TSOTWR - Chapter V
Chapter V
Rhaegar
He peered across the rolling waves on the beach below, pondering his time in the capital, though not with fondness. He had finally been allowed to leave a few days prior when his father dismissed him in a fit of rage for some imagined slight against him.
Rhaegar always insisted his ship be ready to depart from King’s Landing immediately at any given moment, knowing intimately the unpredictable nature of the King’s temper.
Dragonstone was his safe haven from it all, the sanctuary in which he and his family were protected from the whims of the crown. It was here he could forget his father, his waning sanity, and much to his shame, that his mother and younger brother were left behind to bear the brunt of it.
He released a deep breath.
Rhaegar loved his mother and Viserys dearly, but nothing he could say or do would convince her to flee from her father. Rhaella was loyal if nothing else, though the Crown Prince suspected she accepted the misery inflicted upon her to spare the realm from it.
Without an outlet, his father would shift his attention elsewhere, and that would only sow the seeds of discord amongst the kingdoms.
“You’re brooding again.”
“How can I not when the weather is so dismal?” Rhaegar replied.
He smiled at the sight of his daughter in her mother’s arms, and took the girl who raised her arms to be brought into his own.
Rhaenys truly was a gift from the gods. She may not have been blessed with the looks of the dragons, favouring her Dornish heritage heavily, but the purple eyes were all his.
She would be an enviable beauty when she flowered, but Rhaegar’s focus remained firmly on seeing that happen.
“He’s getting worse,” he murmured. “His moods shift with the wind, more volatile and explosive. I fear he will do something foolish.”
“Foolish?”
Rhaegar nodded as he turned towards his wife.
They had been thrown together in a bid to keep the peace between Dorne and the Crown, neither given the chance to fall in love with one other before they exchanged vows in the Sept.
Rhaegar did not doubt that Elia cared for him as much he did her, but there was no fiery, Dornish passion the women were so famed for, nor any burning desire from him towards her.
They were simply Elia and Rhaegar, the future King, and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, in love to those that would look to them to lead them, but little more than partners in life to each other.
“He almost sent for Lord Stark to travel to King’s Landing,” Rhaegar huffed. “Stark beheaded a Lord of the Iron Islands and took the hands of another and their men for raiding their lands. Father was all but ready to blame Stark.”
Elia shook her head as she looped her arm through his dutifully.
“I cannot say I know much of the North and their ways.”
“Northern justice,” Rhaegar chuckled. “I ventured there, quietly, of course, before we were married. I visited my uncle at the wall and met many Northerners. They are hard men, Elia. They distrust any from below the Neck, and they would not take kindly to any harm coming to Rickard Stark. He is beloved among the Northerners. I would go as far to say he is all but their King, just not in name.”
“That is traitorous talk,” Elia whispered worriedly.
“It is the truth,” Rhaegar sighed. “For centuries, the Crown has ignored the Northerners. A mistake for certain.”
“Do you think so?”
Rhaegar nodded.
“I explained to my father that not even all the Kingdoms combined could force the North to kneel now, not without the dragons Aegon had. I have experienced the land and people, Elia. No army could survive that for any longer than a few moons, and even less during the winter.”
“And you will change it when the crown is yours?”
Rhaegar nodded once more.
“I think it is long overdue that the North were recognised as a valued kingdom,” he murmured. “To keep the peace if nothing else.”
“How?”
Rhaegar frowned thoughtfully.
“I am unsure, but perhaps we will be fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of some during Whent’s tourney. Maybe one will prove themselves worthy enough to be named a man of the Kingsguard, or perhaps matches can be made between Northerners and Southerners. I cannot pretend to have the answers now, but something must be done to mend the rift between them and us. With my father on the throne, the relationship can ill afford to be anymore strained. If the King does anything foolish where the North is concerned, he might just lose that Kingdom.”
“Do you really think Stark would stake a claim for independence?”
“I would, if I was him,” Rhaegar answered honestly. “The North is given so little and gives much to the south. Who’s to stop him if that is the course of action he decides upon?”
Elia’s brow furrowed in concern.
