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Chapter Text

A merchant sails from Blackwater Bay.

If you asked the ship’s master, he’d tell you they sailed for Whiteharbour - carrying Dornish wine and Qarthian spices for the tables of great Northern Lords. The master would not be lying. He’d smile wide, tell you to move along now.

You may not look in his cabin.

The ship leaves a little later than expected, though the sun is still high in the sky. With a good wind in his sails and a clinking leather pouch in his pocket, there is little in the world that could slow the captain down.

They make the journey in a few days, though their ship’s cook was a little preoccupied for most of the trip - spending hours below with his paltry box of egg whites, rose oil and the carpenter’s vase of turpentine.

They pull into port under a moonless sky, unloading their cargo with a quiet, practical calm. A local lad in a smaller skiff waits just off the docks, barely ten and two - but strong. Very strong. How fortunate! Who knows how the crew would have carried that heavy, sack-covered stretcher off the deck and into the smaller vessel’s hold?

The White Knife river rages beneath the boat, rocking men and sacks back and forth as the water churns.

The cargo groans.

Where is it? How did it get here? What happened to-?

Horseshoes. Gravel. A rocking, wooden cart. The sack twists in a fevered, sweating haze.

No. No don’t - what happened to them, Jory-?

“Be quiet!” a voice shouts, kicking the man wrapped up in a burlap sack, “- keep yer whining down, you hear?”

But he twists, crying out as his leg - wrapped in something thick and heavy, almost like clay - catches on something cold, like iron.

“Wha-? Where-?”

“Give him a drink, Bones, or he’ll wake the bloody Others,”

Fingers tug on long tangled hair, ripping the cover from his eyes. For a brief moment, he sees an open sky, studded with stars that rush past in time with the beat of running feet, and then-

“Get that down you, Ser,” the voice laughs, and something hot and wet pours over his face and into his throat. His head tips back, slamming into the bottom of the splintering wood like … like …

“My lord!”

Hands - small hands, shaking hands, gentle hands - rest lightly on his shoulder, but Ned twists wildly, wrenching himself away.

“M -my- my Lord,” the voice says again, stuttering and squeaking, “-please, you must lie back, your leg-,”

He tries to sit up, a groan pulled from his throat - his body burning, it’s burning. But as sweat drips down his neck, a heavy weight on his chest holds him down - a shifting, breathing thing. He tries to throw it off and it’s-

It's very soft.

A cup is pressed to his lips - one filled with a thick, milky liquid that stinks of sweetness. Ned tries to push it away but it trickles into his mouth, down his throat and -

“Your father’s asleep, Snow,”

“How is he? The wound on his leg, it’s-,”

“It is severe, but healing - it looks as if someone set it before-”

“I promise Jon, the Maester had me dress it myself, and … well, I know how it smells but-,”

“-Who could have done this? How could he have made it this far?”

“I don’t know, but someone must have sent him here- or at least it looks like it to me - b-but we-,”

“Let him be lad, he’s not going anywhere for a little while, and your wolf will watch over him,”

“But-,”

“Go, Jon, or Ser Alliser will-,”

Ned falls and falls and falls.

Lord Eddard Stark is … in a bed. A bed with white sheets - mostly clean - and a wooden frame that creaks as he shifts his head. There are stone walls, four that he can see, and two shadows that-

“Maester, he’s awake!”

That voice again, except this time it resolves - in a blurred, hurried sort of way - into a boy. A plump boy, with dark hair and a round face, dressed in black.

“Lie still, My Lord, I just need to-,”

“Where-,” Ned starts, but cuts off when he shifts his leg and the pain-

“Yes,” the boy hushes, reaching behind him, “-yes, you need, I need to-,”

“Check his bandages, my boy,” another voice says, softer and wheezing, “-tell me if you see any rot,”

Ned swallows - his throat thick.

“Wa-” he starts with a cough, “Water, I-”

“Sorry, of course, hold on-,”

The boy returns quickly with a wooden cup, unsteady hands lifting it to Ned’s lips. He accepts it greedily, taking several long gulps in a way that would make his mother smack his wrist. The lad takes the cup from him, and Ned raises one hand to wipe his face only to find it trapped.

