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"More cider, young lord?" a serving girl asked, pitcher hovering above his cup.
Jon nodded his thanks, still watching the Greyjoy girl. "Why is she really here?" he murmured, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until Robb plopped down on the bench beside him.
"Who? The ironborn girl?" Robb asked, following Jon's gaze. "Father says she's a ward now."
"Ward," Jon repeated, tasting the word like something bitter. "Isn't that just a pretty way of saying hostage?"
Robb shrugged, reaching for a honey cake. "Father says it's part of making peace. Her father rebelled, and now she stays with us to make sure he behaves."
"And if he doesn't behave?" Jon asked quietly.
Robb's normally cheerful face grew solemn. "Then..." He trailed off, then lowered his voice. "I overheard Father telling Mother that her life would answer for her father's loyalty."
Jon nodded, understanding now. Still, it made little sense to him. Why leave enemies alive at all? The stories Old Nan told about the ancient Kings of Winter never ended with mercy for those who rebelled.
A hush fell over the hall as Father rose from his seat, goblet in hand. The feast had reached the point where formal words were expected—acknowledgments and toasts to honor those who had fought and those who had kept Winterfell during the long campaign.
"The Greyjoy Rebellion has ended," Father announced. "Balon Greyjoy has bent the knee to King Robert, and peace has returned to the Seven Kingdoms."
Cheers erupted around the hall. Jon noticed that Uncle Benjen remained silent, one hand unconsciously rising to touch the scar on his throat.
Father continued, explaining how the ironborn fleet had been burned, their strongholds breached, and their fighting strength broken.
Jon's eyes darted to Asha Greyjoy. Her face remained a mask, but her knuckles had whitened around her cup.
"As part of the terms of surrender," Father explained, "the remaining children of House Greyjoy have been taken as wards by loyal houses of the realm. Theon Greyjoy has been sent to House Tarly in the Reach, and Lady Asha—" he gestured toward the girl, "—will remain here at Winterfell as my ward."
Jon frowned, the question that had been burning in his mind since the Greyjoy girl's arrival finally forcing its way past his lips.
"But why are any of them still alive?"
His voice cut through the hall like a knife, sharper and louder than he'd intended. Heads turned toward him, conversation dying as suddenly as a candle snuffed by wind.
Father's grey eyes found him, surprise and something else—disappointment?—crossing his face. "What do you mean, Jon?"
Jon swallowed but didn't lower his gaze. He hadn't meant to speak so loudly, but now that he had, he wouldn't back down. "They rebelled against the king. They attacked and killed loyal men. In the old stories, traitors are executed, not rewarded with their lives."
Jon was acutely aware of everyone staring at him—Lady Stark with disapproval, Uncle Benjen with concern, Robb with wide-eyed surprise. But it was Asha Greyjoy's burning glare that caught and held his attention.
Father's voice was measured when he responded. "The decision to show mercy was King Robert's, and I supported it. House Greyjoy has been punished, but destroying an entire house serves no one in the long term."
"Doesn't it?" Jon pressed, unable to stop now that he'd started. "Wouldn't it prevent them from rebelling again in the future?"
"And who would rule the Iron Islands then?" Father countered. "Another house that might harbor even more resentment? Or would you have the mainland lords try to control islands they don't understand?"
Before Jon could respond, a harsh laugh cut through the tension. All eyes turned to Asha Greyjoy, who had risen to her feet, her cup clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"The little wolf-whelp thinks he knows something of war and ruling," she sneered, her voice carrying the rough accent of the Iron Islands. "Tell me, purple-eyed bastard with less spine than a jellyfish, have you ever seen a real battle? Ever felt salt spray on your face as you raid a shore? Or do you just yap about death from the safety of your kennel?"
He felt heat rise in his cheeks but remembered Lord Anden's lessons about controlling his emotions. The girl's words were like badly thrown daggers—noisy but missing their mark.
"Enough!" Father's voice cut through the hall. "Lady Asha, you are a guest in Winterfell, and you will comport yourself accordingly."
The ironborn girl sat down abruptly, still glaring daggers at Jon.
Father turned his attention back to Jon, his expression stern. "Jon, there is wisdom in mercy that you do not yet understand. Sometimes sparing an enemy can create a stronger peace than destroying them."
