Jon IV
295 - AC
The hall of the Last Hearth roared with life.
It was a chaos of song and laughter, of spilled ale and slamming fists, of the kind of joy only men who had brushed death could truly know. The Winter Sons had returned from a victory they were never meant to win — a hard, bloody fight in the woods near the hills of the Last river, where the snow ran red and the crows had followed them home.
If there was one man in the North who could turn such carnage into celebration, it was the Greatjon Umber.
His booming laughter shook the rafters, a thunder to match the storm outside. Tankards clashed, the smell of roasted boar filled the air, and the hearthfire bellowed high enough to paint every scar and grin in gold.
Jon Snow walked among them, half a cup of wine in his hand, half a life behind his eyes.
It had been a night since they reached the Last Hearth. The keep, perched atop a snow-crowned hill, was smaller and rougher than Winterfell — no hot springs, no soft courtyards, no godswood. But it was proud in its way, all black timbers and cold stone, standing stubborn against the wind.
The Greatjon and Jory Cassel sat at the high table, red-faced and roaring, their mugs clashing in rhythm to a drunken chant. The greybeards joined them, their voices old but loud, bellowing a song about a wolf who devoured the moon to light his path through the dark.
Jon passed them, quiet as shadow.
"Give it to me, you bastard!" someone barked from the benches — Karstark, with his face red and mouth matted in foam, wrestling the Smalljon over a jug of ale. The two boys toppled into a heap, laughing and cursing, their laughter echoing above the din.
Jon's mouth twitched, but his heart wasn't in it.
He searched the hall for Theon, but the Greyjoy was nowhere to be found. Jon didn't need to ask where he'd gone — no doubt spending his spoils and his time in the taverns below the hill, chasing wine and women with the same reckless ease he carried into every fight.
By the hearth, Domeric Bolton sat straight-backed and still, watching the flames with that soft, thoughtful frown of his. Ramsay sat far from him, half in shadow, his pale eyes glinting like a wolf's in the firelight. They didn't speak. They never did.
Jon often wondered what that silence meant — whether it was hatred, or something colder still. Domeric never called Ramsay "brother," and Ramsay, for his part, wore that rejection like a cloak. Jon could see it in the tightness of his smile, in the way his fingers traced the rim of his cup again and again.
Jon turned away. He didn't want to think about brothers because he wondered if he was not born for a Stark, would that be how Robb and others would look at him, and he didn't like the answer his mind spoke.
The music grew louder — the song of victory, of youth pretending it would never die, a break from the cold duty that the North presents, Jon slipped out into the yard.
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The yard outside was still and white. Snow blanketed everything — the stables, the ramparts, the stones beneath his boots. His breath clouded the air in soft grey plumes. The sky above was heavy with cloud, the moon a pale wound behind it.
It was quiet, so quiet that the world felt hollow. Only the soft hiss of wind filled the silence.
Then came another sound — steel drawn against silk.
Jon looked toward it and felt the ghost of a smile. Beneath the old weirwood that clung to the corner of the yard, a fire burned low, painting the snow in shades of amber and red. The tree's carved face watched over it, eyes hollow and mouth half-open in frozen sorrow.
And beside the fire sat Robb.
The young wolf's sword lay across his lap, his hand moving slow and steady as he wiped the blade clean. Each pass of the cloth gleamed briefly in the light before vanishing again into shadow.
Jon hesitated. He wanted to call out, but something about the stillness around his brother made the words die in his throat.
He took one step closer. Then another.
He didn't look up. The fire crackled, and the wind whispered through the weirwood's branches, scattering snow like ash.
"I know you have a thousand questions, Jon." Robb's voice came quiet, without looking up. "I don't have answers to them all. I'm still trying to understand many myself. But ask away, and I'll be honest."
The words were calm, but there was weight beneath them — something tired, something that didn't belong on a boy of twelve.
Jon swallowed hard. His breath misted between them.
"Are you…" he began, the question catching on his tongue. "Are you truly my brother?"
For a moment, Robb was silent. Then, he lifted his head — and laughed.
It was sudden, loud, almost jarring. His laughter echoed across the yard, breaking the still air like a hammer against glass. He held his side as he laughed, eyes bright with something fierce and strange.
"Jon," he said at last, a grin on his lips. "I'll always be your brother."
His chest loosened. He found himself smiling despite the unease curling inside him. He walked closer, the snow crunching beneath his boots, and sat beside Robb, leaning against the tree's pale trunk.
"What are these things you do?" he asked quietly.
"The things you… call? The things in the mist. Are they the work of the Old Gods? Or the new? Are you—" he hesitated— "are you some kind of mage now?"
Robb said nothing at first. His eyes flicked to the flames, their reflection dancing faintly in his pupils. Slowly, he lowered the sword into the fire. The steel hissed as the heat kissed it.
"I don't know what they are," Robb said at last, his voice soft but sure.
"But they aren't the blessings of any god I've prayed to. Not the Old, not the New." He drew in a slow breath. "These are not gifts, Jon. They're… bargains."
The word hung between them like a ghost.
Jon frowned. "Bargains?"