Frowning, he looks down, feeling slow and stupid. He has to blink a few times at the puddle of white pooled on his chest, spilling over his legs and on top of his knuckles.

Then the puddle looks up with silent, red eyes. Watching. Its tail begins to twitch.

“Where-?” he starts, but the direwolf’s fur is soft and real under his fingers, and that can only mean-

“You’re at Castle Black, My Lord,” the boy replies, setting the cup down and rolling back his sleeves, eyeing Ned’s leg with trepidation, “-the Night’s Watch, I mean,”

The Watch, Ned thinks.

“Yes, My Lord,” that older voice hums, “- you’ve been here several days now - and you’ve been given something stronger than the poppy, I fear,”

The Watch, he thinks again. The Watch, so that means-

“Benjen - Jon, are they-?” Ned groans, trying to sit up again, but his knee bites and the wolf - how big the little pup has grown - looks up at him from his chest.

“Benjen’s beyond the Wall,” the boy stammers, wiping his hands and approaching the bedside again. “-and Jon’s here, he-,”

The lad starts again.

“I’m Sam, Sam Tarly,” the boy stammers, lifting the linens to squint at Ned’s leg, “I’m a friend of your son - Jon, that is - Jon Snow, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, well, I haven’t actually known him that long, but he’s been good to me, and I thought you should know-,”

“Samwell,” the aged voice prods, “- the salve,”

“Y-yes,” the boy stops, shaking his head and reaching back behind him “-sorry, Maester Aemon,”

Ned bites back a wince as the lad timidly lifts his leg. The boy’s cheeks drain of colour and he turns aside to cough - a sound from deep inside his chest. After a few moments, Ned feels a cool, moist cloth pressed on the throbbing limb. It brushes gently over the wound but he groans, his throat full of bile.

“How-?” he begins, the words pulled from behind his teeth, “-how long?”

“- you’ve been here a week, My Lord,” the Maester assures somewhere across the room, a vague shape of black robes and light flashing from a long, winding chain.

A week. A week at the edge of the world, so far from the city and his daughters and-

“My daughters,” Ned starts, “-my, where - where are they? Sansa, Arya, where-?”

He tries to move, to break free, but the great white wolf on his chest presses down - unaggressive, even gentle. The Maester’s voice sounds just the same.

“I’m sorry, My Lord,

“You were brought here alone,”

Sitting up on straw-stuffed pillows, Ned dozes - what else can he do with the wine in his belly and drugs on his tongue? He heard some stammered explanations of broken bones - straightened and healing, near clean too. Rest is the best medicine, he was told. You’re no good to them without it.

But it’s them he thinks of - dreams of. In between golden cloaks and bastard babes, he sees his girls, alone and trapped in a cell of red, sandy bricks. Alone. By the gods, they’re all alone - not only Sansa and Arya, but Vayon’s girl Jeyne too. Not even his men can save them now- not Jory, not Heward. His men - Northmen, so far from home - butchered like animals in the street, with half the city gawking like they were catching flies.

But not me. Why not me? Why am I here - how and who and-?

No, Ned cannot sleep - or lie in this dazed, half-conscious state - forever. Eventually, the sounds of the fire crack like sparking flint beside his face. He moans, tossing his head from side to side when a gentle voice drifts up from across the room.

“Are you awake, My Lord?”

The Maester is perched in his great wooden chair, feet resting on a little stool cushioned with tattered, black wool. With his back to the flames - a wrinkled face and pale, unseeing eyes search fruitlessly across the room.

Ned grunts - not a noble sound. The old man hums.

“Young Tarly left you some wine before I sent him to bed - to your left, I believe. It may still be warm,”

Sure enough, a cup waits for him on the little stool by his bed. Ned reaches for it gingerly, careful not to jostle both his leg and the beast still draped over his chest. The wolf’s ears twitch, eyes cracking open as Ned gasps through a few mouthfuls, but he stays quite content in his place. His nose presses into the back of the Lord’s hand.

A loyal beast, Ned thinks.

“Is it late?” Ned asks, looking about the windowless cell.

“Last I knew,” the Maester replies, “it was the hour of the owl, My Lord,”

Yes, it feels dark enough for that.