“That cannot be allowed to happen,” she sighed. “It will only make us look weak when we succeed your father. Is there nothing to be done? Rhaegar, you really need to think about deposing him. I know it has crossed your mind, and Dorne will follow you.”
Rhaegar smiled at her sadly.
“But who else?” he asked. “Who else would stand against the rest of the Kingdoms with us? I will not risk Rhaenys life on a fool’s errand. To act on these thoughts would see us all dead.”
“Not if she couldn’t be found,” Elia pointed out. “She would be safe in Dorne. My father would allow no one to harm her.”
“I know,” Rhaegar said reassuringly, “but my father has his ways, Elia. She would never be safe enough for me to risk it.”
The woman smiled at him fondly.
What could never be questioned between them was the love and devotion they held for their daughter.
“What about Oberyn?” she whispered conspiratorially. “I could ask him to listen out on his travels for anything that could be of use to us.”
“Perhaps,” Rhaegar tentatively agreed. “I think we should worry about the tourney first and get a feel of the mood of the kingdoms for ourselves. We can discuss it after. For now, I wish to forget my woes and simply be a father. Rhaenys deserves that.”
Rickard
To Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North,
You and yours ae cordially invited to the attend a tournament to be held at Harrenhal in honour of my daughter. Details of dates, events, and purses are included with this missive.
Every Lord in the Seven Kingdoms have been extended this invitation, including the Royal Family whom many have already confirmed their participation.
I sincerely hope to see you and a large Northern contingent in attendance for what I promise to be a tourney that will be remembered for generations to come.
Lord Walter Whent of Harrenhal
Whent had indeed invited every Lord in the Seven Kingdoms. Only a day after he’d received the raven from the man, he’d received dozens more from the Northern Lords.
Instead of discussing the matter at hand via letters, Rickard had opted to invite them all to share the hospitality of Winterfell so that they may speak freely as the Northerners were wont to do.
Many would wish to attend, simply for the opportunity to win the ludicrous purses on offer, and some for the chance to merely see the south that so few had visited.
Rickard would sooner that the tournament was boycotted altogether, but he could not bring himself to deny those who wished to attend. He was their Warden, and though he wished only to see his people safe and prosper, the North was no prison.
He would hear what his Lords had to say and would give them his blessing to attend. He himself would not and would ask in return that a strong presence of fighting men remain behind to ensure the safety of their lands.
Rickard had already decided that he would not be leaving Winterfell, which meant that Brandon as his heir would be representing House Stark, should his son wish to attend.
It left Rickard with a feeling of unease, but if the rest of the North wished to venture south, they should be led by a Stark.
“Come in,” Rickard called, frowning as a knock at the door sounded.
It was Maester Walys who had recently returned from his trip to the Citadel.
“My Lord, riders are approaching bearing the sigils of House Manderly, Bolton, Karstark, and Umber.”
Rickard released a deep breath as he nodded.
“So it begins,” he murmured as he stood. “Send for Lady Stark and my children.”
“Of course, my lord. Will the bast…”
He broke off at Rickard’s glare.
“Jon is Lyanna’s sword,” he said firmly for what felt to be the dozenth time in the two moons that had passed since Walys had returned. “Both him and Ghost will be at our sides as honoured members of our household. You will not insult him in my presence.”
Walys’s nostrils flared slightly before he bowed.
“Of course, my lord.”
He left and Rickard took a moment to calm himself before following suit. Walys had been displeased by Jon’s presence, his southern attitude towards the circumstances of his birth not having been well-received by those that had heard his slurs.
Both Lyanna and Brandon had been irate with the Maester, and even Lyarra had chastised him.
Rickard felt Walys was merely bitter that he’d asked for Luwin to remain at Winterfell, but it was more than that. Although he was to remain neutral in all aspects of how Rickard chose to run his keep, Walys could not contain his disdain for Jon and the lofty position he held here.
Rickard snorted amusedly at the thought of the young man.
Those within Winterfell knew of his deeds whilst facing with the Ironborn, and Jon had earned their respect and admiration for them. He had become rather beloved by all here, and Rickard could not deny his own fondness for the often quiet yet invaluable man.