He didn't answer. He watched the sword as if it were telling him secrets in the firelight.
"I don't yet know what they are — not truly," he said finally. "But I know what they've asked of me. And I know what must be done."
The fire snapped. A stray spark drifted up, caught in the wind, and vanished into the snow.
"These are debts," Robb said quietly. "And debts must be paid."
Jon felt something cold crawl down his spine. He wanted to ask what kind of debts — but his brother had already risen.
The young lord stood tall before the weirwood, the fire at his back. The tree's carved face loomed above him, and Jon saw then what he hadn't noticed before — a trickle of red sap, bleeding slowly from its eyes, thick as blood.
"I don't know what I'll become when the winter truly comes," Robb murmured. His hand found the hilt of his sword, the blade now glowing faintly from the heat. "But I know who I am."
His eyes, grey and steady, found Jon's.
"I am Robb, heir of Winterfell, son of the most noble man in all the realms. A Stark of the North and I am your brother. Now, and always."
Jon opened his mouth — but the words never came.
In one swift motion, Robb drew the sword from the fire and slashed across the weirwood's eyes. The wood groaned, the sap halted mid-drip. The air grew sharp, as if the world itself had held its breath.
And somewhere far above, a raven screamed into the night.
Jon stared at him.
"What was that?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Robb's expression softened. He wiped the blade clean and sheathed it.
"Nothing, Jon," he said with a small, quiet smile. "Just an old raven. Let's go inside. The night's almost gone, and we've yet to pay our respects to the Greatjon for our welcome here at the Hearth, we should before we leave at dawn."
The two brothers stood together beneath the bleeding tree. The snow began to fall again, soft and soundless. The fire hissed once and died.
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Catelyn I
295 - AC
"Little lady, you'd best get back to your lessons before Septa Mordane comes looking for you!"
Catelyn Stark's voice echoed across the courtyard, sharp and weary all at once. But her youngest daughter only laughed — that bright, wild sound that seemed to mock order itself — and darted away through the snow, skirts trailing, hair unbound.
'That girl will be the death of me,' Catelyn thought, sighing as she gathered her cloak and followed.
The yard was bright with morning light. Snowflakes drifted lazily in the air, melting as they touched the stone. Arya ran with a wooden sword clutched in her hand, weaving between servants and barrels, her cheeks flushed red from the cold and her own excitement.
"I'm going to fight a bear one day, Mother!" Arya shouted, her voice clear as a bell.
She didn't look where she was going — she never did.
"Argh—!" she yelped, colliding with something that didn't move.
Someone.
"Oh, forgive me, little she-wolf, I did not see you there," came a deep, amused voice.
Arya blinked and looked up. The man before her was enormous — as tall as her father, but broader, shoulders like the gates of Winterfell themselves. His cloak was a heavy black wool, dusted with snow, and his beard was shot through with streaks of grey. His eyes, dark and kind, crinkled with laughter.
"Tepes," came her father's voice, calm and familiar.
Arya turned and felt her heart drop. Lord Eddard Stark stood just behind the giant man, his hands clasped behind his back, his face stern — though the faintest ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Forgive my daughter," Ned said evenly.
"There is no need, my lord," the man — Tepes — replied, bowing with a stiffness that came more from strength than manners. "It was my fault. The she-wolf was brave enough to run at me. How could I blame her?"
"She has no business facing merchants or bears," Ned said as he stepped closer, his shadow falling over Arya. "What are you doing in the yard, little one? I believe you have lessons with the Septa."
Arya shuffled her feet, clutching her wooden sword like a shield.
"I don't want to be trapped in a room with her," she muttered. "I'd rather be in the dungeons."
The Braavosi brewer threw his head back and laughed — a low, booming sound that startled a few ravens from the walls. "Surely the mice in the dungeons make for poor company compared to your Septa?"
"She's worse than the mice," Arya said at once, crossing her arms.
"Young lady!"
The voice struck like a whip. Catelyn's words cut through the laughter as she swept across the yard, her cloak trailing through the snow. Her eyes — grey like ice over water — locked on Arya, who flinched.
"That is no way to speak of a servant of the Faith," Catelyn said firmly. "You will return to your lessons this instant, or so help me—"
The sentence was lost to the sound of a horn.
It blared once — deep and mournful — from the gatehouse. Then again, echoing off the walls.
Every head in the yard turned. The laughter died. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Ned's expression changed in an instant — from stern father to Lord of Winterfell. His eyes narrowed, sharp and alert, and without a word, he turned and strode toward the outer wall. Tepes followed, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. Catelyn gathered her skirts and followed close behind.
When they reached the battlements, the horn sounded a third time.
Beyond the open gate, two riders crested the rise — cloaks of grey and black streaming behind them, horses lathered with frost. The banners that followed were those of House Stark — the direwolf of Winterfell — and behind them, the men of the Winter Sons, weary and mud-streaked but alive.
Catelyn's heart leapt to her throat.
Ned leaned forward, his hand gripping the stone. The riders drew nearer until their faces were clear — one auburn-haired, one dark.
Her breath caught. Tears welled before she could stop them.
"It's really him," she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
Below, Arya screamed the words aloud before anyone else could move.