"Mercy can be strength," Father continued before Jon could protest, addressing the entire hall now. "It takes more courage to spare a defeated foe than to strike them down. King Robert showed that courage at Pyke, and I believe history will judge him wisely for it."
Jon sat very still, Father's words washing over him like cold water. All he could see was Bella's body, bloodied and broken because he had shown mercy to the wildling woman.
"Mercy is a useless tool for fools," Jon said, his voice quiet but carrying in the hushed hall. "Mercy gets people killed."
The words hung in the air like frost. Jon saw Lord Anden's ancient eyes narrow, saw Derek's mouth press into a thin line. Lady Stark looked scandalized, while Uncle Benjen seemed torn between agreement and concern.
Father's face had gone completely still, the way it did when he was deeply troubled. "That is not the way of our house, Jon," he said finally. "Nor is it the lesson I would have you learn from this war."
Jon met his father's gaze steadily. "Then perhaps your lessons and life's lessons are different."
A heavy silence fell over the hall. Jon could feel the weight of every eye upon him—judgment, confusion, and in a few faces, a reluctant understanding. He had crossed a line, challenging Father publicly, and everyone knew it.
He rose from his seat, giving Father a stiff bow. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. I spoke out of turn."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the hall's great doors, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Behind him, conversation slowly resumed, but he could feel stares following him until he slipped through the doorway and into the relative darkness of the corridor beyond.
Outside, Jon leaned against the cold stone wall, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn't meant to speak so boldly, to challenge Father before the entire household and their guests. He knew he would be punished, and he deserved to be punished. It was one thing to speak like that in a private room, and another before the entire Household. He might not be a bastard anymore, but that does not mean he can just say whatever he wants. Yet he couldn't regret his words—couldn't pretend to believe in mercy when Bella's death had taught him its true cost.
I showed mercy once, he thought bitterly. I let that wildling woman live, and she killed Bella for it. Never again.
The corridor torches flickered as a draft swept through, casting Jon's shadow long and distorted against the wall. In that moment, he felt both older than his eight years and terribly, painfully young—caught between the child who wanted Father's approval and the harder person he was becoming.
The heavy door to the Great Hall opened behind him, spilling light and noise briefly into the corridor. Jon straightened, expecting perhaps a stern word from Father or a concerned question from Uncle Benjen.
Instead, Lord Anden's massive form filled the doorway, his ancient face unreadable in the torchlight.
"Walk with me, boy," the giant northerner rumbled, less a request than a command.
Jon nodded silently, falling into step beside his great-grandfather. Whatever consequences were coming for his outburst, he would face them head-on. That, at least, was something both Father and Lord Anden had taught him—to meet difficulties with his back straight and his eyes clear.
Lord Anden led Jon through Winterfell's winding corridors without speaking, his enormous footsteps surprisingly quiet against the stone floor. They passed servants who flattened themselves against walls to let the giant northerner pass, their eyes widening at the sight of Lord Flint walking with Ned Stark's son.
Finally, they reached the godswood with its heart tree. Lord Anden settled his massive frame onto the bench, which creaked under his weight.
"Sit," he commanded, pointing to a spot next to him.
Jon obeyed, feeling very small beside his great-grandfather's towering form, though he wasn't sure who wouldn't feel small next to him. The night air was cold, his breath forming small clouds that dissipated in the darkness. Above them, the stars glittered like ice crystals against the black northern sky.
For a long moment, Lord Anden said nothing, staring up at the stars. Jon waited, fighting the urge to fidget under the weight of the silence.
"You spoke boldly in there," Lord Anden said finally, his deep voice little more than a rumble. "Some would say too boldly."
Jon lifted his chin. "I spoke the truth."
"Your truth," Lord Anden corrected, turning his ancient gaze on Jon. "Not the only truth."
"Bella died because I showed mercy," Jon said stubbornly. "That's not just my truth. That's what happened."
Lord Anden nodded slowly. "I remember. The wildling woman you spared. She killed your friend, and you learned a hard lesson from it." His massive hand came to rest on Jon's shoulder, nearly covering it entirely. "But a single lesson, no matter how painful, doesn't make a universal truth."
"You told me at Breakstone Hill that mercy can be a weakness," Jon countered.
