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Jon Flint
The courtyard of Winterfell was chaos in the morning light.
Horses stamped and snorted while stable hands loaded the last of the supplies. Twenty Flint soldiers checked their weapons and gear, breath misting white in the cold air. The Mormont party had assembled near the main gate, Lady Maege already mounted and watching the proceedings.
Jon adjusted the saddlebag that hung against his chest. Inside, the direwolf pup shifted and whined, too young to walk the distance to the Wall but too stubborn to be left behind. Jon scratched behind one white ear, and the pup settled.
"You'll spoil him."
Jon turned. Robb stood behind him, auburn hair catching the first rays of sunlight breaking through the clouds. In that moment, it looked like he was wearing a crown of blood. His brother wore a grin that didn't quite hide the something heavier beneath it.
"He's already spoiled," Jon said. "I found him in a forest eating a corpse. It's all downhill from there."
Robb laughed, then stepped forward and pulled Jon into an embrace.
"Try not to fall off the Wall," Robb said against his shoulder.
"Try not to burn down Winterfell while I'm gone."
They separated. Robb's eyes were bright and foggy. "You know, they say you can see for a hundred miles from the top. Maybe you'll be able to spot Winterfell."
Jon smiled. "If I wave, wave back."
"I'll have Bran watch for you. He's always looking up at something anyway."
Before Jon could respond, a small body slammed into his side with the force of a charging ram.
"Jon!" Arya wrapped her arms around him, squeezing hard enough to make the direwolf pup yelp in protest. "You have to bring me something back. A real ranger's sword. Or a piece of ice from the Wall. Or both."
Jon laughed and ruffled her hair, already escaping from its careful braids. "I'll try."
"Don't just try. Promise."
"I promise I'll try."
Arya glared at him, but her lips twitched. "That's not the same thing."
"It's the best you're getting." He crouched to her level, meeting those grey eyes. "Watch over Robb for me. He needs someone to keep him humble."
"I always do." She hugged him again, quickly, then stepped back when Sansa appeared.
Sansa approached next, every inch the proper lady in her blue wool dress. She curtsied; it was graceful, like a proper lady. "Safe travels, Jon. May the old gods watch over you."
"Thank you, Sansa." He inclined his head. "Keep practicing your needlework. Lady Dustin will expect to be impressed when I return."
A smile spread across her face, and for a moment, her face was red like her hair. "I'll have something ready for you. Something worthy of a Flint lord."
Bran appeared at her elbow, his blue eyes wide with excitement. "Jon, do you think you'll see any giants? Or White Walkers? Old Nan says they still live beyond the Wall, frozen in the ice, waiting to—"
"I hope not," Jon said. "But if I do, I'll tell you everything when I get back. Every detail."
Bran's face lit up. "Promise?"
"I promise."
Something grabbed Jon's leg and refused to let go. He looked down to find Rickon attached to his thigh, small arms wrapped tight, face pressed against the leather of his breeches.
"No go," Rickon announced. "Stay."
Jon's chest tightened. He reached down to touch Rickon's hair, soft as silk. "I have to go, little one. But I'll come back."
"No." Rickon's grip tightened. "Stay with Ricki."
Lady Catelyn appeared, her face was blank as always, not that Jon expected it any different. She bent and gently pried Rickon's fingers loose, lifting the squirming boy into her arms.
"Your brother will return," she told Rickon. Then, to Jon, she gave a stiff nod. "Safe travels."
It wasn't warmth. But it wasn't coldness either. Something had thawed between them in the years since Jon had saved Sansa from the Greyjoy kidnappers. Not friendship, perhaps never that, but something that approached respect.
"Thank you, my lady."
Arthur Stark approached next, eleven years old and serious-faced in a way that reminded Jon painfully of himself at that age. Benjen's son stood straight, chin raised, trying to look older than he was.
"I wanted to thank you," Arthur said. "For the climbing lessons. I've been practicing every day, like you told me."
"Show me when I get back." Jon gripped Arthur's shoulder. "We'll test those skills properly. Maybe find a wall that isn't made of ice."