He shook his head and smiled at the sight of Lyanna pinned to his side with the enormous wolf sitting obediently in front of him.
If that did not speak volumes to the dedication Jon had to his duty, nothing would. Although Rickard was still yet to receive the answers to the many questions he had about the man and his beast, he found they mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
He was hopeful he would one day get them still, but for now, Jon had proven himself loyal, reliable, and dutiful to all he had taken on here.
“You’re cutting it rather fine, my lord,” Lyarra teased as he took it spot next to her.
“I found that without my wife to guide me, time got away,” he returned with a grin.
She looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow.
“Then perhaps I should not allow my husband to be out of my sight. I find it gets quite lonely without him.”
“That’s disgusting,” Lyanna groaned.
Rickard and Jon chuckled and both Brandon and Benjen grimaced.
“You’ll find a man you’ll love as much as I do your father one day, girl,” Lyarra replied.
“I’ve got the only man I’ll ever need right here,” Lyanna returned with a grin.
Rickard frowned and then laughed as she began scratching Ghost behind the ear affectionately.
“True,” he conceded. “At least I don’t have to warn him about treating you well.”
Lyanna scowled at him and even Ghost turned, his intelligent, red eyes giving Rickard all the assurance he needed.
Finding a husband for Lyanna would be difficult enough, and all but impossible with such a mighty creature at her beck and call. That wasn’t even bringing Jon into the equation who had made his thoughts on such things clear.
If Lyanna did not approve any potential match, Rickard was in no doubt that Jon would kill the man to prevent it happening. It was as reassuring as it was worrisome, though he’d accepted that his daughter may well choose to never marry.
The only boy she’d ever shown any interest in was Jon, but it was clear his own feelings towards her were strictly platonic. Rickard believed that he still held a deep affection for the woman he’d lost, and perhaps he too would remain alone.
It saddened him to think of such a thing.
Jon truly was a good man, and he deserved to be loved by a woman worthy of him.
Not that it was likely.
As much as he thought of Jon, he was still a bastard, and as such, there was little for him out in the world in terms of marriage. He had no home and little to offer any for a marriage of any prestige.
Rickard frowned thoughtfully for a moment before the guard atop the gate called for it to be opened and the Lord of Winterfell smiled brightly at the sight of the arriving entourage, led by the enormous Lord Umber.
“Lord Stark,” the man’s voice boomed across the courtyard as he dismounted his equally large horse, though he paused, his eyes widening. “By the Gods, what the fuck is that monster?”
Ghost stood at his full height and Jon Umber froze in place.
“That’s Ghost, Jon,” Rickard introduced. “He won’t hurt you.”
“Aye, he’d eat my fucking horse though,” Umber snorted. “The fuck did you get a direwolf? I might have to see if we can get a giant or two.”
Tentatively, he held out a hand and Ghost sniffed it before turning away uninterestedly.
The other Lords that had arrived murmured amongst themselves, each watching the wolf closely who had resumed sitting in front of Lyanna, much to the amusement of Rickard.
Jon Umber cursed under his breath as he continued approaching warily, his eyes remaining on Ghost.
“Trying to make me shit myself, Stark?”
“Never, old friend,” Rickard chuckled, offering his hand which Jon enveloped in his meatier paw. “The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” he added, gesturing to the tray of bread and salt Lyarra held with a smirk.
“Aye, and a fucking wolf to eat me I bet,” Jon grumbled good-naturedly.
“Aye, if he feels like it.”
Umber laughed, the sound echoing off the walls surrounding the courtyard as he turned towards Lyarra and accepted the bread and salt.
“These your lot?” he asked nodding towards the gathered children, his mouth full of the offering.
“My heir, Brandon.”
“Lord Brandon,” Umber greeted the young man respectfully.
“My daughter Lyanna.”
“Aye, quite the beauty.”
Lyanna scowled at him and Jon Umber chuckled.
“A Stark woman if I ever saw one,” he declared, bending down almost comically to press his lips to the back of her hand.
“My youngest son, Benjen,” Rickard continued. “Ned remains fostering in the Vale.”