“You should rest too then, Maester,” he states, hoarsely to the frail, shrunken man, “-I have kept you up for some time,”

But the other man shakes his head.

“Oh I have rested enough, My Lord - I sleep little these days,” the Maester assures, waving his hands. “Besides - did I not vow to keep watch in the night?”

He smiles then, toothlessly and Ned can’t help but huff.

“Aye, so you did,”

The room is brighter now - though Ned’s clarity is not rewarded with much detail. The wall is lined with a few untouched books on rickety shelves - a cabinet stands with coloured vials and pots of herbs in the farthest corner. There’s a battered table - a few piles of sheets and a basin of water on the floor. It’s a simple space - humble. Much improved by the leaps and jumps of the orange flames in the little grate piled high with wood and kindling.

“Has there-,” Ned begins, his waking thoughts given a voice, “-is there any word of them?”

Aemon sits up, tucking his hands into the great sleeves of his robes.

“No my Lord, no wings nor words,” he sighs, “- though I’d imagine if anyone knew you were here, they’d have many reasons not to alert the birds to your presence, as of yet,”

Yes, Ned has to agree. The whole thing reeks of machination.

“There are rumours, however,” the old man continues, not hesitating but careful, gentle, “- about your wife-,”

“Yes, I know that Lady Catelyn-,”

“And-,” the Maester interrupts, “-about your son,”

Ned blinks,

“My son - Robb?”

Maester Aemon leans forward, one hand revealing a tightly wound scroll - the seal broken.

“This was sent to the Lord Commander the day before you arrived,” he begins, carefully, “it says that the Hand of the King has vanished from the capitol after being attacked in the street - his daughters kept prisoner in the keep,

“-and that the young Stark is calling the banners,”

Ned hoists himself onto his hands, the shooting pains in his knee nothing to the hammering in his chest.

“The banners? You mean to say - we are at war?”

But the Maester shakes his head.

“Not as yet my Lord,” he assures, one hand raised, “-but when in search of answers, it seems the young man is preparing for force,”

The young man. Robb. Gathering Lords and Knights and blooded swords in his name. For his father, the young Stark would ride to war.

Ned shudders.

“Robb - he’s just a boy,”

“Aye, so you say,” says the Maester, placing the scroll back into his robes, “- but it seems he is also his father’s son,”

Ned swallows - throat tight, head heavy. One bare hand smooths over the lazy wolf’s back over and over again.

“What about my girls?” he says again. He’ll say it many more times, no doubt. “They’re not safe there, they don’t belong there, in that - that pit,”

The Maester’s face softens. He leans forward, the wrinkled mouth curled with sympathy.

“Few do, My Lord,” the old man sighs, “- the Red Keep is rarely a home to good intentions, I remember it well,”

Does he? It takes a moment for the words to settle - but yes, how strange. Of course, he’d remember, Ned thinks. He grew up there after all.

Aemon of the Citadel. Prince Aemon Targaryen. How odd - the Lord of Winterfell had quite forgotten about the dragon that slept in the shadow of the Wall - so far from the world.

What would Robert say to me now? Ned muses, taking another drink. What words would he have for the last dragon in Westeros?

Would he have any left for me?

Ned sighs. I should never have set foot in that wretched place. A soldier has little use in the wars of words and treachery. Walking in the steps of Jon Arynn - the business of gold and tourneys, friends and foes. Looking into the eyes of young women with babes at their breasts - searching for the remnants of his eldest friend’s spent seed.

Lordly lies. Bastard babes. By the old gods, Ned, what do you know of those?

On his chest, the wolf yawns, stretching its oversized toes.

Has he been here this whole time? At Winterfell, that little pup barely left his master’s side - bundled up in his arms, nipping at his feet. But the one his boy called Ghost seems quite content to be kept apart - protectively spread over Ned’s body like a cloak.

“Has Jon been here?” he asks, petting the beast once again.

The Maester smiles.

“Aye, several times - he’s been very worried for you, and your girls,”

Oh lad.

“Is he … is he well?”

“I would say so,” the old man nods, and the relief Ned feels is … beyond anything.

I have not failed all of them yet.