Arthur smiled. "I'd like that."
Then a smaller figure barreled past Arthur, nearly knocking him aside. Joanna crashed into Jon's waist with enough force to make him stagger, her arms wrapping around him tight.
"You're really going to climb the big ice wall?" she demanded, tilting her head back to look up at him with wide eyes.
"I am."
"That's very high."
"It is."
"What if you fall?"
Jon knelt, bringing himself to her level. Joanna's face was earnest and worried, her dark curls escaping from their ribbon.
"I won't fall," he said.
"Promise?"
He held up his hand, little finger extended. Joanna stared at it for a moment, then hooked her own tiny finger around his.
"Promise," Jon said solemnly.
Joanna nodded, satisfied. Then she threw her arms around his neck one more time before Lady Barbrey called her name. She released him and ran back to her mother, who watched from a distance with that calculating expression she always wore. Lady Barbrey gave Jon a single nod of acknowledgment, which he returned.
Uncle Benjen was next. His scarred throat worked as he struggled to form words, each one an effort.
"Climb... well... wolf pup."
Jon clasped his uncle's arm. "I will."
Benjen's grip tightened, then released. No more words were needed.
Finally, Lord Stark approached.
Ned's grey eyes searched Jon's face for a long moment.
"You handled the killer matter well," Ned said quietly, pitched so only Jon could hear. "The official report was... thorough."
Jon said nothing. His father's tone made clear he knew there was more to the story than what had been written down.
"The North is watching," Ned continued. "This climb matters. Not just for House Flint, but for you. For what it means to be a man grown."
"I understand."
"I know you do." Ned's hand landed on Jon's shoulder, heavy and warm. "Make us proud."
"I won't disappoint you, Father."
Ned held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once and stepped back.
Jon mounted his horse. The direwolf pup squirmed in the saddlebag, then settled against his chest with a small huff. Around him, the party was ready, Lord Anden massive on his warhorse, Grandmother Lyarra watching from her mount with quiet pride, Derek already moving to take his position, the Mormont women assembled and waiting.
Jon looked back at Winterfell one last time. At the grey walls that had been his home for most of his life. At the family gathered in the courtyard, watching him go.
Robb raised his hand. Arya waved frantically. Bran stood on his toes to see over the crowd. Joanna bounced beside her mother, still waving.
Jon raised his own hand in return.
Then he turned his horse toward the gate, and the party rode out as the sun rose over the ancient walls of Winterfell.
Jon Flint
Five days north of Winterfell, the land grew harsher.
The gentle hills and scattered farmsteads gave way to rocky terrain and dense forests of pine and oak that seemed to crowd the road. The wind cut sharper here, carrying the promise of true northern winter even though autumn had barely begun. Jon pulled his cloak tighter and felt the direwolf pup shift against his chest.
The pup had grown in just these few days. What had fit easily in a saddlebag now required a larger pouch, and Jon could feel the difference in weight when he mounted his horse each morning. The red eyes that had seemed so striking in the Wolfswood now watched everything, tracking birds and small animals.
"He needs a name," Dacey said, riding beside him as she had for most of the journey. Her dark hair was pulled back in its warrior's braid, and her grey eyes held their usual mix of challenge and warmth. "You can't keep calling him 'the pup' forever."
"I'm thinking about it."
"You've been thinking about it for five days."
"Names matter." Jon scratched behind one white ear, and the pup made a sound that was almost a purr. "I'll know when I know."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Dacey snorted. "Fine. What about Snow?"
Jon gave her a flat look.
"Right. Sorry." Dacey had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "What about... Frost? Winter? Ice?"
"You're just naming cold things now."
"Well, he's white! What am I supposed to do, name him after a flower?" She gestured at the pup's red eyes. "Bloodfang. Redmaw. Demon."
The pup yawned, showing tiny teeth, then buried his nose back into Jon's chest.
"He doesn't look much like a Demon," Jon said.
"He will when he's bigger. Those teeth aren't staying small forever."