"It can be," the giant agreed. "In battle, in times of danger, hesitation kills. But we were teaching you to survive in the wild, not to rule."
Jon frowned, trying to make sense of the distinction. "What difference does it make? Dead is dead."
Lord Anden's weathered face creased in what might have been a smile or grimace. "The difference, boy, is between the moment and the years that follow." He gestured toward the Great Hall with his free hand. "The King chose mercy for the Greyjoys not because he is weak, but because he sees beyond the moment of victory."
"To what?" Jon asked, genuinely curious despite his skepticism.
"To peace that lasts," Lord Anden said simply. "Kill Balon Greyjoy and his children, and you create a hundred blood feuds among the ironborn. Take his daughter as a hostage, and you create leverage that might last decades."
Jon considered this. "But what if she escapes? Or what if Balon doesn't care if she lives or dies?"
"Then the plan fails," Lord Anden acknowledged. "But that is the game of ruling—weighing risks against rewards, immediate satisfaction against long-term gain."
Jon pulled his cloak tighter, thinking about Lord Anden's words.
"I still think they should have killed them all," he said finally.
Lord Anden's deep laugh startled him. "Of course you do. You're eight years old and you've seen the dark side of mercy." He squeezed Jon's shoulder gently. "It's good to be cautious about mercy—better than being reckless with it. But don't close your mind to its uses."
The ancient warrior leaned down slightly, his face serious again. "Remember this, Jon. The most dangerous enemy is not the one who fights to the death out of courage. It's the one who surrenders, bides his time, and waits for you to turn your back."
Jon nodded slowly, understanding blossoming. "So you keep them alive, but you watch them."
"Precisely," Lord Anden rumbled approvingly. "You watch them very, very closely."
Jon's purple eyes narrowed in thought. "Is that why Father brought the Greyjoy girl here? To watch her?"
"To watch her, to teach her, perhaps even to change her," Lord Anden confirmed. "And to hold her life as guarantee for her father's good behavior."
Jon considered this new perspective. It didn't erase his doubts about mercy, but it offered a different way to think about what had happened in the hall.
"I embarrassed Father tonight," he said quietly.
"You did," Lord Anden agreed bluntly. "But he will forgive it. He was young once too, with firm ideas about right and wrong."
The giant northerner stood, his massive form blocking out the stars as he towered over Jon. "Come, it grows late, and tomorrow you begin training with Derek again. He says you've grown soft in our absence."
Jon bristled at the suggestion. "I haven't. I've been practicing every day."
Lord Anden's eyes glinted with amusement. "Good. Then prove it to him tomorrow."
As they walked back toward the Great Keep, Jon's mind worked over everything his great-grandfather had said.
Maybe mercy can be a weapon too, Jon thought, glancing toward the Great Hall where the feast continued. Just a different kind than I'm used to.
He wasn't convinced, not entirely. The memory of Bella's death still burned too freshly in his mind. But he was willing to watch and learn. After all, that was one of Derek's first lessons at Breakstone Hill: observe before you act.
And Jon had become very good at observing.
Lessons Learned
Ned Stark
Ned sat in his solar, reviewing the morning's correspondence when a sharp knock interrupted his reading. The pile of letters from various lords seeking confirmation of events during the Greyjoy Rebellion seemed to grow larger each day, and each one required careful consideration of what details to share and what to keep close to his chest.
"Enter," he called, setting down a particularly tedious inquiry from Lord Manderly about grain shipments.
Lady Barbrey Dustin strode through the door without ceremony, her riding leathers still bearing dust from the practice yard where she'd been watching the morning training. Her angular face held its usual stern expression.
"Lord Stark," she greeted him with a curt nod. "I would speak with you."
Ned gestured to the chair across from his desk, noting the weariness that seemed to cling to him like morning mist. The return from war had brought relief, but also a hundred new concerns that demanded his attention. "Please, sit. What can I do for you, Lady Dustin?"
"I want to know what truly happened the night my husband was attacked," she said without preamble. "Not the version suitable for the Great Hall, but the truth of it."
Ned leaned back in his chair, considering his words. Lady Dustin had every right to know—Benjen was her husband, and she had endured months of uncertainty about his condition. More than that, she was no fragile flower who needed protection from harsh realities.
