Jon Snow often wished he possessed the magic to turn invisible. If he could simply vanish into the vast, grey stones of Winterfell, he could avoid the suffocating awkwardness of the royal visit.
Above the castle, three banners snapped violently in the northern wind: the grey-and-white direwolf of House Stark, the crimson-and-gold lion of House Lannister, and the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
The influx of southern lords and knights brought a tide of unwanted attention. Jon would never forget the way the King's retinue looked at him—a mixture of polite curiosity, disguised embarrassment, and open contempt. The bolder ones pointed and whispered behind their hands.
The southerners loved to speculate on the identity of his mother. Some whispered the name Ashara Dayne, the beautiful Dornish noblewoman. Others claimed it was Wylla, a wet nurse, or even a lowly fisherman's daughter who had ferried Lord Stark across the Bite. Whatever the truth, Jon's mere existence was a walking, breathing reminder that even the rigidly honorable Eddard Stark was a man of flesh and blood who had once yielded to passion. A common failing among lords, but an unforgivable stain to Lady Catelyn.
Jon stood on the covered gallery overlooking the training yard, his breath pluming in the cold air as he watched two young men spar in the dirt below.
Theon Greyjoy moved with a fluid, arrogant grace. The nineteen-year-old heir to the Iron Islands was lean and dark, possessing a smirk that seemed permanently etched into his handsome face. His opponent was Robb, the trueborn heir to Winterfell. Robb was growing broad and thick with muscle, his Tully coloring—auburn hair and bright blue eyes—standing out against the grey yard.
They traded heavy, ringing blows with blunted tourney swords. Jon loved Robb fiercely, but he shared no such warmth with Theon. Greyjoy saw himself as a future lord and saw no reason to offer genuine friendship to a bastard.
"They put on a lively show, don't they?"
Jon turned. Tyrion Lannister waddled up beside him, tilting his massive, misshapen head to look down into the yard. The dwarf's mismatched eyes—one black, one green—studied Jon with piercing intelligence.
"They are fair enough," Jon replied, feeling a strange, immediate kinship with the Lannister. In a castle obsessed with bloodlines and titles, they were both outsiders: a bastard and a dwarf, hovering on the edges of polite society.
Jon had not forgotten what the Imp had told him after the feast the night before: Let me give you some counsel, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you. All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes, but not all bastards need be dwarfs.
"You are Lord Stark's blood too. Are you good with a sword?" Tyrion asked.
Jon felt a flush of pride at the acknowledgment. "Robb is a stronger lance, but my sword is quicker. And Hullen says I am the best rider in the keep."
"A difficult path, the sword," Tyrion noted. "Knights have their steel, but I only have my mind."
"Little bastard, I heard you speaking with your uncle Benjen at the feast," Tyrion added casually.
"I did, my lord," Jon answered guardedly.
"Let me guess your mind, boy," Tyrion said, his tone turning serious. "Lady Catelyn has no love for you, and Lord Eddard cannot protect you forever. Your uncle is a seasoned ranger of the Night's Watch, an order the North respects. You feel you have no place here, so you look to the Wall."
Jon could not help but marvel at the dwarf's terrifying insight. "You are a giant of a man, my lord. I have thought of it often."
"Are you prepared for it?" Tyrion asked, a note of genuine pity in his voice. "The Wall is a harsh place, Jon. A brother of the Watch takes no wife and fathers no children. Having never lain with a woman, you cannot possibly comprehend the price you are paying."
"My uncle Benjen has told me all of this," Jon replied stiffly. "He told me to think on it well, for once I speak the words, there is no turning back."
"Your uncle speaks truly. But do you know what the Night's Watch truly is today?"
"They are the swords in the dark," Jon recited proudly. "The shield that guards the realms of men." It was a truth known to every child in the North.
