the scheme here, Rickard? You trying to steal the Ned's boy? Teach him your fancy commerce ideas?"
Lord Karstark smiled slightly. "Jon has a keen mind for trade and economics. Wasting it at Winterfell seemed... inefficient."
"Inefficient!" The Greatjon barked with laughter. "Listen to him! Always with the efficiency and the planning. This is why Karstark men live longer—they think too much to do anything properly dangerous." He pointed a knife at Jon. "And you, boy. You really understand commerce? Trade routes and tariffs and all that boring shit that makes maesters rich?"
Jon swallowed his mouthful of venison. "I understand enough to see opportunities, my lord. Whether I can actually execute those ideas remains to be seen."
"Honest answer. I like that." The Greatjon leaned forward. "Give me an example. What kind of opportunities does a twelve-year-old bastard see that old lords miss?"
This was another test, he realized. The Greatjon wanted to see if he was just a clever boy with fancy words.
"White Harbor has a monopoly on northern sea trade," Jon began, choosing his words carefully. "They're the only major port, which means they can essentially charge whatever they want for shipping. It's good for House Manderly, but it's limiting for everyone else."
"And?" the Greatjon prompted.
"And Lord Karstark has natural harbors on the Shivering Sea that could serve as a second port. Specifically for goods that White Harbor can't reach efficiently—like white whales in the far northern waters."
"White whales?" Smalljon interjected, leaning forward with interest. "Those massive things that Ibbenese hunt?"
"The same. Their oil sells for triple what regular whale oil brings. The meat's valuable too. But White Harbor's too far south to reach the prime hunting grounds before the migration ends." Jon said, feeling more confident. "Karhold could position itself as the North's gateway to those resources. It wouldn't compete with White Harbor's existing trade—it would complement it."
The Greatjon sat back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "And how does a twelve-year-old boy know about Ibbenese whaling and Pentoshi oil prices?"
"Maester Luwin's library has extensive trade records dating back centuries. I... may have read them all."
"May have?"
"Did. I read them all." Jon felt heat creep up his neck. "The boring ones twice."
The Greatjon stared at him for a long moment. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter that rattled the cups on the table. "Seven hells! The boy's clever and honest about it! Rickard, you lucky bastard, you've found yourself a rare gem." He raised his cup in Jon's direction. "To Jon Snow, who reads the boring books twice and thinks he can turn Karhold into a whaling empire!"
The hall erupted in cheers and raised cups. Jon felt his face burning but couldn't help smiling. Beside him, Smalljon clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him off the bench.
"I take it back," the older boy said. "I'm not going to snap you like a twig tomorrow. I'm going to make you work for it."
"Looking forward to it," Jon managed.
The feast continued with that particular northern enthusiasm that involved more drinking than eating and enough loud laughter to wake the dead. Jon found himself drawn into conversations he'd never had at Winterfell—frank discussions of fighting styles, trading gossip about other northern houses, even a surprisingly detailed debate about the best way to cure venison.
"Your mother," the Greatjon said suddenly, and Jon's eyes were on him. "She was foreign, wasn't she? Those eyes don't come from the North."
Jon did not like it when strangers mentioned his mother. "I believe so, my lord. My father hasn't told me her name."
"Hasn't told you?" The Greatjon's eyebrows rose. "That's not like Ned. He's many things, but secretive about honor isn't usually one of them."
"Perhaps he has his reasons," Jon said carefully.
"Perhaps he does." The Greatjon studied Jon like a book in an unknown language. "But I'll tell you what I told your father once: a man's worth isn't measured by his mother's name or his father's marriage. It's measured by what he does with the blood he's given. You've got Ned's honor in you—I can see it plain as day. And those eyes suggest your mother was someone special. That's enough for any man."
"Thank you, my lord."
"Don't thank me. Just don't waste it." The Greatjon raised his voice to address the whole hall. "This boy here is Ned Stark's son, bastard or not! Anyone who treats him with anything less than respect answers to me! Understood?"