"Very well," he said finally. "I was sleeping in my tent when the commotion began. Shouts, the sound of steel on steel." He rubbed his forehead, remembering that chaotic night. "I threw on my clothes and went outside."
"And then?" Barbrey prompted when he paused.
"I heard louder voices coming from Benjen's tent. When I arrived, I found him bleeding and fighting." Ned's jaw tightened at the memory. "What struck me immediately was how confused the assassins looked when they saw me. Later, I understood why—in the darkness, the assassins had mistaken Benjen for me."
"The assassins? Where are they?"
"Already dying when we captured them," Ned replied grimly. "They had poisoned themselves before the attack even began. Strange choice for men expecting to escape afterward." He paused for a moment to let the moment sink in. "They carried Lannister armor, Lannister gold, and with their dying breaths proclaimed that 'the Lannisters send their regards.'"
"But you don't believe it was truly Lannister work," Barbrey observed.
Ned turned back to face her. "My grandfather—Lord Anden—pointed out several inconsistencies. The evidence was too obvious, too cleanly presented. Why would he send already-poisoned men on an assassination? It made no tactical sense."
"Someone wanted you and the Lannisters at each other's throats," Barbrey concluded.
"Precisely. During our campaign against the ironborn, no less. Fracturing the King's forces would have served Balon Greyjoy well, or perhaps some other enemy we haven't yet identified."
Silence fell between them for a long moment. Barbrey stared at her hands, processing what Ned had told her. When she looked up again, her expression was ice cold.
"We'll be leaving soon," she said quietly. "Benjen, William, and I. Barrowton has been without its lady too long, and my husband needs familiar surroundings to finish his recovery."
Ned nodded, though he felt a pang at the thought of losing Uncle Benjen's counsel so soon after their reunion. "I understand. When do you plan to depart?"
"Within the fortnight, if the maesters agree Benjen is fit to travel." She paused, then added more softly, "He misses the familiar rooms, the servants who've served him. Here, everything reminds him of what he's lost."
"I'm sorry," Ned said, the words feeling inadequate. "About what happened to Benjen."
"It's not your fault," she said finally, surprising him.
Ned blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"What happened to Benjen—it's not your fault," Barbrey repeated, her voice firm. "You didn't choose your enemies. You didn't decide they would strike at night through deception and poison. That was outside your control."
"Leaving Willam's bones in a southern grave—that was your choice. That's why I hold you responsible for it. Do you understand the difference?"
Ned met her gaze, seeing for the first time in years something other than cold anger in her eyes. Understanding, perhaps. Or at least the recognition of shared burdens.
"I do," he said quietly. "Thank you for making the distinction clear."
Barbrey nodded once, then her expression sharpened again. "Now, what do you intend to do about Jon Flint?"
The question caught Ned off guard. "Jon? What do you mean?"
"His performance at the feast," Barbrey said dryly. "Challenging your decision about the Greyjoys in front of the entire household, then delivering that cold little speech about mercy being for fools. Surely you don't plan to let such behavior pass without consequence?"
Ned sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I've been considering it. Two months working in the stables, I think. Hard physical labor to give him time to reflect on the wisdom of public insolence."
"Good," Barbrey approved. "The boy needs to learn that there are proper channels for disagreement, even when he has valid points to make."
"You think his points were valid?" Ned asked, genuinely curious.
Barbrey's mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. "The boy has a harder edge than most children his age, but he's not wrong that mercy can be dangerous. He's learned that lesson more thoroughly than most." Her expression grew serious again. "But punishment alone won't solve this, Lord Stark."
"What do you mean?"
"The boy is angry," Barbrey said bluntly. "Angry about something deeper than political disagreements. If you only punish him without addressing the root of that anger, you'll drive it underground where it will fester and grow." She leaned forward slightly. "Talk to him. Find out what's really troubling him. Otherwise, you'll lose him to that coldness I heard in his voice."
Ned considered her words, remembering the look in Jon's purple eyes as he'd spoken about mercy—not the passionate anger of youth, but something colder and more calculated. It had reminded him uncomfortably of another set of eyes he'd seen grow cold over the years.
"You're right," he admitted. "The stables will be punishment for his public defiance, but I need to address whatever is driving that defiance."
"Good," Barbrey said, straightening. "The boy has potential, but potential can be turned to dark purposes if not properly guided." She moved toward the door, then paused. "He's not truly yours, is he?"