“- He’s a good boy, my Lord,” the Maester continues, easily, “- he’s made many friends here - the lad who dressed your leg, in fact,”

Ned looks down at the careful linens wrapped around his swollen limb.

Aye, that sounds like Jon. He rarely saw the lad without one of his siblings in tow - running after Robb, carrying Arya or Bran on his shoulders. Once, Ned watched him dutifully sway back and forth under the instruction of a sweetly singing Sansa - barely four years to her name. The boy took her hands, pouting seriously - careful not to tread on the little lady’s toes.

“That’s good to hear,” Ned nods.

Jon at the Wall, Bran and Rickon behind Winterfell’s high walls. Yes. Let them stay there. Let them be safe.

With all this talk of royal bastards…

“-and the Lord Commander has kept an eye on him,” the Maester carries on “- especially since your brother rode North,”

Ned sits up.

“I should speak to the Lord Commander, as soon as he is able,”

“Yes,” the Maester nods, “- he has a few questions for you too, but my Lord-,”

Ned stops, bracing himself and his leg to shift out from under the wolf’s sleeping weight.

“- Rest a while - that leg won’t thank you for rising so soon, and the snow is still falling,”

Aemon smiles at the ceiling, and Ghost resettles on Ned’s waiting lap.

Once, a long time ago, Lord Mormont visited Winterfell for a feast.

This was many years back - before Ned left for the Eyrie. His father had sat with the Lord of Bear Island all night discussing matters over meat and ale- something dull that neither Ned nor his elder brother cared to listen to. He remembers his black beard, his thick brows - the hair on the back of his knuckles. The (then much younger) bear hadn’t once laughed or cracked a smile that the boys could see- but his father never spoke ill of the man, and the party left with a firm handshake and quiet words.

Ned can see much of that proud Lord sitting before him now - though his beard is grey and his head is lined and bald. Dressed in black, he is the very image of the aged Commander of the Night’s Watch - grizzled and stern. Although-

Corn! Corn!

Ned did not remember the raven.

“Cursed bird,” the Old Bear sighs, reaching somewhere in his pocket. Sitting across from where Ned is propped atop his bed, Mormont tosses some corn to the other side of the room. A flash of black wings disappears behind him, followed by rapid tapping on the old stone slabs.

Ned adjusts, doing his best to hide how the pain sparks up his leg and spine. That boy brought him a basin and cloth to wash with, but Ned would kill for something other than a nightshirt at this moment - it feels wrong to receive a fellow Lord in this way.

Not that he thinks Mormont would mind - the Lord Commander sits at ease with an ale horn in hand. He even brought a cup of hot wine for Ned to sup - a larger jug still steaming on the bedside stool. He twists the drink thoughtfully in his palms - grateful for the warmth and something more to take the edge off his pain.

“-So you’ve no clue who sent you here, Lord Stark?”, Mormont asks- not sceptical, but straightforward.

“No, My Lord,” Ned replies, “-to my regret, I remember little of the leaving, let alone the journey,”

The Commander seems to expect this, nodding to himself.

“To send you by ship too - aye, now there’s a trick,” he murmurs, taking a gulp from his horn, “- none of the men who brought ye even knew who you were - or claimed not to, at least,”

He strokes his beard, thoughtful.

“There’s little point keeping you secret from the men,” he declares, shaking his head, “-half of the watch that night saw you arrive, and even those that don’t know your face have lived with your brother’s for most of their lives,

“Still,” he frowns, “- you understand, of My Lord, what position this has left us both,”

He looks over the rim of his cup.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part,”

Ned nods, solemn.

“Aye, and I would not ask it to,” he assures, flexing his bandaged leg, “-I mean not to wait on your hospitality longer than necessary,”

Jeor leans back, face a little less creased.

“Nor would I throw you out my Lord - there are many leagues between here and the south, and besides-,”

He grimaces then - not quite a smile, but crooked and satisfied.

“House Stark has always been a friend to the Watch,”

Ned smiles, grateful for the Old Bear.

“-and so it shall remain,” he replies.

Both men drink. The older looks from the corner of his eye with suspicion - watching the bird still cheerfully pecking at the scattered corn.

Ned has never been alone with Jeor Mormont, though they’ve exchanged many a raven over the years. Supply lines mostly - negotiations with House Manderly on behalf of East Watch. Handling wheat and ale - management of the Gift.