“What about this one?” the Greatjon asked, nodding towards Jon Snow. “He’s one of yours, no?”
Rickard shook his head.
“This is Lyanna’s Sworn Sword, Jon Snow.”
The Greatjon’s eyes widened as he took in Jon Snow’s appearance, his gaze shifting between him and the Starks.
“Fucking looks like you lot,” he grumbled, “but he’s prettier than you, Stark. Is this the lad that got the Ironborn cunts?” he added, spitting on the ground in distaste.
Rickard nodded and the Greatjon continued to appraise Jon.
“Then I want a drink with the lad,” he declared. “Anyone who cuts down those shits will share a horn of ale with me and mine.”
“Aye,” the Umber entourage echoed.
The Greatjon offered a nod towards Jon Snow, a sign of respect for a bastard that would usually be ignored, even in the North.
“Walys will show you to your rooms, Jon,” Rickard informed the man.
“Aye, I could do with resting my feet. Damned horse can’t carry me too far now,” he muttered, following the Maester into the keep.
Rickard released a deep breath as Lord Manderly stepped forward.
It would likely be a long morning of greeting his Lords, and then a feast would follow before anything of substance would be discussed. The morning would indeed be long, but the night even more so.
Jon
It was a feeling of melancholy that had washed over him at seeing the many Lords of the North arriving at Winterfell. Some had passed before his time, but most had brought the heirs Jon had seen greet Ned Stark the same way, and once more, he was reminded what was at stake.
If Robert Baratheon’s presence had reiterated his purpose for being here, the Northern Lords had only strengthened his resolve.
“Are you alright, Jon?” Lyanna asked, pulling him from his reverie.
He offered her an easy smile as he nodded.
“Aye,” he assured her, ruffling the girl’s hair fondly.
He often forgot that she was his mother in an odd way. Lyanna was so innocent and ignorant of the world outside of these walls, and it was hard to imagine her fathering a son, let alone him in the next few year or so.
Not that it would likely happen now.
The couldn’t be two of him here, could there?
The Gods certainly worked in strange ways, as he’d seen for himself more times than he wished, but two Jons?
No, it couldn’t be.
Besides, the circumstances would certainly be different. Lyanna would not die at the Tower of Joy and Robert Baratheon would not be given the chance to start a rebellion.
Jon would not allow it.
“Are you sure? You’re more broody than usual.”
“I’m not broody.”
Lyanna raised an eyebrow at him and Jon laughed.
Daenerys had often told him he brooded too much. Maybe she had a point.
Thoughts of the silver-haired woman brought a sad smile to his lips. It was bad enough that still haunted his dreams from time to time, but to escape her during his waking hours was not easy either.
“Sorry, I’m just lost in my own thoughts.”
“Is it anything I can help with?” Lyanna asked as she squeezed his hand.
Jon shook his head.
“No, and it’s time to get ready for the feast. Ghost will go with you.”
Lyanna offered him a look of uncertainty before taking her leave of his quarters and Jon released a deep breath as he went about readying himself. For the most part, his life here was good, and though he often wished it, there was no escaping the past and what was to come.
Peering into the looking glass, he decided to tie his hair back. It had been Dany’s favourite way to see him when they weren’t alone. She said that it made him look more royal and civilised.
Jon took no small amount of reminding her that he was a savage from the North, and she would in turn remind him that he had the blood of both the dragon and the wolf.
‘If you are a Northern savage, then you are my Northern savage, Jon Snow.’
Jon chuckled as her words echoed in his mind.
Daenerys had been far from perfect, but to him, she had been every bit of it; even the imperfections only made him see her such a way. She was caring, passionate, often too much of both, and it steered her hand to doing things she perhaps shouldn’t have.
Beneath all of the confidence, the ruthlessness she had helped instil within him, remained the young girl who’d lived a miserable existence. Even as a Queen she’d never truly been able to enjoy it, and then she was gone.
Sometimes, Jon wondered if he’d ever truly met her with so distant the memories now felt.
He knew that he had, but he no longer remembered her scent, nor the feel of her lips on his.