The question hit Ned like cold water. "What?"
"Oh, calm yourself," Barbrey said with a dismissive wave. "I'm not questioning your care for him or his place in this household. But those eyes of his, the way he moves, the way he thinks—he's not like other children. There's something different about Jon Flint, and it's not just his mountain training."
Ned kept his face carefully neutral, though his heart felt like it would jump through his mouth. "He's had unusual experiences for a child his age. It's natural that they would mark him."
Barbrey studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Just remember, Lord Stark—secrets have a way of revealing themselves when we least expect it. Make sure you're prepared for when they do."
With that cryptic warning, she left, closing the door firmly behind her. Ned sank back into his chair, staring at the correspondence that suddenly seemed far less important than the conversation that had just ended.
Does she know the truth?
Dawn - Jon Flint
Jon stood in the center of the yard, wooden practice sword in hand, facing Derek across the packed dirt. The master-at-arms from Breakstone Hill circled him slowly, his weathered face giving nothing away.
"Remember what I taught you," Derek said, his voice low enough that only Jon could hear. "Don't just watch my sword—watch my shoulders, my feet, my eyes."
Jon nodded, dropping into the fighting stance Derek had drilled into him during those long months in the mountains. His muscles remembered, even if it had been over a year since they'd trained together.
"Ready?" Derek asked, raising his own practice sword.
Jon didn't bother answering. Words wasted breath, and Derek had taught him that silence often unnerved an opponent. Instead, he narrowed his purple eyes and adjusted his grip slightly.
Derek's attack came suddenly—a quick thrust followed by a sideways cut that would have caught many boys off guard. But Jon was already moving, sliding to the right and parrying the second blow with a controlled movement that deflected the force rather than meeting it head-on.
"Good," Derek grunted, pressing forward with a series of rapid strikes.
Jon gave ground, conserving energy as Derek had taught him. Fighting wasn't just about strength or speed—it was about patience, about waiting for the moment when your opponent overextended or grew tired.
Derek feinted left, then struck from the right. Jon almost fell for it but caught himself at the last moment, twisting his body to avoid the blow while attempting a counterattack at Derek's exposed side.
The master-at-arms deflected it easily, but a flicker of approval crossed his face. "You've been practicing," he acknowledged.
"Every day," Jon replied, circling cautiously.
Derek nodded, then suddenly changed tactics, launching into a flurry of attacks that drove Jon backward across the yard. The wooden swords clacked loudly in the morning air as Jon parried and dodged, looking for an opening that wouldn't come.
His back was nearly against the armory wall now. Jon knew he was being cornered—one of Derek's favorite tactics. In a real fight, being backed against a wall meant death.
So don't be backed against the wall, Jon thought, remembering another of Derek's lessons. With two quick steps and a roll that brought gasps from the watching crowd, Jon ducked under Derek's next swing and came up behind him, immediately striking toward the back of the man's knee.
Derek pivoted with speed for his size, barely blocking the blow. "Very good," he said, genuine pleasure in his voice. "Using the environment instead of fighting it."
They continued for another few minutes, trading blows and testing each other's defenses. Jon landed two glancing hits—one on Derek's forearm and another against his hip—but took several harder blows in return, including a strike to his shoulder that would probably leave a bruise.
Finally, Derek called a halt, lowering his practice sword. "Enough for now. You've kept up your training, and it shows."
Jon lowered his own weapon, breathing hard but pleased with Derek's assessment. During his previous training at Breakstone Hill, such direct praise had been rare.
"That was amazing, Jon!" Robb called, running forward with William at his heels. "Where did you learn that roll? Can you teach me?"
"Later," Jon promised, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the cold morning air. His body ached pleasantly from the exertion, muscles warm and loose in a way they hadn't been for months.
The small crowd began to disperse as Derek and Jon moved to the edge of the yard, sitting on a wooden bench to rest. William reluctantly followed Robb to break their fast, throwing admiring glances back at Jon as they left.
"You've gained a shadow in that one," Derek observed, nodding toward William's retreating form.
Jon shrugged. "He follows Robb more than me. Wants to be like his cousin."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Derek replied. "The way he watches you... that's not just admiration. That's study."