His son, the Slaver, sent across the sea.

Ned looks into his cup. Yes, he thinks, watching the grizzled old man, perhaps it’s best not to speak of him.

“Maester Aemon told me,” he begins instead, voice hoarse, “-that Benjen is beyond the Wall?”

“Aye,” the Commander nods sagely, “-some months past now - with six others, looking for Ser Waymar Royce,”

He pauses then, eyeing Ned with a frown, but sighs with a nod.

“-I’ll admit his men have been gone longer than we’d agreed - I’ve sent parties out to search for them,”

Ned stiffens. Benjen is missing?

“- you believe something happened to him?” he asks, leaning forward, “- storms? Wildlings?”

But Mormont shakes his head.

“I cannot say, My Lord,” the Commander huffs, “- but Benjen was not made First Ranger for nothing,

“If they have come to some trouble, the men are all the better to have him leading them through it,”

True enough, Ned thinks. His brother found a place here and made it his own. He would not do Benjen the dishonour of doubting his strength or his skill.

Still, he swallows, looking into the fire. There is one less Stark sleeping safely in their bed.

He drains his cup, carefully placing it on the bedside stool.

“As you say, My Lord,”

The two men share the silence - minds North and South. The bird hops over - claws skittering on the stony floor, before flapping onto it’s master’s shoulders.

Lord! Lord!

“Not you, ye pest,” Mormont mutters, stroking a finger down its back. Ned huffs with a half smile.

“How else fairs the Watch?” he asks, “- your new recruits will swear soon, yes?”

“Aye, they’ll swear soon,” the Commander nods, “-your bastard too,”

Sooner the better Ned thinks quietly.

“Aemon tells me he’s done well here,” the Lord says instead, “- with the other lads, making his way,”

The Commander nods, gruffly.

“I’d say so,” he agrees, letting the bird peck at his fingers, “- needed a few hard truths told, perhaps, but find me a lad of four and ten who didn’t have to learn the way of the world,”

He stretched his neck, narrowing his eyes at Ned.

“He’s a good boy though, your bastard,” he says carefully, mulling the words as he says them, “-I mean to take him on as my steward,”

Ned frowns.

“Your steward?”

Truly?

“Aye, My Lord,” says Mormont, keen-eyed, “- my Steward,”

“… I see,”

When Jon asked to go North with his uncle, Ned always imagined his boy as a ranger. Of course, he did. Jon was as swift with his blade as Robb - much swifter than the Iron Born Theon Greyjoy. Jory Cassell always spoke highly of his swordsmanship. Surely he would do well beyond the Wall with his new brothers at his side, defending the land from wildling raiders and the like. Ned can’t imagine why-?

“No disrespect, my Lord, but-,”

Knock Knock Knock

“Come!” says the Lord Commander, leaning back in his chair as the wood creaks open.

“I’m sorry my Lords,” says Jon Snow, standing in the doorframe with a scroll in his hand, “- I did not mean to disturb you,”

“Maester send you here, boy?” the Commander asks, gesturing him to come forward.

“Yes, My Lord,” the lad replies, walking across the room, careful not to stare at his Lord and Father.

But Ned does. Oh, how he stares at the boy - his boy. Has it truly been a few months since he saw him? It feels as if it’s been an age.

Jon is a little taller than he remembers, with dark hair brushing his shoulders and dressed in the customed thick, black leather - yet, he’s almost just as he left him. Exactly where he told him he’d be. If he weren’t a Lord, Ned would weep, right there and then.

“Are you well, Jon?”

Jon watches from the corner of his eye, handing Mormont the scroll with his free hand twitching at his side.

“Aye, My Lord,” the boy replies, “- I am well,”

He glances at Mormont, then back to Ned.

“And you, My Lord?”

His jaw is tense, his shoulders square. The boy looks from the wrap on Ned’s leg, the wine in his hand to his father’s face, glancing away when grey eyes meet grey.

“Better, lad - better than I was,”

Jon keeps to his place, nodding slowly and shifting on his feet.

Bastards don’t run to their father’s side, Ned thinks, his heart twisting. It’s not the proper way.

