Jon Snow was not the tallest man on the field, nor the most imposing. Yet at this moment he stood at the center of a gathering unlike any he had ever imagined. Around him clustered a throng of white-haired veterans, their faces weathered by wind and war, their bodies bent but unbroken.Six hundred, perhaps seven hundred of them.The sight startled him. In his mind's eye, an army was always young men with bright eyes and quick steps, not these gray-haired warriors who looked as though they belonged by the hearth, not on a battlefield.One of the older soldiers stepped forward. His beard was thin and patchy, his felt cap tattered with age. Still, his voice rang out with surprising strength."My Lord, we come from the mountain clans—those who live north of Queenscrown, just south of the Wall."Another, his "straight man" companion, nodded vigorously, adding: "Aye, the cold winds are our neighbors. Every winter, we climb the mountains, hunt, and return—if we return at all."Jon stood silent, listening. His upbringing, though half-wolf and half-outsider, had taught him respect for the old, compassion for the weak. Now, that teaching held him rooted, absorbing every word."In our mountains," the old soldier continued, "when food grows scarce, the old must leave the young to eat. We go into the wilds, and often we do not come back.""Aye," his comrade echoed. "It has been so for generations. Our fathers before us, and their fathers before them."Jon's chest tightened. He thought of stories from his first world—tales of "living tombs," where the elderly were sealed away, fed through a hole until the day their children laid the last brick. He had always dismissed such tales as morbid legend. Now, the living embodiment of that grim tradition stood before him.The old man went on, matter-of-fact. "This autumn, we knew our time was short. But then came Lord Stark's summons. We thought—why not earn merit one last time? A victory, perhaps, in exchange for food our families could live on."The meaning struck Jon immediately. Their bodies might be slowing, their reflexes dulled, but their minds were sharp. They knew following him—Jon Snow, who had led them through death and flame—was safer than being left as fodder for Roose Bolton.Even if they died, they would die with dignity, not abandoned like cattle. And in coming, they had brought food from their homes, heavy bundles weighing dozens of pounds. That food was the currency of their gamble.In other words, their lives—gray, fading lives—had been bought for the price of a few sacks of grain."My Lord," one of them said, voice breaking. "Take us in!""Aye, my Lord, take us!""Take us, take us!"The cries rose around him, cracked with age but desperate, heartfelt.Jon swallowed hard. He was not yet sixteen. Yet here, men old enough to be his grandsires knelt and pleaded, asking to serve under him as if he were their lord.His heart wavered. How could he turn them away?At last, he raised a hand. "I understand you. But Lord Roose Bolton commands this host, not I. I must have his word before taking you in. If he agrees, then you may follow me."Relief broke across their faces. They smiled, some showing broken or yellowed teeth, others with gums bare where no teeth remained. They looked ragged, but for the first time that day, they looked alive.Jon slipped away through the passage they opened for him. Behind, the murmur of nobles began."If not for Jon, we'd be corpses or captives now," said Lord Severn—Meiqisaiwen, who only hours before had mocked Jon without restraint. "We cannot allow Roose Bolton to command any longer!""Aye!" cried Haliang Karstark, his voice fierce. "That leech knows nothing. I swear, his mind's been drained dry. Had we followed Jon's counsel from the start, we might already have captured Tywin and marched on King's Landing!"Others joined in, voices rising."When Bolton calls a meeting, we'll name Jon commander instead!""Nominate him directly!""He's his father's son—he is like Lord Eddard himself!""Exactly!"The tent buzzed with their heated words, each one building upon the next until it seemed they were on the verge of proclaiming Jon Stark, heir of Winterfell, in truth.Yet one man remained still: Howland Reed of the crannogmen. His gaze was quiet, his voice cautious when he spoke."My Lords, I know your feelings. But Jon is still young. Lord Bolton has fought more battles and commands greater experience. We should trust him still and follow Robb's orders."His words fell like stones in a river, swallowed by the current. A noble from House Manderly turned on him at once. "Ser Reed, weren't you saved by Jon yourself? Why speak against him