Tyrion let out a bark of laughter. "Ah. It seems your dear uncle failed to explain the reality of it. Centuries ago, taking the black was a mark of honor and selfless devotion. Knights, lords, and younger sons volunteered. But now? The black brothers are scavenged from the dungeons. Rapists, thieves, and broken men. Those will be your brothers."
Jon felt the blood drain from his face, but he set his jaw. "I am ready for the challenge, even if I must serve beside such men."
"Why the desperation for the black cloak?" Tyrion pressed. "To forsake all women... perhaps only you Northmen and the Valemen are so rigid. I have three uncles. If you forced them to take the black, they would likely slit their own wrists. But your uncle Benjen did not take the black entirely for honor."
"What else would it be for?" Jon bristled, unable to tolerate the slight against his uncle.
"You should read more of your own histories, little bastard," Tyrion chided gently. "Think of the She-Wolves of Winterfell. A fascinating era. When Lord Beron Stark took a mortal wound fighting the ironborn, the succession was thrown into chaos. Five widowed Stark women and a dozen squabbling children nearly tore Winterfell apart fighting for the seat."
Jon paused, seeing the logic. Taking the black removed a claimant from the board permanently.
"Benjen was the only surviving brother of your father's generation," Tyrion analyzed. "Politically, an uncle is a powerful tool for marriage alliances. Yet he went to the Wall. It stabilized Lord Eddard's rule."
"My uncle values honor above politics," Jon retorted.
"Perhaps," Tyrion conceded. "Judging by the perpetual frown on Lord Stark's face, honor is a family affliction."
"Bastards can have honor too," Jon insisted. "The Night's Watch is a noble calling."
"You have other choices. You need only look for them, little bastard," Tyrion smiled, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Look at the King's bastard. Across the Narrow Sea, he raises the dragon's banner and crowns himself. That, too, is a life."
Jon felt a lump form in his throat. A sellsword's life was devoid of honor; the Night's Watch seemed the cleaner path. Yet, hearing of a boy his own age, another bastard, reshaping the world across the sea... Jon could not entirely suppress a burning pang of envy.
"Is Gendry not the enemy of your House?" Jon asked, looking curiously at the Queen's brother.
"He is an enemy, yes. But the boy is magnificent, is he not? Do you not envy him? What would he have gained by coming to King's Landing? My sweet sister would have had his throat slit in an alley. Instead, he conquers. At his age, only the Young Dragon achieved such heights—though Daeron's war ended in failure."
Jon felt utterly adrift. The Night's Watch had been his beacon through countless sleepless nights, his singular path to worth. Could he truly abandon honor for the bloody, chaotic freedom of a mercenary?
"There is one more thing you do not know, little bastard," Tyrion whispered softly.
"What?" Jon asked, his heart hammering.
"Lord Stark is riding South. A new war is brewing."
"A war?" Jon gasped. "Against the Mercenary King? Against the King's own son?"
"Who else?" Tyrion said. "He drives our fat King and my lovely sister to madness. The realm already possesses a Kingslayer; we cannot suffer a Kinslayer King. So, Lord Stark will be named Hand, and he will lead the armies East."
Tyrion leaned closer, his mismatched eyes fixed on Jon. "Three hundred warships burning in the Narrow Sea. It will be a slaughter far grander than Balon Greyjoy's folly. Knowing this, will you still insist on locking yourself away in the North?"
Jon felt a sudden, icy paralysis grip him. His lips parted, but no words came. If his father marched to war, how could he go to the Wall? The Night's Watch took no part in the wars of the realm. If he swore the oath, he could not lift his sword to defend his family.
"You need to think on this carefully, Jon," Tyrion advised. "You are too young to bury yourself in the ice. Better to dance in the sun a while before you turn into a crow, don't you think?"
"Why..." Jon breathed, his world spinning. "Why are you telling me all of this?"
Tyrion shrugged, a self-deprecating smile touching his lips. "I couldn't say. Perhaps I have a soft spot for cripples, bastards, and broken things. Or perhaps it is just that Lady Catelyn's sour face reminds me entirely too much of my sister's."