Jon Stark's fingers clenched around the railing. He breathed in the salty tang of the sea air, felt the wind ruffle his hair. Beneath him, the ship rocked on the waves. Ahead of him, out of the fog, came the ghostly sight of a castle, sat high atop the cliffs of the island. It was tall and imposing, its towers shaped like snarling dragons. Something inside him swelled at the sight.
The island was forbidding and grim, more so the more he looked at it. But it was his. He, who should have never been a lord or have held any lands or owned any keep. This was his, and he would have loved it if it were a hut on a slab of rock in the Iron Islands.
He may not have always felt that way, no. He still remembered the anger that had burnt through him when he had realised he had been given the name he had always wanted, but only on the condition that he leave Winterfell and make his home elsewhere. He had hated his Lord Father, the king, the Gods themselves, for giving him a taste of what he wanted, but not all of it. As the moons had passed, though, he had felt the rage slip away.
He was a Stark. That, more than anything, more than Winterfell, had been what he had always wanted. He had had two years to adjust to the fact that he would have to leave, two years to grow weary of Lady Catelyn's hard, sharp eyes and pointed comments about what was owed to baby Bran. And now that he was here... He would miss Winterfell. But there was no Lady Catelyn here. There was no father or Robb or Arya either, but Uncle Benjen was waiting there with Aunt Dacey, and Uncle Arthur was standing just behind him, making sure he didn't overbalance on the ship's deck.
Once, for a few moons between realising what it meant that he was a bastard and finding out he had been given this gift, he had thought the only place for him might be the Night's Watch, but here was something else, somewhere else to make a name for himself. A future. It was more than he was owed, and he was grateful, especially after all Uncle Arthur's stories.
He could not wait to see the Great Drum and the map of Westeros, could not wait to see the statues up close and go hunting for dragon eggs and brightly coloured dragonglass in the passages beneath the castle. This was such a grand, important, historical place, and the thought that it was all his was nearly enough to overwhelm him.
Uncle Arthur's hand closed around his shoulder as they made landfall, and Jon set his first foot on the island. He breathed in the salt and sulphur in the air, and felt somehow lighter than he ever had. Winterfell was home, and safe. It was where his family was, more than anything, where he had been raised, the only place he had known. But as his dreams of the crypts had grown more and more frequent, as Lady Catelyn's gaze had grown sharper, he had felt less and less like he belonged, had felt an ever growing urge to disappear into the walls.
Here... Everything was strange and unfamiliar, but it felt almost as though the island itself was reaching out to embrace him. This was not home, not yet. But he belonged. He did not know how or why, but he knew, deep within his gut. This, for whatever reason, was where he was meant to be. He glanced over his shoulder at Uncle Arthur.
His uncle gave him a slight smile, squeezed his shoulder. "Welcome home," he said.
Jon choked on a breath, but then regained his grip on himself. "Thank you, Uncle," he said, felt his mouth tuck into a smile. He looked around himself. He wanted to explore the town, the harbour, the castle. Wanted to get on a horse and ride around the rocky beaches and cliffs, wanted to go and go and go until he knew every inch of the island better than he had ever known Winterfell.
There would be no crypts and Kings of Winter here, no angry forefathers telling him he was unwelcome and did not belong. Maybe tonight he would sleep well, for the first time in years. Some part of him wanted to kneel down and embrace the very ground at the thought of it, and that sensation nearly brought tears to his eyes. He held it back. He was no babe to weep at the chance of being his own man.
Uncle Arthur's hand tightened further, and without knowing why, Jon turned back and threw himself into his uncle's arms, holding on tight as he shook from the force of it all. Arthur caught him and held him close, stroking his back and shushing him with words Jon did not understand or recognise. They sounded like High Valyrian, but Maester Luwin had barely started on their lessons in that before he left, and Jon could not grasp the meaning, so he just clung on and squeezed his eyes shut so he would not cry at the force of it all.