Jon considered that. The pup was growing fast, faster than any normal dog. In a few months, those tiny teeth would be the length of his fingers. In a year...
"I'll think about it," he said.
"You'll think about thinking about it." Dacey shook her head but didn't push. That was something Jon appreciated about her; she knew when to press and when to let things lie.
Behind them, Lyanna Mormont's voice cut through the morning air. "Jorelle, if you don't stop humming that song, I'm going to push you off your horse."
"It's a good song!"
"You've been humming it for three days. It's not that good."
"Mother likes it."
"Mother is deaf in one ear. She can't hear half of it."
Lady Maege, riding ahead, called back without turning. "I can hear everything, Lyanna. Including you threatening your sister."
Lyanna went quiet. Jorelle started humming again, quieter this time, with a smug look on her face.
Jon caught Dacey's eye. She was fighting a smile.
Around the campfires each night, Jon found himself at the center of conversation more often than not. Lord Anden would tell stories of the old days, of battles fought and enemies vanquished. Lady Maege would offer her own tales of Bear Island, of ironborn raids and the women who drove them back into the sea. Derek would check Jon's gear and offer quiet advice about the climb ahead.
But Jon's mind kept drifting to other matters.
The mark on the killer's neck haunted him. Before leaving Winterfell, he had spoken with the Maester after he had checked the body, hoping the old man's knowledge might provide answers. Luwin had studied it carefully, turning the parchment this way and that, his chains clinking softly.
"I've never seen anything like it," Luwin had admitted. "It's not any symbol I recognize from the great houses, nor from any order I know of...." He'd shaken his head. "I'm sorry, Jon. This is beyond my knowledge."
The mystery remained unsolved.
On the fifth day, Last Hearth appeared on the horizon.
The fortress rose from the landscape like a fist of grey stone and black iron. Smoke curled from a dozen chimneys, and the Umber giant flew from the battlements, a roaring figure breaking free of its chains.
"Subtle," Jon murmured.
Derek snorted beside him. "The Umbers have never been subtle about anything."
"It's big," Lyanna Mormont said, bringing her horse up beside theirs. At eight years old, she was the youngest of the Mormont daughters, but she had opinions about everything and wasn't shy about sharing them. "Bigger than I thought."
"Wait until you see the Wall," Derek said.
"The Wall's different. It's supposed to be big. It's magic." Lyanna studied the fortress. "This is just showing off."
"I'll be sure to tell Lord Umber you think his ancestral home is showing off."
Lyanna shrugged. "He probably knows. That's probably the point."
Jon couldn't argue with that.
The gates swung open as they approached, the guards calling out greetings to Lord Anden by name. Word of their coming had clearly preceded them. As they rode through into the courtyard, Jon took in the bustle of activity, servants rushing to attend to them, stable hands ready to take their horses, and at the center of it all, a man who seemed to fill the entire space with his presence.
Lord Jon Umber, the Greatjon, as most called him, stood waiting with his arms crossed. He was massive, easily one of the largest men Jon had ever seen, with a wild beard that reached his chest and arms like tree trunks. His left hand was missing two fingers.
But even the Greatjon had to look up at Lord Anden.
"You old mountain bastard!" the Greatjon bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "I thought you'd died and no one bothered to tell me!"
"You'd know if I died," Anden replied. "The ground would shake for a hundred miles."
The Greatjon roared with laughter and pulled Anden into an embrace that would have crushed a smaller man. They clapped each other's backs hard enough to raise dust, well, Lord Anden did, GreatJon clapped Lord Anden's lower back. It felt like looking at two bears hugging each other.
"How many years has it been?" the Greatjon asked, stepping back to look Anden over. "Ten? Fifteen?"
"Six. Since the Greyjoy Rebellion."
"Aye, that's right. That was a good fight, wasn't it? Remember when we broke through their lines at Pyke?"
"I remember you nearly got yourself killed trying to take on three ironborn at once."
"Nearly isn't the same as actually." The Greatjon's grin was fierce. "Besides, I took all three of them in the end."
While the two lords traded memories, Jon dismounted and helped his grandmother down from her horse.
