The sunlight bathed the battlements of Darry City, shining upon both the banners of House Darry's farmers and Jon's white wolf banner fluttering proudly beside them.
A small boy, both nervous and excited, led a black-haired, grey-eyed youth through the castle's corridors.
Several times, the boy reached out as if to take Jon's hand, only to withdraw it at the last moment.
Ever since Jon had rescued Darry City from the Mountain's army, Lin Man's admiration for him had reached new heights. He had once believed Robb Stark—who defeated the Kingslayer—to be the strongest man in the world.
But Lin Man had never witnessed Robb's feats with his own eyes.
Jon, however, he had seen. From the top of the city wall, through a spyglass, Lin Man had watched Jon duel and defeat the Mountain himself. That sight had seared itself into his memory.
The two men, he now believed, were incomparable.
Suddenly, Lin Man's eyes lit up as if he had remembered something. "Jon, come with me. I'll show you something—there are many interesting portraits there."
"Portraits?" Jon asked with mild curiosity. "Whose?"
"You'll see," Lin Man replied, grinning mysteriously.
He led Jon through a sunlit corridor. The light glinted off the stone walls and gold frames as he gestured proudly toward the portraits lining the hall.
"Look! These are portraits of the Targaryen kings. Our family has preserved them for generations!"
Jon's heart gave a small jolt. Is this something I should even be looking at? he wondered.
He was about to make an excuse to leave when a panicked figure appeared at the far end of the hall.
Mond Rivers.
The man's face went pale the moment he saw Jon standing beside Lin Man.
The Stag, the Falcon, the Wolf, and the Fish—the four great houses that had overthrown the Targaryen dynasty. For a Stark-blooded man to be looking upon Targaryen portraits—this was practically heresy.
To Mond, it was as if Lin Man had unknowingly led Jon into a trap.
Jon noticed Mond's alarm and quickly understood what was running through his mind.
This has to be dealt with properly, he thought.
"Ser Lin Man is showing me the Targaryen portraits," Jon said casually, breaking the tense silence.
Mond's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Of course he knew what was on the walls—but hearing it from Jon made his legs stiffen as if they'd turned to stone.
Jon's calm tone sounded, to him, like a veiled warning.
"I've always admired the Young Dragon, Daeron," Jon continued. "I hoped to one day achieve deeds like his. There should be a portrait of him here, right?"
"Yes, Jon, there is!" Lin Man said eagerly. "The Young Dragon was the son of Aegon the Dragonbane. He conquered Dorne—something no other Dragon King ever accomplished!"
His voice brimmed with respect for the Targaryens. To Mond, it sounded like blasphemy—he wanted nothing more than to silence the boy.
Under Mond's watchful, anxious gaze, Jon and Lin Man continued to examine the portraits one by one.
"These are all the Targaryen kings," Lin Man said softly, "but this one—Prince Rhaegar—wasn't. We all thought he would be, but fate…"
Please stop talking, Mond prayed silently, his palms sweating.
Jon studied Rhaegar's portrait. As a pure-blooded Targaryen, Rhaegar was undeniably handsome. Yet as Jon thought about the man's actions, his lips curved into a faint, disapproving smile.
Married, yet chasing another man's betrothed—and then abducting her? Unworthy of a prince.
Jon's long pause before the painting only heightened Mond's fear. He imagined Jon's displeasure transforming into retribution.
Then Lin Man suddenly blurted out, "Brother Jon, I don't know why, but… you look a little like Prince Rhaegar."
Jon turned, blinking in surprise. "Oh?"
He compared the portrait and his reflection in the polished glass. At first glance, they shared little resemblance—one black-haired, one silver-haired—but upon closer inspection, there were faint similarities in their eyebrows and the shape of their ears.
The contrast in hair color made it easy to overlook.
Mond, however, could stand no more. "Lin Man!" he hissed in a strained whisper.
Jon glanced at him, noting how different he was from Martin. Martin was reckless but bold; Mond was cautious and easily unsettled.
Perhaps it was time to ease his fear.
"You just called me 'Brother Jon,'" Jon said lightly to Lin Man. "I'm a bastard, and you're an earl. That's not proper etiquette."
Lin Man shrugged cheerfully. "What does it matter? Martin and the others say you've achieved great deeds—you'll be a noble soon enough. Besides, you saved my life. I should call you Brother Jon."
Jon smiled warmly. "Very well. Since you call me brother, then I'll look after you from now on. If you ever face an enemy you can't handle, come to me directly."
Lin Man's face lit up with joy. "Thank you, Brother Jon!"
Jon gave Mond a subtle nod, silently reassuring him. His promise was more than kindness—it was a sign that he cared nothing for their family's Targaryen loyalty.
"They're only portraits," Jon murmured quietly as they walked away. "The Targaryens belong to the past."
Mond exhaled slowly, relief flooding through him.
---
Half a month later, Darry City's food stores were nearly exhausted.
Jon's army, however, had been reorganized. With the addition of House Darry's disciplined soldiers, the command structure became far more efficient, and their combat effectiveness soared.
The number of men directly under Jon's command now approached four thousand—already exceeding the total strength of House Bolton's Dreadfort.
Combined with Jon's growing prestige, that number sent shivers through Roose Bolton's heart.
When word reached him that Jon had not only saved Darry City but annihilated the Mountain's army, Bolton had sat in silence for a long time.
Every move Jon made since the start of the war had been flawless.
Roose Bolton had been hailed as a veteran of war, but wars were not measured by experience or words—only by results.
And the results spoke for themselves.
He could feel power slipping from his grasp.
"My lord, perhaps we should consider attacking Harrenhal," one of Bolton's bannermen suggested.
"Harrenhal?" Bolton's pale eyes flickered.
"Yes," the man continued. "Tywin's supply lines have been cut off by His Majesty. He will soon have no choice but to move west. That would leave Harrenhal empty. It's the perfect opportunity to reclaim the territory."
Roose Bolton thought it over.
Yes—capturing Harrenhal would be the perfect way to regain his prestige as commander of the Eastern Army.
With that fortress secured, his twenty-t
housand-strong host would have a true base of operations—and something to hold onto before Jon Snow's shadow consumed it all.
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