A chorus of agreement filled the hall. Jon felt a warmth in his chest, and for a brief moment his eyes burned, but he refused to shed tears. These northern lords, rough as they were, understood things that Winterfell's careful political dance sometimes obscured. Blood mattered. Actions mattered more.
After the feast, Jon found he couldn't sleep. His chamber was comfortable enough—a simple room in one of Last Hearth's towers, with a narrow window that looked north. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Wall. Vast. Impossible. There.
Finally he gave up, pulling on his cloak and making his way outside.
The courtyard was quiet at this hour, lit only by torches and the moon overhead. Jon's breath fogged in the cold air as he walked toward the northern wall. The guard posted there was an older man, scarred and grizzled, who nodded as Jon approached.
"Can't sleep, boy?"
"Too much on my mind," Jon admitted.
"First time seeing the Wall?"
"Is it that obvious?"
The guard chuckled. "You've got the look. Everyone does, first time. Like someone hit them between the eyes with truth." He gestured north. "Beautiful tonight. Clear enough to see the tall bastard properly."
Jon followed his gaze, and there it was. The Wall, limned in moonlight, looking even more massive than it had in daylight. From here he could see details he'd missed before—the way it seemed to glow faintly, the irregular surface where ice had melted and refrozen over centuries, the tiny dark spots that might have been guard towers.
"My uncle's up there," Jon said quietly. "Benjen Stark. He took the black years ago."
"Benjen Stark?" Jon heard respect in his voice. "I've heard of him. First Ranger's taken a shine to him, from what the Watch says. Smart, skilled, dedicated. Your uncle's doing the Night's Watch proud."
"Do they... do you hear much from the Watch? About what's beyond the Wall?" Jon asked. He knew not how life was lived at the Wall, but he knew it was dangerous.
"Enough to know it's not all giants and snarks," the guard said grimly. "Wildlings mostly, but they've been restless lately. More raids, more organized. Something's got them stirred up."
"What?"
"If the Watch knew, they'd tell us. But they don't know, which makes it worse." The guard shifted his spear. "That's why we're here, lad. Last Hearth stands between the Wall and the rest of the North. If something breaks through—when something breaks through—we're the ones who buy time for the rest of you to prepare."
"You expect it to happen?"
"I expect nothing and prepare for everything. That's how you survive up here." The guard looked at him directly. "Your uncle made a brave choice, joining the Watch. The black brothers keep us all safe, and most people never think about it. They sleep sound because men like your uncle freeze their balls off on that Wall, watching for nightmares."
Jon thought of his uncle face from the last time he saw him three years ago, he still remembered him. Jon wondered if his uncle would recognise him now if he saw him, but he knew he would.
"Those purple eyes of your Jon. They are like stars in your face, and just like any star in the night sky, you brighten every room you walk into."
"I hope he's warm tonight," Jon murmured.
"He's probably cold as the seven hells," the guard said frankly. "But he's doing what needs doing. That's worth more than comfort."
Footsteps on the stones made them both turn. Alys approached, wrapped in a heavy fur cloak, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked Jon, then nodded to the guard. "Good evening, Ser."
"Lady," the guard replied, then rather pointedly moved further down the wall, giving them privacy while remaining visible.
Jon felt his heart rate pick up, which was stupid. They'd been traveling together for over a week. But somehow, alone in the moonlight with the Wall watching, felt different.
"I saw you leave," Alys said, moving to stand beside him. "Thought you might want company."
"Always," Jon said, then felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I mean, yes. Company would be nice."
She smiled, and gods, that smile. "Smooth, Snow. Very smooth."
"I'm working on it."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both watching the Wall. Jon was acutely aware of how close she was, the way her breath fogged in the cold air, the scent of winter roses that clung to her cloak.
"It's terrifying," Alys said finally. "The Wall. Knowing what it's meant to keep out."
