The hall of Last Hearth was thick with the smell of roasted meat and pine smoke. Torches guttered along the walls, their flames licking shadows high against the rafters. Jon sat at the long oaken table beside the Umbers, a trencher of bread and meat before him, Ghost lying silent by the hearth where the others gave him a wide berth.
The rites of bread and salt had been offered at his arrival, as was the custom. Greatjon himself had pressed the crust into Jon's hand, his booming voice carrying over the hall: "Be welcome under my roof, boy. No harm shall come to you here."
The company settled into their meal, and for a time, the hall was filled only with the sounds of chewing and the clatter of knives on trenchers. Jon ate sparingly, drinking only water. He felt the weight of eyes upon him—the curious, the doubtful, the openly suspicious.
It was Smalljon who broke the silence first. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and fixed Jon with a hard stare.
"I heard from Allana, you fought Ramsay and his men alone well enough," he said. "But men don't just wander into this far for sport. What brought you so far north? What were you about?"
Jon set down his knife, meeting Smalljon's gaze. The words came plain and unpolished. "I had thought once to take the black. To join the Night's Watch. But it did not feel… right for me."
At once the hall stirred. A rumble of voices, low and dark, rose among the gathered men. A deserter, someone hissed under their breath. Another muttered, Runaway crow. Hands moved to sword hilts; chairs scraped the floor. Suspicion thickened like smoke.
Jon did not flinch, though Ghost stirred by the fire, his eyes looking for potential prey. Slowly, with deliberate calm, Jon reached beneath his cloak. Several men half-rose at the motion, steel glinting.
But Jon only drew forth a folded letter, sealed with wax darkened from travel. He laid it on the table and slid it toward Greatjon with steady hands.
"Read," he said simply.
The Greatjon cracked the seal and squinted at the script. His lips moved as he read, then his brows rose. At length, he slammed the parchment flat upon the table. "Lord Commander Jeor Mormont's own hand. The boy speaks truth."
The room quieted, though the taste of suspicion still lingered. Jon reclaimed the letter without another word.
Inwardly, his chest tightened. Too quick to trust. Too eager to prove myself. For so long, he had carried himself with humility, with deference born of being a bastard in Winterfell's halls. Always respectful, careful not to overstep. Yet here, after saving the daughter of their house, they still reached for blades at the first chance to doubt him.
Respect makes you small, he thought bitterly. And small men are easily dismissed, easily doubted. A bastard's courtesy will not shield me in this life.
The meal went on, though little more was spoken to him. Jon finished in silence, feeding scraps of meat to Ghost, who snapped them up without lifting his red-eyed gaze from the men at the fire.
When the dishes were cleared and the hall grew quiet with the weight of the meal, Jon rose. His cloak fell heavy against his shoulders.
"I thank you for your bread and salt," he said, his voice carrying clear in the hall. "But my road is long. I've a journey yet to take, and I'll not stay the night."
Greatjon frowned, pushing back from the table with a grunt. "You've ridden hard. Stay, and ride on with the dawn."
Jon shook his head once. "I cannot. My path is my own and I'll trouble your hall no longer."
For a moment, the great bear of a man studied him. Then his fierce eyes softened, and his voice, when he spoke, was lower, edged with understanding.
"You've Stark's blood, bastard or no. And you've my daughter's life on your soul. Whatever harsh words or hasty hands my men showed you—they'll not be the last you see in this world. But know this: my house will remember what you've done."
Jon inclined his head, neither smiling nor bowing deeply, but understanding the weight of the words.
Allana stood at her father's side, her gaze following Jon with something unreadable—gratitude, perhaps, or guilt that she could not ease the sting of suspicion he had suffered.
Jon turned without further word. Ghost padded to his side, a silent shadow of tooth and fur. The doors of Last Hearth opened with a groan, and the cold night air washed over him.
Behind him, voices rose again, softer now, as the Umbers spoke among themselves. Ahead, the road stretched into darkness.
Jon pulled his cloak tight, mounted his horse, and rode on, leaving hearth-fire and its hall behind.