To him, it was as though he had been in love with someone that had only ever existed in his mind. The memories were oh so real, and yet, so far from feeling such a way.
Nevertheless, they left their scars on his very soul; some painful with loss, others warming his lonely, cold heart.
With a sad smile and a shake of his head, he left his room and made his way to the Great Hall, still wondering what he could do to change the world enough that the dead could be stopped, still pondering if it would have been better if he’d simply been allowed to pass on.
“Snow!” the voice of Jon Umber greeted him as he entered the festivities. “Sit, lad.”
“Thank you, Lord Umber, but my place is with the pages and stable boys.”
Umber frowned before his eyes widened.
“By the Gods, lad, you’ll sit with me,” he declared. “If anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with me.”
His words were laced with a hint of threat and even challenge to those within earshot of his booming voice.
Glancing towards Rickard, the Lord of Winterfell nodded, and Jon accepted the requested, the wind almost being knocked out of him as the man clapped him on the back.
“If you don’t remember this lot, that’s Jeor Mormont, Lord of Bear Island and his lad, Jorah.”
Jon remembered both men, the former more fondly than the other.
Jeor had gifted him the very sword he carried, and it had taken every ounce of self-control to not react to seeing the man arrive with the entourage of Lords earlier in the day.
Jorah had died during the battle of Winterfell, the two seldom seeing eye to eye. He’d been in love with Daenerys who did not return such affections. As such, his attitude towards Jon had always been frosty at best, though now, he offered a nod without the usual jealousy in his gaze.
“Lord Mormont,” Jon greeted.
“Enough of that, lad,” Jeor said dismissively. “Jeor will do at this table.”
Jon nodded and accepted a horn of ale thrust at him by a seemingly already drunk Jon Umber.
“This is my own lad, Jon,” he introduced the man seated next to him.
Smalljon Umber.
Jon had not known him well, other than him being killed during what had been dubbed the Battle of the Bastards. The Umbers had supported Ramsey Bolton, and Smalljon had paid the price for it.
Ned Umber had quickly sworn fealty to House Stark once more, though he had died at Winterfell.
“Do you like women, Jon Snow?” Jeor asked.
“Sorry?” Jon replied, caught off guard.
Jeor leaned forward with a smirk cresting his lips.
“If you like women, I’d watch out for those from Bear Island. They’ll eat you alive.”
The Greatjon roared in laughter at his expression as he nodded.
“Aye, vicious lasses,” he declared, raising his horn to the women seated at the table next to theirs.
One of them threw a full horn of ale at him, and the Greatjon beamed.
“I think that one might love me!”
Another horn was thrown at him and the Greatjon’s smile only widened.
“Two of you? Well, how can I refuse that offer?”
The ladies from Bear Island chose to pointedly ignore him, and Jon couldn’t help but think the Lord of Last Hearth was fortunate. He’d met enough women from Bear Island to know better than to get on the wrong side of them.
“You may have granted me the honour of a seat at your table, but I am still a bastard,” Jon pointed out.
Jeor shook his head.
“You were born on the wrong side of the sheets, but the Northerners love you, Snow. Lord Stark wrote to us all to inform us of what you did.”
“Aye, Andrik was a cunt,” the Greatjon slurred. “I wish I could have gutted him myself. Did he scream like a whelp?”
“No,” Jon denied. “For an Ironborn, he died with dignity.”
“Fucking shame,” the Greatjon grumbled. “I would have liked for him to beg.”
He drained another horn of ale and refilled it from the enormous jug in front of him, holding a finger to his lips as Rickard stood at the head table where the Stark family was seated with Ghost as ever by Lyanna’s side.
“QUIET YOU SHITS!” the Greatjon bellowed, silencing the room.
Rickard offered the man a grateful smile as he addressed those gathered, every important Lord and their vassals of the North.
“I would like to begin by thanking you all for coming,” he began. “It is not often we have reason to gather together, but I am always glad to see you when we do.”
The other Lords murmured their agreement and Rickard raised his horn towards them.
Jon could see the respect the men and women here had for the man. He’d been looked upon the same way once and it was no easy feat. He’d fought and bled for the North as Rickard had since assuming the position of Warden of the North.