"And knowing it's held for thousands of years," Jon added. "That's something, at least."
"Is it?" She turned to look at him. "Sometimes I think about how it's been so long since the Wall was truly tested. Thousands of years of peace from whatever nightmares they built it to stop. Doesn't that make you wonder if we're due?"
Jon had thought the same thing but hadn't wanted to voice it. "You think in patterns."
"I think in strategy. Patterns are just strategy played out over time." She pulled her cloak tighter. "Father says I think too much like a man."
"Your father also just fostered a twelve-year-old to discuss whaling economics. I don't think he's concerned about traditional thinking."
"Fair point." She laughed softly. "Are you nervous? About Karhold?"
"Terrified," Jon admitted. "What if my ideas don't work? What if I've been reading charts and maps and convincing myself I understand things I don't?"
"Then you'll fail, learn, and try again." She said it so simply. "Jon, you stood in front of my father and the Greatjon and talked about trade routes like a grown man. You caught a fish with a spear after missing six times. You're still here, still trying. That's what matters."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to prove a bastard can build something lasting."
"No, I'm the one who has to prove a daughter can have thoughts beyond needlework and marriage prospects." Her voice sounded different for a moment. "I asked Father to foster you because I saw something in you that night at Winterfell. That same fire that I feel when people tell me what I can't do because of what's between my legs. We're both fighting to prove we're more than the circumstances of our birth."
Jon was quite for a moment, then he asked her something he had been wondering about since Rickard told him many days ago. "I heard that you asked Lord Karhald to foster me," Jon said finally, looking at her.
"Well." She looked away. "I did. Is that so surprising?"
"A little. We barely knew each other."
"We knew enough." Her eyes met his again. "I knew you were worth knowing better. Was I wrong?"
"I hope not," Jon managed, then there was silence again.
"I should go back," Alys said quietly. "Septa Jynessa will have noticed I'm gone."
"Yes. Right. Good idea."
"We'll talk more?" It was half question, half statement.
"Yes. Definitely. Talking is... we should talk more."
She touched his hand briefly, and then she was gone, disappearing back into the keep like a ghost.
Jon stood there for several long moments, staring at nothing, his hand still warm where she'd touched it, before he decided to return to his chamber, saying good night to the soldier before he left.
The next morning dawned clear and cold. Jon woke to someone pounding on his door, it sounded like a giant fist was about to bring the whole door down.
"Up, Snow!" Smalljon's voice boomed through the wood. "Training yard in ten minutes! Let's see if the Stark bastard can fight as well as he can talk about whale oil!"
Jon groaned. But he dragged himself out of bed, splashed water on his face from the basin, and dressed quickly. His practice leathers still smelled of travel and horse, but they'd have to do.
The training yard was already occupied when Jon emerged. Smalljon stood in the center, wearing padded armor and holding a blunted practice sword that still looked like it could break bones. Around the edges, men had gathered to watch—Last Hearth guards, some of Karstark's men, even a few castle servants who'd found excuses to be nearby.
"There he is!" Smalljon called cheerfully. "The boy who thinks he can build trading empires! Let's see if he can defend himself first!"
Ser Rodrik had taught Jon that crowds were neutral—they'd cheer for whoever gave them the better show. As Jon selected his own practice sword and moved into the ring, he decided that if he was going to make a fool of himself, he'd at least do it with style.
"Fair warning," Jon said, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "I'm told I'm quite good at this. Just thought you should know before the embarrassment sets in."
"Oh, I like you, Snow! Let's dance!"
They came together fast, practice swords clacking with the sharp sound of wood on wood. Smalljon was bigger, stronger, and had years more experience. But Jon had something else, his speed.
Smalljon attacked high. Jon parried, stepped aside, countered low. Smalljon blocked, spun, came back with a combination, and Jon jumped back, and docked his head at the last second.
"Fast!" Smalljon grunted, pressing harder. "But let's see how you handle strength!"