Jon considered this, oddly pleased by the idea that someone might be studying him the way he studied others. He took a long drink from the waterskin Derek offered, then asked the question that had been burning in his mind since the previous night.
"Derek, do you think Father was right? About showing mercy to the Greyjoys?"
The master-at-arms didn't answer immediately. He gazed across the practice yard, his eyes following a flight of ravens leaving the rookery tower.
"Lord Stark," he said finally, "sees further ahead than most men. It's what makes him a good lord."
Jon frowned. "That's not an answer."
Derek's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "No, it's not." He turned to face Jon directly. "What I think is that mercy and strength aren't opposites. They're tools, like a sword and a shield. Different purposes, different times."
"But mercy got Bella killed," Jon insisted, the familiar pain squeezing his chest.
"Yes," Derek agreed, surprising Jon with his bluntness. "In that moment, with that wildling, mercy was the wrong choice. But that doesn't make it the wrong choice in every situation."
Jon shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "How do you know, then? When to use which tool?"
Derek scratched his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Experience helps. So does knowing your opponent." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "But here's something most warriors never learn: sometimes the strongest move isn't killing your enemy—it's making them serve your purpose instead."
Jon's eyes widened slightly as he connected this to what Lord Anden had told him the night before. "Like keeping Asha Greyjoy as a hostage?"
"Exactly," Derek nodded. "Dead, she's just another corpse. Alive, she's leverage against her father, a source of information about the Iron Islands, and maybe someday, if Lord Stark's plan works, an ally who understands both sides."
Jon wasn't convinced. "She doesn't seem like she'll ever be an ally. She hates us."
Derek chuckled. "She's thirteen and captured by her enemies. Of course she hates us now." He tapped Jon's chest lightly. "But people change, especially young ones. I've seen bitter enemies become shield-brothers after fighting side by side against a greater threat."
Jon remembered the hate in Asha Greyjoy's eyes when she'd insulted him. It was hard to imagine that ever changing, but Derek had seen more of the world than he had.
"I still think some enemies are too dangerous to let live," Jon said stubbornly.
"And sometimes that's true," Derek agreed. "That's why I said they're tools. A good fighter knows when to use each one." He stood, stretching his arms overhead. "Just like a good fighter knows when to press an attack and when to observe instead."
Jon thought about that as they gathered their practice swords to return to the armory. He'd been observing people more carefully since Father left for war—watching how Lady Barbrey managed the household, how Uncle Benjen commanded respect despite his damaged voice, how Robb naturally drew people to him while Jon himself often stood apart.
"When you do need to kill," Jon asked suddenly as they reached the armory door, "how do you know you're doing it for the right reasons? Not just because you're angry or afraid?"
Derek paused, his hand on the door latch, studying Jon. "That," he said quietly, "is the question that separates warriors from murderers." He pushed the door open. "When you kill out of necessity, you feel the weight of it afterward. When you kill from rage or fear or pleasure, the weight is poisoned. It sickens you from within."
Jon remembered the wildling woman—how he'd refused her a proper burial, how cold he'd felt inside afterward. Had that been necessity or rage? No...she deserved it, she laughed in his face, and she laughed about Bella. She deserved death. She deserved to wish Death. Jon had been too stunned and angry when he did it, but looking back now, he wished he hadn't been so quick about it.
"I think," Derek continued, placing his practice sword on its rack, "that's why your father chooses mercy when he can. Not because he's weak, but because he's carried that weight before and knows exactly how heavy it is."
They finished putting away their equipment in silence, Jon turning Derek's words over in his mind. He still believed that mercy had its dangers—Bella's death had taught him that lesson in blood. But perhaps there was more to it than he'd understood.
"Will we train again tomorrow?" Jon asked as they walked back toward the Great Keep.
Derek nodded. "Every morning until we leave. Lord Anden wants to see how much you've learned in our absence."
"When do you leave?" Jon asked, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice.
"Three days," Derek replied. "Lord Anden has been away from Breakstone Hill too long already." He glanced down at Jon with a rare smile. "But we'll make them count, I promise you that."
Jon nodded, already looking forward to tomorrow's lesson. Derek might be leaving soon, but there was still much Jon could learn from him—about fighting, about strength and mercy, and about the weight of the choices that made a man who he was.