Robb would likely break my leg again in his landing, the lad’s so fierce. He need not be so polite.

Beside Ned, the wolf sits up - ears perked and tail gently wagging. Ghost stretches with a yawn, gives a little shake, and hops off the bed. Jon looks down with a half smile, offering the pup his open palm. It’s a sweet sight - Ned had seen Lady do the same for Sansa many times, prim and proper.

The poor thing.

Mormont clears his throat, waving the sealed roll of paper.

“Did he tell you when this came, lad?”

“Just now my Lord - Maester Aemon had me help him feed the birds,”

Mormont hums, looking through his eyebrows at Ned, who still watches his boy. If he could, Ned would embrace him - custom be damned. But alas, he has yet to try and stand on his own two feet. It would help neither of them to see the Lord fall on his face.

“Tell me,” Mormont says, his voice pointed, chin raised, “-come here boy,”

Jon frowns but steps forward, one hand rubbing between Ghost’s ears.

“Yes, my lord?”

Mormont raises the scroll, letting the wax seal catch the light.

“Where did this scroll come from?”

Jon narrows his eyes.

“... Hornwood, My Lord,”

The older man nods, looking pointedly at Ned.

“- and what makes you say that?”

Jon opens his mouth, then shuts it - looking between the two lords with hesitation. Like he’s waiting for a jest.

“... the seal,” he replies, slowly, “-orange wax with the moose horn sigil,”

Mormont huffs, nodding his head. He then reaches into his jerkin.

“What about this one,” he asks again, producing a broken scroll with hard blue wax.

“Whiteharbour,” Jon says, tilting his head to see, “-blue, with a merman and trident,”

“And-,” Mormont continues as if raising his voice to a crowd, “-if I were to hand you one in yellow with a pair of blue eyes, where would you say that’d be from?”

Ned watches the scene, hand curling around the sheets.

“House Flint, my Lord,” Jon replies, “at Widow’s Watch, but why-?”

“And if I were to ask you on which river you’d find House Cerwyn, what would you say?”

What game does he play? Ned wonders, following their words back and forth.

“The Western White Knife,” Jon frowns, “-Maester Llewyn used to say-,” he pauses, looking at his father, before Mormont waves him on, “-that Lady Cerwyn’s tongue bites harder than the river’s fork,”

“Aye, so he would,” Mormont nods, pausing thoughtfully. Jon visibly braces, hands now behind his back. Ned waits with him - considering what use a Maester’s drill has at this late hour. But the Lord Commander is not finished.

“How many Northmen would say there were at Castle Black, Snow?” he asks, “excluding you and yer uncle,”

Jon looks to the side like he’s counting.

“Yourself, My Lord - then Bowen Marsh, Ser Mallador Locke and Wynton Stout,” the boy begins,

“I’ve heard the men say the wandering crow, Yoren, came from the lands around Deepwood Motte - he,” Jon shrugs, “- he has the accent for it,”

Ned nods along. Yes, he thought so too. Jon’s always had keen eyes and ears.

“I think there are some men from Torrhen Square in Three Fingered Hobb’s kitchens, and one builder from Moat Calin, I-?,”

“-and what of the recruits,” Mormont interrupts, petting one hand down the curiously silent bird’s back, “- the boys you train with, where did they come from?”

Jon frowns.

“Not above the Neck, My Lord,” the boy says, “-though Pypar’s mummers troupe travelled to many places before he came here,”

“Do any of them have their letters?”

“No Lord Commander,” Jon replies evenly, “- just myself and Sam,”

Mormont sighs, fixing a stray feather on the raven’s wing. Ned smiles quietly at his boy - whatever strange test the Commander set him, he’s clearly passed. Of course, he knew his son was no fool, but Ned would admit he paid little mind to what Jon learned in Luwin’s chambers. Cat had long begrudged him the time with Robb in his lessons, it’s true - Llewyn was wasted on a Bastard, she would say.

But Ned decided long ago - if Jon was to be his son, he would learn with the rest of them. Know the land he lived in. Keep up with his elder brother in the yard and the schoolroom.

I owe him that at least.

Mormont’s lip curls - not quite a smile. Then he waves the lad away.