He lunged forward with a powerful overhead strike. Jon sidestepped instead of blocking and tapped the older boy's back with his blade as he went by.
The crowd cheered. Smalljon whirled, grinning wider. "Clever! Do that again!"
They did it again. And again. For ten solid minutes they fought, neither giving quarter, the training yard filling with the sounds of combat and increasingly enthusiastic commentary from the watchers. Jon was breathing hard, sweat running down his face despite the cold, but he was alive in a way he rarely felt at Winterfell.
Finally Smalljon called halt, both of them gasping. "Yield?"
"Not dead yet," Jon managed.
"Good enough!" Smalljon lowered his sword, still grinning. "Seven hells, Snow. Who taught you to fight like that?"
"Ser Rodrik Cassel. And practice. Lots of practice."
"It shows." Smalljon clapped him on the shoulder, this time friendly rather than challenging. "You've got speed and eyes that see everything. Give you a few more years and some muscle, you'll be dangerous."
From the edge of the yard came a familiar booming laugh. "The boy's got steel in him!" The Greatjon strode forward, looking immensely pleased. "Smalljon, you're getting slow! Nearly lost to a twelve-year-old!"
"I didn't nearly lose—"
"You also didn't win," his father interrupted cheerfully. "Which against someone half your size and age means you nearly lost. Don't worry, son, I won't tell anyone. Except everyone. Immediately."
The crowd laughed, and Smalljon shook his head. "Thanks, Father. Very supportive."
The Greatjon's attention shifted to Jon, his expression growing more serious. "Walk with me, Snow. I want to show you something."
They walked to the northern wall, the Greatjon's massive stride making Jon nearly jog to keep up. Once there, with the Wall visible in the distance, the lord stopped.
"You see that?" he asked, pointing. "That's what we defend. Last Hearth isn't just a castle—it's a promise. A promise that if evil comes from the north, it stops here. We buy time for the rest of the North to prepare. We stand so others can sleep sound."
Jon nodded.
"You're young, Snow. Bastard-born, which some fools think matters. But I've seen men born legitimate who had no honor, and bastards who'd die before breaking their word. Your father's one of the latter—legitimacy doesn't make him honorable, his choices do." The Greatjon looked down at Jon with surprising gentleness in his fierce eyes. "You've got steel in you, boy. Not just in how you fight, but in how you carry yourself. Bastard or not, you're a Stark. Don't ever let anyone tell you different. Don't let anyone make you think you're less because of how you were born."
"Thank you, my lord," Jon said, his throat tight.
"Don't thank me. Just don't waste it." The Greatjon gripped Jon's shoulder. "You come back here anytime. Last Hearth will always have a place for Ned Stark's son—for any of them. You ever need shelter, allies, or just someone to drink with and talk honestly, you ride north. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good." The Greatjon's fierce expression returned. "Now get back inside before you freeze. And tell Karstark if he doesn't feed you properly at Karhold, I'm coming down there to kick his arse and bring you back. Can't have the Ned's boy wasting away."
As Jon made his way back toward the keep, Smalljon fell into step beside him.
"Father likes you," the older boy observed. "He doesn't give that speech to just anyone."
"What speech?"
"The 'you've got steel in you' speech. Usually reserves it for people he thinks will matter someday." Smalljon glanced at Jon. "I think he's right. You're going to be interesting to watch, Snow."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Take it however you like. But I'm serious about writing. I want to hear about these whaling schemes. If you actually manage to turn Karhold into a trading port, I'll be impressed enough to never let you forget I said so."
They clasped forearms in the northern fashion, and Jon felt the sincerity behind it. Whatever happened at Karhold, he'd made a friend here. An ally. Someone who saw Jon Snow rather than just Ned Stark's bastard.
Lord Karstark's party departed Last Hearth with full bellies and genuine farewells. The Greatjon's voice followed them through the gates: "Remember, Snow! You're always welcome! Even if you do bring boring books!"
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