"The Umbers haven't changed," she murmured to Jon. "Still loud enough to wake the dead."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Ask me after dinner."
The Greatjon's attention shifted from Anden to the rest of the party. His eyes swept over the Mormont women with appreciation and lingered briefly on Lyarra with something that might have been old acquaintance. Then those eyes found Jon.
The Greatjon studied him openly, taking in the purple eyes, the dark curls, the lean frame that hadn't yet filled out completely. Jon met his gaze without flinching.
"So this is the boy I've been hearing about," the Greatjon said, striding forward until he loomed over Jon like a mountain. "Jon Flint. Heir to Breakstone Hill."
"Lord Umber," Jon said, inclining his head respectfully. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"Hospitality, he says. Listen to that, like some southern lordling." The Greatjon's eyes glinted. "But you're the one behind those candle guilds, aren't you? The ones half the North is using now."
Jon blinked. "You've heard of them?"
"Heard of them? Boy, we've got three families in Last Hearth buying the damn things." The Greatjon's grin was wolfish. "My steward nearly wept when he saw the numbers. Said we're saving more coin on tallow than we spend on ale." He paused. "Well. Almost as much as we spend on ale."
"I'm glad they've been useful, my lord."
"Useful." The Greatjon snorted. "That's one word for it. Clever's another. Though I expected someone bigger, I'll admit. You're what, thirteen? Fourteen? You'll fill out, I suppose."
"I'm still growing, my lord. Give me a few more years."
The Greatjon stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed, a sound like thunder rolling across mountains. His massive hand came down on Jon's shoulder with enough force to make him stagger.
"I like this one!" the Greatjon declared to no one in particular. "Got wit, not just pretty words!" He squeezed Jon's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Come on, all of you. My hall is open, my hearth is warm, and my ale is flowing. Tonight we feast!"
The great hall of Last Hearth was exactly what Jon expected, massive, rough-hewn, and designed more for warmth and feasts than elegance. Long tables filled the space, already crowded with Umber soldiers and household members. A fire roared in the central hearth.
Jon found himself seated at the high table, to the Greatjon's left, a position of considerable honor for a guest his age. His grandmother sat further down, engaged in conversation with an Umber cousin, while Lord Anden had claimed a seat beside the Greatjon where they could continue their reminiscing.
The Mormont party occupied a prominent section of the hall. Lady Maege sat with her daughters around her, all of them eating. Dacey caught Jon's eye across the distance and raised her cup slightly. He returned the gesture.
"So," the Greatjon said, turning his attention to Jon as servants laid out platters of roasted meat and root vegetables. "Anden says you've got more ideas rattling around that head of yours. Something about ice houses?"
"The principle is simple," Jon began. "Cold wants to stay cold. You dig down, line the pit with stone and mortar, build double-thick walls with dead air between them for insulation. Pack the space with sawdust or straw. The ice you harvest in winter stays frozen well into summer."
"And the food keeps?"
"Meat. Fish. Dairy. Anything that would spoil in summer heat stays fresh for weeks. Months, in some cases." Jon took a bite of bread, then continued. "Winterfell loses about eight hundred gold dragons worth of food to spoilage each year. That's conservative. With ice houses, that loss drops to almost nothing."
The Greatjon's eyes had sharpened with interest. "Eight hundred dragons. That's not nothing."
"No, my lord. And that's just Winterfell. Imagine ice houses in every major holdfast. In towns where fishermen could keep their catch fresh for days instead of hours. In farming communities where a failed harvest wouldn't mean starvation because preserved stores would see them through."
"Pretty words," the Greatjon said, but his tone had changed. "You have a merchant's mind."
"I have a practical mind," Jon corrected. "The North is rich in two things: cold and community. We should use both."
The Greatjon studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly. "Anden wasn't lying about you. You think like a lord, not a boy."
"I try, my lord."
"Do you fight like a lord too?" This came from further down the table, where a young man Jon's age or slightly older was watching.
The Greatjon grinned. "Jon Flint, meet my heir. Smalljon, they call him, though he's anything but small."