They had called Jon king, but there was little difference with how they looked at Rickard Stark.
“Before we discuss what it is that brings us here, there is one other thing I wish to do, and I can think of no more appropriate time than when we are all here. Jon Snow, please stand.”
Jon did so with an expression of curiosity.
“The circumstances in which this young man came to be at Winterfell were not the best for him. He was found in the Godswood, inches from death beneath our very own Weirwood by my Lyanna. As payment for saving his life, he pledged his sword to her.”
The Lords and Ladies of the North murmured their approval.
“Not once has he wavered in his duty, holding the vow he made with an honour worthy of any who sit amongst us now. When the Ironborn attacked our lands, Jon did not hesitate to answer my call to join us. Along with Rodrik Cassel, he led a small group of men directly to the reavers to intercept them. He defeated Lord Drumm, removing his sword hand and then killed Andrik the Unsmiling in single combat.”
The gathered Northerners began banging their fists atop their tables and Rickard smiled as he held his hands up.
“In his free time, he can be found helping the staff around the keep, the stables, and the forge, or in the Godswood praying to the Gods that I believe brought him here,” Rickard said fondly. “He has proven himself an invaluable asset to my home and the people that share it. As a reward, I have commissioned a gift worthy of such a man. Mikken, if you will.”
The blacksmith pushed forward a covered object from the rear of the room to the front, offering Rickard a bow before taking a step backwards.
“Come, Jon,” the Lord of Winterfell beckoned.
Jon did so and stood in front of the man who beamed at him proudly.
Saying nothing else, Rickard removed the cloth and Jon’s eyes widened at what lied beneath it.
The gambeson, matching gloves, and trousers were finished in his preferred black, as were the boots, each made with the finest of leathers. The accompanying furs were of a deep grey mottled with white, matching the snarling white wolves with red eyes adorning the shoulder straps.
They stood stark against the rest of the outfit, drawing the eye to them.
“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Jon whispered, offering Rickard a bow.
“You earned this Jon,” Rickard murmured as he clasped his shoulder. “The armour is as worthy of you as you have proven to be to the North. To Jon Snow!” he called.
“AYE!” the Lords echoed as they stood.
“THE WHITE FUCKING WOLF OF THE NORTH!” Jon Umber slurred.
Rickard quirked an eyebrow at the man before nodding.
“The White Wolf of the North,” he added.
In an uncharacteristic outburst, Ghost howled loudly, the haunting sound echoing off the walls and silencing the room.
The sentiment was not lost on Jon. The wolf was the symbol of the Starks, and the man had all but claimed him as one of his own by allowing him to wear it on his armour and have such a moniker bestowed upon him.
In his drunken state, Jon doubted that Lord Umber knew what he’d done, but Rickard had simply taken it in his stride and not hesitated in accepting it.
As Ghost fell silent once more, Rickard chuckled.
“It seems even a direwolf approves,” he declared amusedly. “Now, let us discuss what brings us together.”
Lyanna
She watched Jon as he retook his seat next to the enormous Lord Umber. He was overwhelmed by what had happened, and she offered him an approving smile of her own as she caught his gaze.
Her father had come to look at Jon as family, and he deserved nothing less.
In the many moons he had been here, he’d taught her and her brothers how to fight, had defended the North without hesitation when asked, and had truly become a part of their home.
Jon Snow just seemed to fit in at Winterfell. Lyanna would ever have suspected that the man she saved in the Godswood would come to mean so much to her and the rest of the Starks in what was still a short amount of time.
Now, however, she did not know what she would do without him.
She was pulled from the thoughts by the booming voice of the swaying Lord Umber.
“Aye, I say we should send a Northern contingent. Why should our best be deprived of the chance to win a fortune from the southerners? I wouldn’t mind taking a few of their gold dragons for myself.”
Most within the Great Hall agreed and her father nodded.
“Then I suggest we make arrangements for those who wish to venture south,” he replied. “I would not stop any who wish to attend, but I will not be leaving my home. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and I know my heir is quite keen to visit Harrenhal.”