Three Days Later
The morning dawned cold and clear, the kind of autumn day that reminded everyone winter was coming. Frost glittered on Winterfell's stone walls, and the breath of men and horses formed clouds of white vapor in the courtyard.
Jon stood beside the East Gate, watching the Breakstone Hill party make their final preparations for departure. Lord Anden's enormous warhorse stamped impatiently, its breath forming the largest clouds of all. Derek moved among the men, checking saddlebags and weapons.
The past three days had passed too quickly. Each morning, Jon had trained with Derek, absorbing every lesson, every correction, every bit of wisdom the master-at-arms offered. Each evening, he'd sat at Lord Anden's feet in the Great Hall, listening to the giant northerner's tales of ancient battles and mountain lore. Now they were leaving, and Jon felt an emptiness opening within him like a chasm.
"There you are." Derek's voice pulled Jon from his thoughts. The weathered soldier approached, leading his own mount. "Come to see us off properly, have you?"
Jon nodded. "Father said I could stay until you leave, even though I'm supposed to be at lessons with Maester Luwin."
Derek's mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Good. Lord Anden wishes to speak with you before we go." He jerked his head toward a quiet corner of the courtyard where the giant northerner stood apart from the others.
Jon made his way across the bustling yard, dodging between horses and men loading the last of the supplies. As he approached, Lord Anden turned to face him. Despite the cold, the old warrior wore only a bearskin cloak over his usual leather armor.
"Grandfather," Jon greeted him formally, using the title Lord Anden preferred over the more cumbersome "great-grandfather."
The giant northerner regarded him with ancient eyes. "Walk with me," he rumbled, turning toward the godswood gate. "We have things to discuss before I leave."
They walked in silence through the godswood, frost crunching beneath their boots. The heart tree loomed ahead, its blood-red leaves rustling in the cold breeze, its carved face weeping crimson sap that froze in eerie trails down the white bark.
Lord Anden stopped before the ancient weirwood, placing one massive hand against its trunk. "The old gods watch us here," he said quietly. "No better place for final words."
Jon waited, knowing the giant northerner spoke when he was ready, not before.
"You've changed since I saw you last," Lord Anden said finally, his voice like distant thunder. "Grown, and not just in height."
"I've been learning," Jon replied. "Not just sword work, but... other things too."
"Yes," Lord Anden's weathered face creased in what might have been a smile. "I've noticed. You watch people now. Study them. Use what you learn."
Jon felt a small thrill that his great-grandfather had noticed. "Lady Barbrey taught me without meaning to," he explained. "She uses different voices with different people. Changes how she stands, how she speaks. And they do what she wants, almost every time."
"And you've been copying her," Lord Anden observed. It wasn't a question.
"Not just copying," Jon said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. "I've been practicing. Jeyne will do almost anything I ask now. So will the kitchen boys and some of the stablelands. Even Arya listens to me more than she listens to Septa Mordane."
Lord Anden studied him silently, his expression unreadable. "Show me," he commanded finally.
Jon hesitated only a moment before nodding. He straightened his back slightly, relaxed his shoulders, and looked up at Lord Anden with wide, earnest eyes. When he spoke, his voice was softer, gentler than his usual tone.
"Grandfather, before you leave, would you tell me again about the time you fought the shadowcat in the northern passes?" He tilted his head slightly, the perfect picture of childlike admiration. "It's my favorite of all your stories."
Then, just as quickly, Jon's posture shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "Or if you prefer, we could discuss what you think Father should do about the wildling raids that have been troubling the mountain clans. You always see things others miss."
A third shift—now Jon stood straighter, chin lifted, voice clear and commanding despite his small size. "I've been practicing with the kukri every night. Derek will be impressed when he sees how much faster I am with it now."
Jon let his posture return to normal, watching his great-grandfather's reaction. "Different approaches for different people," he explained. "The first would work on old men who like feeling important. The second on men like Father who care about problems that need solving. The third on warriors who respect strength and practice."
Lord Anden's bushy eyebrows had risen steadily throughout Jon's demonstration. Now they lowered again, drawing together in thought.
"Clever," he acknowledged finally. "Very clever. And dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Jon hadn't expected that response.
"Words can be weapons, boy. But a man who relies too much on words can forget the value of truth."
"I'm not lying," Jon protested. "Just... presenting things differently."