“Right boy, off you go,”

“My Lord-?”

“Go on now, get some stew in you, I’m sure the Maester will find something else to keep you busy before Alliser has you all at drill,”

Jon doesn’t move, hands twitching.

“Lord Commander, can I ask-?”

“No you can’t boy,” he says firmly, fixing his pale eyes on the lad, “-you heard me, go on now,”

Still Jon swallows, though he goes to leave. Mormont’s voice lowers.

“-don’t you worry, lad,” he says, not unkindly, “yer father will be here a while yet,”

Jon frowns, looking back to Ned. His mouth opens and closes. The wolf shakes out his fur.

Ned sighs.

“We’ll speak later Jon, I promise,”

That seems good enough. The boy bows, just at the neck, then turns towards the door. The wolf trots behind him on his heels, tail in the air, but wordlessly Jon shakes his head. One hand on the latch, he points the beast back to the bed, back to Ned, and the pup silently obeys. The door creaks shut, and Lord Stark’s lap is full again with warm, white fur.

“A good lad,” Mormont says again, fishing some more corn from his pocket.

“Aye,” Ned replies softly, petting the beast’s chin. He hasn’t turned away from the door.

They sit in silence - the fire crackling and the bird happily picking at the handfuls of yellow grain. Though Ned has yet to leave his bed, he’s wearier than he’s ever been.

“Do you know, My Lord,” Mormont murmurs, wincing as a beak bites into rough, calloused palms, “-how many highborns we get here at the Wall?”

Ned shakes his head.

“Not many,” the Commander says, “-not these days,

“Most of them come with men like Yoren - cleared out from dungeons, riding up the King’s Road,

“-lots of good hands, no doubt - men who can raise a keep, tend a horse, start a fire - even lead a small company or watch over a chest of coin,

“All of them wanting a second chance, to escape the noose, the sword - as ye like,

“Bastards are ten-a-penny, I’ll grant you too - I’ve known half a hundred Flowers and Stones, Rivers and Waters and many, many Snows,”

“Snow” the Raven repeats happily, “Snow! Snow!”

“-but very few of them could tell me half of what your lad just did, just now,”

“He’s a smart boy,” Ned agrees, “-always has been,”

“Aye, he’s smart,” Mormont says “a smart boy, who knows the North, has his letters and has learned a thing or two about being a brother,

“-he could do well here,”

He leans forward.

“Better here, than beyond the Wall,”

And it clicks.

“You’d make him your steward,” Ned repeats, quietly.

Bring your food, and change your sheets. Pour your wine and clear your table. Read your maps and your ravens. Stand at your side to hear counsel, to make plans.

To learn.

Mormont sits satisfied.

“He’s a temper on him, I’ll grant you-”

A temper? His Jon? Ned can’t say he’s ever seen much of it himself, but-

“-but he’s found friends here, good friends - he looks after them, teaches them what he knows, Thorne’s rod or no-,”

Mormont leans forward.

“Your bastard will swear his vows soon, as many have - and then he’ll have his place,

And Mormont stares his liege lord down with steely eyes.

“He could live here,”

Ned almost bristles.

Aye, so there’s your plot.

The Lord shall not linger where bastards may thrive. He wants Ned to leave, but not his boy. Eddard is almost surprised he didn’t send Jon to swear his vows the moment he arrived- marched to the godswood under guard, ready to swear his fate.

But, despite the bite, Lord Stark lets the elder’s words roll over him. Sees the sense, almost with relief.

Mormont tells no lies - Jon can do well here, away from the world. More than his name, less burdened by his birth. His blood has manned the wall for thousands of years. With him, they shall stand guard for many more.

And besides - Lord Eddard Stark had no intention of bringing Jon Snow South.

“I’m sure he will serve the Wall with honour,” he says with as much force as he can muster, meeting the Commander’s eyes with his own steel.

“Aye,” Mormont smiles, the first true one Ned has ever seen - all strong, white teeth, “-I’m sure he will,”

He finishes his drink, setting the horn down beside him and the Raven squawks.

“Snow! Corn! Snow!”

“Now, My Lord,” Mormont sighs, reaching over to pour Ned another cup of wine.

“What word from King’s Landing?”