now?" His tone dripped with scorn.Willis Manderly, the man's kin, had fallen in battle. Grief sharpened every word."Roose Bolton abandoned us!" Haliang spat, his temper rising again.Howland's eyes narrowed. He understood what burned beneath their words. Today's betrayal had severed the fragile cord between these lords and Bolton. Trust was gone. And once trust is gone, orders carry little weight.But loyalty to Jon? That too was unsteady. Jon was a bastard, with no strong lineage to support him. Gratitude was fickle; it burned bright in the moment of salvation but dimmed quickly as wars dragged on.How would Robb Stark view this talk? Even if the Young Wolf could bear it, would Lady Catelyn tolerate her husband's bastard rising to command over trueborn nobles?Howland could not speak such thoughts aloud. Instead, he prayed silently that Jon himself would not be swept away by this dangerous tide.Meanwhile, Severn, Haliang, and a cluster of lesser lords conspired openly. They would raise Jon up at the next assembly, they vowed, declaring him commander before Bolton's face.None noticed the eyes in the shadows, the quiet ears of Bolton's spies. Every whisper, every plan carried straight to the flayed man's tent."Did that bastard refuse them?" Bolton asked his attendant, voice low."Yes," came the answer.Bolton's lips twisted into a sneer. "Of course he refused. He knows full well the trouble he caused me today. But he would fan the flames hotter yet, let them burn me alive while his own hands stay clean."Still, Jon's stance was careful, flawless. Bolton could find no fault—yet. The true test would come at the meeting.After a battle, some reckoning was always required. Not a "summary" in the modern sense, but a gathering to weigh deeds: who fought well, who faltered, who would be rewarded, and who punished.And none could deny it—Jon had fought best of all.It was he who had turned water into a weapon, flooding the field and cutting off pursuit. He who had rallied men who were already half-dead with exhaustion. He who had delivered them from certain annihilation.Such deeds could make even a bastard into a lord. A new fief, a banner of his own, perhaps even legitimacy—"White Stark," like Karstark of old. The thought hovered, tantalizing.Bolton banished it with a shake of his head. Idle musings. First, the meeting.The summons went out. Nobles assembled in the command tent, though the space seemed emptier than before. Willis Manderly's vast frame no longer filled three chairs, his bulk gone to the grave. Others, too, were missing, leaving the air heavy with absence.When Bolton entered, he felt the weight of their eyes—cold, disdainful, hostile. He ignored it, moving to the head of the table as though nothing were amiss.Then Jon entered.And more than half the lords rose to their feet.Even Bolton's own vassals twitched upward before remembering themselves and settling quickly back.Jon stopped, startled. "Why are you looking at me like that? I was tending to my knight's wounds—Tormien was hurt, and others too. I bandaged them before coming. It took longer than I thought."The words, plain and honest, struck the nobles deeply. The bastard of Winterfell, tending wounds with his own hands, caring for men as if they were brothers, not pawns. Eddard's son, through and through.Bolton said nothing, only gestured curtly for him to sit. Jon made for his usual corner, but Haliang stood suddenly."Jon, sit here.""Aye, here," Severn echoed.Jon inclined his head politely. "Thank you, but I'll remain where I am." He settled into the corner, but now all eyes seemed to turn that way regardless.Bolton's nostrils flared. To him, the boy was playing a part, milking every moment for favor. He forced his expression calm and began his summary of the battle.He praised Jon, but only briefly, burying the youth's brilliance beneath layers of half-truth and omission. His own failings he glossed over, speaking in measured tones for ten long minutes. His words fell heavy and lifeless.No lord voiced agreement, save his own vassals. Even Jon's polite nods sounded, to Bolton's ears, like daggers of mockery.Then it came—a sound of steel rasping free.Bolton stiffened, hand twitching. His guards surged forward, blades ready. For an instant, he thought mutiny had erupted.But it was Haliang Karstark who stood, sword raised. His voice rang clear:"Jon, from this day forth, the army of House Karstark is yours to command. I pledge myself as one of your generals!"The tent froze. Silence descended so deep that the scrape of a boot on dirt would have been thunder.All eyes turned to Jon.
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