Brandon nodded eagerly and Lyanna wondered if she’d be allowed to go too.
“I say we set off from here,” Lord Cerwyn suggested. “We can bring those that wish to travel south for the tourney and arrive as one.”
“Aye,” the Lords of the North agreed.
Her father nodded his consent.
“I only ask that a suitable force is left behind,” he requested. “I would not see us left vulnerable to Wildlings or the Ironborn in the absence of those leaving.”
Once more, the Lords agreed and Lyanna found herself drifting in and out of the proceedings, choosing to feed Ghost some venison which the wolf accepted gratefully.
Her mother saw her and rolled her eyes but did not chastise her.
She too was fond of the wolf that joined them for every meal.
“Mother, will I be able to go?” Lyanna asked.
Lyarra frowned.
“I will discuss it with your father.”
Lyanna offered the woman a smile and went back to feeding Ghost as her father and the Lords figured out the logistics of so many heading below the Neck.
She couldn’t be certain how much time passed before they’d seemingly discussed it enough that they were satisfied, but eventually, her father sank back into his chair tiredly.
“So it begins,” he murmured amusedly, draining his horn of ale and refilling it.
“Father, will I be allowed to go to Harrenhal?” Lyanna asked.
The man frowned the same way her mother had and looked towards the woman who shrugged.
“I cannot think of a reason she should not be able to,” Lyarra sighed. “She is a woman grown, and it is not as though she will not be guarded suitably,” she added, nodding towards Ghost.
Rickard hummed.
“If Ghost is going, Jon will be too, of course,” Lyarra added and her father’s frown deepened.
“I will consider it,” he conceded. “I will discuss it with Jon which means Lyanna will not leave him alone until he agrees.”
He offered Lyanna a pointed glare and she stuck her chin out stubbornly.
Jon wouldn’t say no to her.
“Shouldn’t Jon be entering the melee at least?” she asked.
Her father seemed surprised by the question but nodded thoughtfully.
“Aye, he should be given the chance to make his own fortune too,” he acknowledged, “but only if he agrees. As I said, I will discuss it with him.”
That only filled Lyanna with confidence.
Jon would agree or she would sulk until he did. He couldn’t stand it when she did that.
Lyanna grinned and her father shook his head knowingly, laughing as Jon Umber stood and began a raucous rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair in a deep baritone.
When he was done, he stumbled over his seat and it took six of his men to pull him to his feet, something they likely did regularly.
Umber beamed when he was righted and took another drink of ale. Lyanna wondered how he was still conscious from the sheer amount he’d consumed.
“Come on, Snow,” he demanded. “You must know a song or two. Sing something for us.”
Jon shook his head, shrinking down into his seat.
“I’m not much of a singer,” he protested, his own words slightly slurred in his own drunken state.
He’d likely not been allowed to breathe between horns of ale being seated next to the Greatjon. Lyanna had never seen him drunk, and he’d certainly had more than his usual fill.
“Don’t worry, Snow, Umber can’t fucking sing either,” Jeor Mormont guffawed. “You can’t be any worse than him.”
Jon took in the expectant stares and his gaze shifted to the drink he held as he released a deep breath.
It wasn’t as though he could deny the request, and he seemed to accept it as he nodded reluctantly.
Lyanna stiffened as he quietly sung the first few notes, his voice delicate and mournful. Although she missed the first few lines, she was captivated, and as the room fell silent to listen to his velvety tone. She listened to the words, and though she did not recognise the ballad, she felt it resonate with her so deeply.
It took little for Lyanna to realise that he was singing about the loss of a woman, how they’d met, the times they’d shared, and how she had suddenly vanished.
Jon sung wonderfully and from the heart, the words a glimpse into his very soul.
It was not often he showed any deeper emotion, but here, it was like he’d torn a page from the closed book he was and was sharing it with them all. It was as beautiful as it was tragic and, and Lyanna knew he was thinking of the wife he’d lost along the way.
Raw, unfiltered, and filled with a pain she could not comprehend. The song itself was heart-wrenching, but hearing the words fall so easily from Jon’s lips tore through her.