Smalljon Umber was indeed not small. He was built like his father, broad-shouldered, thick with muscle; he seemed more like a rock given form.
"I heard you beat a Mormont in single combat," Smalljon said. "In front of half of Winterfell."
"A sparring match," Jon said. "With practice weapons."
"Still counts. They say you outthought her. Made her chase you until she made a mistake."
Jon glanced toward Dacey. She was watching the exchange with obvious amusement, her cup raised to hide her smile.
"Lady Dacey nearly had me twice," Jon said. "She's a formidable warrior. Anyone who says otherwise hasn't crossed blades with her."
"Most boys your age would boast," Lady Maege called from her seat. Her voice carried easily across the hall. "Claim they dominated from start to finish. You give credit where it's due." She raised her cup toward Jon. "That speaks well of you."
Smalljon looked slightly disappointed that Jon hadn't risen to the bait. "Maybe we'll spar while you're here. Test those skills myself."
"I'd welcome it."
"Tomorrow morning, then. After breakfast." Smalljon's grin was challenging. "Unless you need more time to recover from the road."
"Tomorrow morning is fine."
"Good." Smalljon studied him with renewed interest. "I've never fought someone with purple eyes before. Does it give you special powers? See in the dark? Predict the future?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"Shame. That would've made it more interesting." He took a long drink. "What about that wolf in your bag? Is he going to fight me too?"
"He's sleeping."
"Convenient excuse."
Jon found himself almost smiling. Smalljon reminded him a bit of Robb, that same competitive energy, that same need to test himself. "If it makes you feel better, you can fight him when he's grown. He should be the size of a horse by then."
Smalljon's eyebrows rose. "Direwolf?"
"Albino. Red eyes."
"Shit." Smalljon leaned forward, suddenly more interested in the pup than the fight. "Can I see him?"
Jon carefully withdrew the pup from his saddlebag. The direwolf blinked sleepily at the torchlight, yawned, and promptly tried to burrow back into Jon's chest.
"He's not very impressive," Smalljon observed.
"He's three weeks old."
"Still. Thought direwolves would be more... fierce."
As if in response, the pup opened one red eye, stared at Smalljon for a long moment, then sneezed directly in his direction.
Smalljon looked at the wet spot on his sleeve. Then at the pup. Then at Jon.
"Did your wolf just sneeze on me?"
"I think he liked you."
"That's disgusting."
"He's three weeks old," Jon repeated. "He doesn't have manners yet."
The Greatjon's laugh boomed across the table. "Ha! The pup's got better aim than most of my archers!"
The feast continued. Jon ate and drank moderately, keeping his wits sharp while those around him grew louder and more boisterous. He asked the Greatjon about Last Hearth's defenses, genuinely curious about how the fortress withstood attacks from wildling raids. He discussed farming techniques with one of the Umber cousins, suggesting ways that ice preservation might help communities this far north survive hard winters. He spoke with Smalljon about training methods, comparing the Umber style of brute force with the Flint emphasis on speed and technique.
Throughout it all, Jon was aware of his grandmother watching him from her seat. Lyarra's grey eyes held quiet pride, and occasionally she would nod slightly, approving of how he handled himself.
Lord Anden remained relatively quiet, drinking deeply and watching his great-grandson work the room.
The hour grew late. The fire burned lower. Many of the hall's occupants had already stumbled off to their beds, and those who remained spoke in quieter voices, the evening's energy slowly fading.
That was when the Greatjon leaned back in his chair and fixed Lord Anden with a grin.
"You know," the Greatjon said, "I was just thinking about the old days. When you were less grey and I was less fat." He patted his belly, which was considerable. "Remember that time you disappeared for a whole year? Your father nearly sent an army north to find you."
"I remember," Anden said carefully.
"That year you spent beyond the Wall, living with the Wildlings." The Greatjon shook his head in wonder. "Gods, that took balls. Most men who go beyond the Wall don't come back. But you did, and you came back different. Stronger."
"They are called Free Folk." Anden corrected.
Jon's blood went cold.