"It's Robb and Jon!" she cried, already racing down the steps, her laughter returning like sunlight breaking through stormclouds.
Catelyn watched her go, her heart pounding.
The riders thundered through the gate. Snow kicked up around them, and the sound of their horses filled the yard. The banners snapped in the wind, proud and wild — the direwolf returning home.
Robb dismounted first, tall, taller than she remembered and fierce, a smile cracking his tired face.
'Oh, how much has she missed her young boy.' She had no idea truly until now.
Ned's face softened, and for a heartbeat, all the weight of the North seemed to lift from his shoulders.
Catelyn pressed her hand to her chest, relief flooding through her.
"Robb!" Arya's cry rang through the courtyard, bright as the morning sun against the cold stone walls.
She hurtled toward her brother with all the force of her small frame and crashed into him, sending both tumbling into the snow.
Robb laughed — a deep, unrestrained sound that Catelyn had not heard since the days before he'd ridden out with his company. His cloak flared around them, dusted white as he hugged Arya close.
But he had no time to rise before another blur of auburn silk joined the fray.
"Robb!"
Sansa's voice — higher, careful, but no less filled with joy — came as she all but tackled him, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders. And before Robb could even catch his breath, Bran came bounding from the training yard, wooden sword in hand, and threw himself into the pile with a laugh.
"You're going to crush me, my dear sisters!" Robb gasped, half-laughing, half-struggling beneath the tangle of limbs. "And you too, little lord!"
The snow muffled their laughter, but it carried nonetheless — rich, full, alive.
Jon stood a few paces behind, his face calm, though his eyes softened at the sight. He was still mounted, one gloved hand resting on the reins. Arya turned, spotted him, and broke away from Robb in an instant.
"Jon!"
She barreled toward him, nearly knocking him over as she wrapped herself around his legs. Jon smiled faintly, bending just enough to place a hand over her shoulder.
"I missed you too, Arya," he murmured. His voice was gentle, but his eyes flickered — not to her, but toward the steps descending from the wall.
Catelyn Stark stood there, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the sight of her son — one who had left her a boy and returned back.
Ned was beside her, calm as winter, though his grey eyes burned bright. Together they descended the steps as the snow continued to fall.
Robb stood as they approached, brushing frost from his cloak, the smile still lingering on his face.
"Mother," he breathed.
Catelyn didn't hesitate. She crossed the yard and gathered him into her arms, holding him tight, as though she could press away the cold, the distance, the battles he'd seen. He smelled of steel and wood and horse. When she finally pulled back, she cupped his face in her hands and kissed his brow.
"You've grown," she whispered, her voice trembling with pride and relief.
"Two years will do that, Mother," Robb replied, grinning, though there was something older behind his smile.
Then his gaze found his father.
"Father."
Lord Stark said nothing at first — he simply looked at the boy before him, the man he'd become. Then, wordlessly, he stepped forward and drew Robb into his arms.
For a heartbeat, there were no titles, no duties — only a father and son, bound by the cold of the North and the warmth of blood.
When they parted, Ned's hand lingered on Robb's shoulder. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, Father," Robb said, and turned slightly, spotting the towering figure beside Ned. His face broke into a wide grin. "Skario Tepes! You've grown leaner than I remember!"
The Braavosi let out a booming laugh. "The North has a way of trimming a man, my lord."
"How fares the brewery?" Robb asked with a chuckle.
"It thrives," Tepes said with a wink.
Before Robb could reply, Catelyn slipped her arm around his and tugged him gently toward the keep. "There will be time for talk later. You're tired, and hungry. You both are."
Robb allowed himself to be led, laughing softly as his mother fussed over him. Sansa followed at her side, Bran close behind, their chatter filling the air like music.
Jon remained where he was, standing beside his horse.
Ned turned back to him. "Jon," he said quietly.
"My lord." Jon bowed, the title formal, the tone restrained.
But Ned only stepped forward and drew him into a brief, fierce embrace.
"It's good to see you," he said softly. "Truly."
Jon's eyes widened for a heartbeat before he nodded. "And you, my lord."
"Arya," Ned said, his voice steady now, "see that Jon's taken to the hall. He'll be wanting food."
"Oh yes!" Arya said, grabbing Jon's hand. "Come on, Jon! We've got honey pies, if you hurry!"
Jon followed her, a small smile ghosting across his lips as she dragged him toward the warmth of the hall.
Ned lingered by the gate, watching the men who had come with his sons — hard, tired men, faces lined with cold and long roads. Among them, Jory Cassel dismounted and approached.
"My lord," Jory said, bowing deeply.
"At ease, Ser," Ned said, clasping a hand over Jory's shoulder. "You have my thanks. You've protected what's most dear to me."
Jory smiled — slow, weary, honest.
"I'd like to claim I did, my lord," he said, "but truth be told, it was your sons who protected us more than we ever protected them."
Ned's brows furrowed faintly, but he asked nothing more. Some truths could wait until the morrow.
He gave Jory a firm nod and turned his gaze toward the keep, where the lights of Winterfell glowed like embers in the dusk.
His sons were home.
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