It hurt him still and she wanted nothing more than to take that pain away, to free him from the burden of grief.
She swallowed deeply as he took a pause and released a deep breath.
‘And though you’re gone, in the cold, lonely nights,
I’ll see you again when I close my eyes.’
He took another drink of his ale once he’d sung the final note and continued to stare into his cup, undoubtedly lost in thought of the woman that song was for.
Lyanna choked back a sob and wiped the tears away from cheeks, her mother and many others following suit as the room remained almost eerily silent.
“Fucking hell, Snow,” Lord Umber murmured. “Not bad, lad.”
The boisterous man was unusually subdued as he wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze, topping up his ale.
“Did you know he could sing like that?” Brandon whispered.
Lyanna shook her head sadly as she watched Jon make an excuse to leave, and she stood to follow.
“I’m just going to make sure he’s okay.”
“Aye, lass,” her father urged worriedly as he watched the retreating Jon exit the Great Hall.
She followed with Ghost in tow and found Jon with his head submerged in one of the water barrels outside. When he re-emerged, he pushed his hair out of his and gazed towards the sky longingly.
“Jon?” she called gently.
He gave her a smile that didn’t meet his eyes, and Lyanna felt her heart tighten once more. Not knowing what to say, she threw her arms around him and held him tightly as she fought back another wave of tears.
“I’ll be fine,” he sighed.
Lyanna nodded but didn’t let go.
“You miss her, don’t you?”
“Aye,” Jon murmured. “It’s easier than it was, and some days are harder than others. Today is just one of those days.”
“That song…”
“Was her favourite,” he chuckled. “She always liked the sad ones. She used to say it reminded her of how good her own life was and special what we had was.”
“Now she’s gone and you’re alone.”
Jon shook his head.
“She’s gone, but I’m not alone. I have you and everyone here.”
“You know what I meant,” Lyanna muttered. “Do you think there’ll be someone else for you?”
“No,” Jon answered solemnly. “I’ve not thought about it,” he added. “My lot in life is more than I could ever have asked for. Even if you’re a pain in the arse, you’ve given me a purpose.”
Lyanna giggled.
“Am I so bad?” she asked looking up at him.
He smiled again, this time his eyes sparkled with mirth.
“No, not so bad,” he chuckled. “I feel sorry for any man that marries you though. You’ll be their problem then.”
“What if I don’t want to get married?” Lyanna asked stubbornly.
Jon shook his head.
“Then I suppose I’ll be stuck with you,” he sighed.
Lyanna nodded.
“I’d like that,” she said sincerely. “I’m quite used to having you around. Why would I need anyone else?”
Jon looked at her pointedly.
“You may want to get married and have children,” he replied. “You might not want that now, but one day, that might change.”
Lyanna frowned.
She doubted that.
“And what about you? What do you want?”
He looked towards the sky once more and the moonlight reflected in his eyes, giving them an almost purple hue in the grey.
“Peace,” he said simply. “Just peace.”
Her frown deepened.
In this moment, Jon’s expression became haunted, and Lyanna felt as though that one page of the closed book he’d shared with his song truly was but one page of many.
Jon was often broody and sombre, but that one page made her realise there was much more to the young man than he’d shown any, and she found herself looking at him as though it was for the very first time.
There was something in him so familiar about him, and yet, she could not place it.
“Come on,” he urged. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”
Lyanna allowed herself to be led back towards the Great Hall, pausing only briefly.
“Do you promise you’re okay?”
Jon nodded.
“I will be.”
It was not the answer she wanted, but it was better than almost any other he could have given.
Despite having been here for several moons now, he was still healing from whatever it was he’d endured before she’d found him in the Godswood. Perhaps he never truly would, but Lyanna made a vow to herself that no matter what, Jon would always have a place at her side, even if that was no longer as her Sworn Sword.
If there was something else that brought him happiness, she would ensure he got it.
He may have made a vow to her, but first and foremost, he’d become a friend. She could not quite comprehend her feelings for him, but he was no mere guard.
To Lyanna, Jon Snow was so much more than that, for what that was worth to him.