"And where is the line between them?" Lord Anden asked. "When does presenting become pretending, and pretending become believing your own false face?"
Jon frowned, unsure how to answer. He hadn't thought of it that way.
Lord Anden sighed, a sound like wind through mountain pines. "I am proud of your cleverness," he said more gently. "It will serve you well in a world that is rarely kind to those born without advantage. But remember this—the strongest steel is forged in fire, but too much heat makes it brittle."
"I don't understand," Jon admitted.
"You are learning to wear masks," Lord Anden explained. "To be what others need you to be in order to get what you want from them. A useful skill, but dangerous if you forget who you truly are beneath those masks."
The giant northerner knelt suddenly, bringing his weathered face level with Jon's. "Promise me something, Jon."
"Anything, Grandfather."
"Find one person—just one—with whom you never wear a mask. Someone who knows the true Jon, with all his strengths and weaknesses. Without that anchor, a man can lose himself in his own deceptions."
Jon thought about this, turning the advice over in his mind like a strange new weapon he wasn't sure how to wield. "I promise," he said finally, meaning it. "I'll find someone."
Lord Anden nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, we should return. The men are waiting, and the mountain paths grow treacherous if we delay too long."
As they walked back toward the courtyard, Jon gathered his courage to ask the question that had bothered him since the feast. "Grandfather, are you disappointed in me? For what I said about mercy?"
The giant northerner was silent for several steps before answering. "No," he said finally. "You spoke from what you have learned through pain. That is honest, if incomplete." He glanced down at Jon. "Live longer, see more of the world, and you may find your views changing. Or not. But either way, they will be truly yours, shaped by experience rather than borrowed wisdom."
They emerged from the godswood to find the departure party mounted and ready. Father stood with Lady Stark and the other Starks, prepared to bid the Breakstone Hill men farewell.
"Grandfather," Father called, stepping forward. "Safe travels to you and your men. Winterfell's doors will always be open to you."
"And Breakstone Hill's to you, Lord Stark," Lord Anden rumbled in response. "Though you might need to duck through them." A ripple of laughter swept through the gathered crowd at the jest about the giant's home.
Jon looked around at the assembled household, suddenly wanting to give his great-grandfather something to remember him by. Something more than just another farewell.
"Lord Anden," he called, stepping forward. "Before you go, would you permit me to sing the farewell song of the mountain clans? The one you taught me at Breakstone Hill?"
Surprise flickered across the giant's face, followed by pleasure. "You remember it?"
"Every word," Jon assured him.
Lord Anden nodded his approval, and a hush fell over the courtyard as Jon took a deep breath. When he began to sing, his voice rose clear and pure in the cold morning air, carrying far beyond what seemed possible from such a small chest.
The song was ancient, sung in the Old Tongue of the First Men, its melody haunting and wild as the mountains themselves. Jon had practiced it in secret, knowing how much it meant to his great-grandfather. Now, as the words flowed from him, he saw the giant northerner's eyes widen in surprise, then close in appreciation.
Jon's voice soared through the verses, telling of partings and reunions, of mountains that endured while men passed away, of the bonds of blood that stretched across distance but never broke. As the final notes faded, silence held the courtyard in its grip.
Then Lord Anden broke it, his great voice thick with emotion. "Well sung, Jon of House Flint and House Stark. The mountains themselves would bow to such a voice."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Even Lady Stark looked impressed, while Sansa seemed on the verge of tears. Father nodded his approval, a rare smile softening his solemn features.
"A gift to remember me by," Jon said simply.
Lord Anden reached down from his massive horse to clasp Jon's arm in a warrior's farewell. "Train hard. Grow strong. Remember what I taught you—both in the mountains and today."
"I will," Jon promised.
With a final nod, Lord Anden straightened and signaled to his men. The gates of Winterfell swung open, and the Breakstone Hill party rode out, Lord Anden's massive form at their head, Derek close behind him.
Jon watched them go, the emptiness inside him tempered now by a strange new certainty. Lord Anden and Derek had taught him to survive in the wild, to fight with weapons of steel and wood. Now he was learning to wield other weapons—words, gestures, the careful application of truth and misdirection.
Words can be weapons, he thought as the riders disappeared beyond the horizon, and I will forge mine to be as sharp as Valyrian steel.
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