The Greatjon was still talking, but Jon barely heard him. The words beyond the Wall and Free Folk echoed in his mind.
His great-grandfather had lived with wildlings. For a year. Had learned from them, survived with them.
His hands, resting on the table, curled into fists.
"Jon."
The word cut through the noise in his head. He looked up to find his great-grandfather watching him with those black eyes that saw everything.
"You have a question," Anden said. It wasn't a guess.
"You lived with the wildlings?"
"I did," Anden said. "Many years ago. Before you were born."
"Why?"
"To learn. To understand. The Free Folk have survived beyond the Wall for thousands of years. They know things about the true north that we've forgotten."
Jon's fists tightened under the table. "The Free Folk?"
Anden's eyes didn't waver. "That's what they call themselves. It's what I call them."
"They're wildlings. Savages. They raid and kill and—"
"Some do," Anden interrupted. "Just as some southerners raid and kill. Would you judge all northerners by the actions of the worst among them?"
Jon wanted to argue. He wanted to list every crime the wildlings had committed, every raid, every murder. He wanted to remind him about Lady Bella, about...
But he was in a crowded hall, surrounded by people who were watching this exchange with various degrees of interest. This was not the place.
"I see," was all Jon said.
The Greatjon, sensing the tension, raised his cup with exaggerated cheer. "Enough talk of the old days! Let's drink to the young Flint and his climb! May the Wall not kill him!"
Laughter and cheers followed.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Jon went through it without much thought, smiling, talking, drinking when cups were pressed into his hand, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept thinking about his great-grandfather sitting beside wildling campfires, learning their ways, calling them Free Folk as if they deserved respect.
The Greatjon pulled him aside before they retired for the night. The massive lord's face was serious for once.
"Word of advice, boy," the Greatjon said. "About your climb."
Jon forced himself to focus. "My lord?"
"The Wall doesn't care who your father is. It doesn't care about your clever mind or your purple eyes or any of that. It'll kill you just the same if you're stupid." The Greatjon's hand landed on Jon's shoulder again, but gentler this time. "I've seen men twice your size fall from those ice cliffs. Strong men. Experienced men. The Wall doesn't forgive mistakes."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because understanding and knowing are two different things. You'll understand when you're clinging to a wall of ice with nothing but your fingers keeping you alive." The Greatjon squeezed his shoulder. "Climb smart. Climb careful. Don't try to prove anything to anyone but yourself."
Jon met the older man's eyes. "Thank you, Lord Umber. Truly."
The Greatjon nodded and released him. "Get some sleep. You've got a long road ahead."
The guest chamber was small but warm, heated by hot stones placed beneath the bed. Jon lay in the darkness, the direwolf pup curled against his chest, and stared at the ceiling.
Free Folk.
His great-grandfather had used that term twice. Not wildlings. Not savages. Free Folk. As if they were worthy of respect. As if they weren't the same creatures who had killed Bella.
Jon remembered her face. Soft eyes, gentle hands, the songs she used to sing. He remembered the way she'd hold him after nightmares, stroking his hair until he fell back asleep.
And he remembered the feeling of her cold hands, the sight of her dead face, all the love, all the warmth, it was gone, colder than snow.
The wildling woman's face as Jon's knife found her throat.
He had sworn that day never to show mercy ever again. Never to show mercy to those who didn't deserve it. He had kept that promise for so many years.
And now he learned that his great-grandfather, the man who had trained him, shaped him, made him who he was, had lived among them. Had learned from them. Had called them Free Folk with something that sounded almost like respect.
Jon didn't know what to do with that information. He didn't know how to reconcile the Lord Anden Flint he knew with the man who had spent a year beyond the Wall, breaking bread with savages.
The direwolf pup shifted against his chest, making a small sound of contentment. Jon scratched behind one ear absently, his thoughts still churning.
He would ask his great-grandfather about it. Eventually. When they weren't surrounded by others, when they could speak plainly.
For now, he needed to sleep. Tomorrow they would ride again, and the day after that, and the day after that. Until they reached the Wall.
Until he climbed.
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