Chapter 131 128

The North. Winterfell. 299 AC.

Jon Snow.

For a full year now Jon had lived in a state of mild bewilderment. He had long since settled the question of his own future: the Night's Watch. The order was an honorable institution, sworn to protect men from the dangers of the far North. His father was against it, his twin sister was against it, even his trueborn siblings were against it; only Lady Stark had been in favor. But Jon could not see another path. What else could he become: a hedge knight, his father's guardsman, a merchant, a sellsword, perhaps a steward? Whatever he became, he would remain Lord Eddard Stark's mistake forever. Sellsword work in Essos was the one thing that might have freed him from the burden of bastardy, but killing men for coin was not how he had been raised.

Jon was stubborn, as any son of the wolf house tended to be. They argued at length and eventually settled on an agreement: he would be allowed to take the black at sixteen. Tell the gods your plans if you want a laugh. King Robert died, and his father immediately declared for King Stannis. Jon had wanted to march south and fight alongside his family, but they left him behind. He disagreed with that, naturally, but his father explained the reasoning clearly enough, and the weight of responsibility to their house.

And so the Quiet Wolf's bastard became acting Lord of Winterfell and found himself holding considerable authority over the North. Ser Rodrik Cassel had departed for the south for reasons Jon never entirely understood, leaving the position vacant. Jon had never sought power, but with no other Starks of suitable age available, his father had named him castellan.

A week into the appointment, his respect for his father and Ser Rodrik grew substantially. They had been consummate professionals, spending a laughably small amount of time resolving every matter that arose. Jon could not manage the same, and found himself regularly staying in his father's study until well into the night, trying to catch up. Without Maester Luwin's help he would long since have collapsed from the effort of trying to do everything at once; as it was, he found his footing within two weeks.

The war ground on, problems multiplied, enemies grew bolder, and he had to ride out occasionally to help his bannermen against bandits. Setting aside the grim nature of such expeditions, Jon welcomed them. Out there everything was straightforward: he had a sword, loyal companions, and a clear enemy to drive back. That suited him far better than sitting in his father's cheerless study working through logistics, settling petitioners' disputes, and calculating pay.

On those campaigns he met a great many good men, some of whom remained passing acquaintances and others true friends. He struck up a friendship with Ozric Umber, Big Jon's middle son, while they were tracking a large band of wildling raiders together. Bennet Glover, after the lifting of a blockade by free-company pirates, came back with him to Winterfell entirely of his own accord. And with Marlon Manderly he kept up a regular correspondence to this day.

It was not a thing he would say aloud, but for the first time in his life Jon felt that he was where he was meant to be. He was doing something that mattered, he had friends who saw simply Jon rather than the bastard of Winterfell, people looked at him with respect and gratitude, and his younger siblings, Rickon and Arya, ensured he never grew complacent. Worthy work, good friends, and family. The castle's stifling walls were beginning to feel less so.

An unpleasant discovery came when he finally understood the real reason for his crushing workload in those first months. He had been performing the duties of three people simultaneously: lord, lady, and castellan of Winterfell. It stung, but after thinking it over he came to appreciate the advantages of his position.

Lady Stark, rather than attending to her proper duties and raising the younger children, was sitting somewhere in the south and keeping her nose out of things that were not her concern. This had mattered most at the start of 298, when a letter arrived demanding he gather two thousand men to send to the Vale in support of Robert Arryn. He had some experience by then, and something about it struck him as wrong. He began the preparations all the same, but sent a raven to his father. It proved to be Lady Catelyn's private initiative, and the resulting dispute had driven a wedge between Lord and Lady Stark.

Using that precedent, Jon later fulfilled a long-standing dream of his favorite sister, Arya. When Sansa had sailed for King's Landing, she had taken old Septa Mordane with her. Arya had been overjoyed, as she had always despised lessons in ladylike behavior. The joy did not last long. Lady Stark arranged for a replacement: Septa Leima, who was considerably worse than the old one. She was a strict zealot with a pronounced streak of snobbery, treating the Seven-Pointed Star as a rulebook by which a young lady's every waking hour ought to be governed. The castle took against her quickly, and Jon among them. But where once he had been merely a silenced bastard, things were different now.

He dismissed the septa and replaced her with a governess from White Harbor, recommended by Marlon. Lady Mara struck a deft balance between the traditional upbringing expected of southern ladies and practical training for young women. Arya was delighted and complained about the ladylike portions far less than anyone had anticipated. Lady Stark's displeasure was drowned out by her own recent misstep and the general satisfaction of everyone else in the castle. Winterfell had found its order.

With each month at his post, Jon found himself pressed by worry with increasing frequency. The war devoured resources the way sand drinks water. The heaviest burden had fallen on a North that was not rich to begin with. The expenditure was enormous; Lord Stark had even ordered the granaries set aside for winter to be drawn upon. Six months, perhaps a little more or less, and it would be finished: the stores would be gone, and winter was coming.

He had not lived through a winter yet, but Jon understood the scale of the approaching problem well enough, and had no idea how to forestall it. His father offered little help on that front, asking only for a little more patience. It was Jon's faith in his father that allowed him to sleep at all and to keep doing what he could.

His father had always been his model, the ideal he measured himself against, whether in martial skill, in the manner of treating those around him, or in the management of a lordship. During the rebellion his father had killed the Sword of the Morning. But Jon was not his father, and despite gradually finding his footing, the weight of responsibility for the North pressed down on him like a mountain.

Bastard or not, he was also his father's son, and in times like these a man could not afford to show weakness. The godswood was the one place where he could stop being an unshakeable leader. The old gods cared nothing for your birth; before them all men were equal. Even as a small child he had felt that the godswood was the one place where no one looked down on him for what he was. He had loved being there ever since. It settled him.

"My lord Castellan," one of Winterfell's guardsmen addressed him respectfully. "A messenger has arrived from the Night's Watch."

The title grated on Jon, but after a few battles people had started using it and all requests to stop had been cheerfully ignored by the old soldiers.

"Who is it?"

"Ser Jaremy Rykker." Uncle Benjen had spoken of him, Jon recalled, as a capable ranger.

"Let's go."