Jon kept to the back, where no eyes would be drawn to him. A bastard had no place in the front of the yard when kings rode through Winterfell's gates. He stood as Ser Rodrik had taught him, straight-backed, shoulders square. Yet he had taught himself where to stand, far enough to see, close enough to hear. He stood still lost among the kennelmaster's boys and the steward's apprentices. Shadows among shadows.
Ghost pressed against his leg, white fur brushing black leather, silent as snow falling in the dark. The direwolf's red eyes glowed, unblinking, fixed upon the great oak gates as they groaned open. Jon rested a hand on Ghost's back, steadying himself more than the beast.
The banners came first.
The crowned stag of House Baratheon snapped in the wind, gold against a black field, proud and strange in this northern air. Crimson and gold followed, the lion of Lannister rearing, silk catching light like flame. Jon had never seen so much color in one place. Winterfell's banners were plain things beside them, grey direwolves on white. Yet plain or no, the direwolves were theirs. He belonged to them, and yet. Not truly. Not as Robb did.
The King came riding at their head.
Robert Baratheon was… not what Jon had imagined. His father's tales had painted a warrior larger than life: a young man with a warhammer that could shatter steel, a conqueror who had overthrown dragons. Jon had thought to see a king of legend. Instead he saw a man thick with flesh, his doublet straining at the seams, heavy in the saddle of a horse near as broad as Hodor. Robert's cloak of black fur streamed behind him.
Jon's heart sank. This was the man his lord father had followed through fire and blood? He had dreamed of seeing the hero of his father's youth. But all he saw was a legend made into flesh, soft and old.
Beside him shone Ser Jaime Lannister, bright as the sun, gilded from helm to spur. His hair glinted the same hue as his armor, his face as fair as the songs promised. If Jon had not known better, he might have thought the Kingslayer the true king, and Robert his bloated steward.
Yet Jon's eyes passed over them.
Arthur Manderly rode near the fore, his hair caught by the wind, tall in the saddle and sure. Arthur looked every inch the knight of the stories that he had once dreamed to be. Jon remembered the hours in the yard with him, trading blows until their arms ached, the laughter they had shared in the kitchens, the secrets whispered in the quiet of Winterfell's halls. His foster brother. His closest friend.
Jon's heart leapt unbidden. He should have looked away. Lady Stark's eyes were sharp as any dagger, and she would not miss him staring but he could not. And then Arthur turned, amidst all the banners and lords and shining steel, his gaze found Jon. The smile was small, the faintest curve of the lips, but it was enough.
Other riders followed.
Prince Joffrey rode with his head high, smirking as if Winterfell were his to claim, his red-and-gold doublet glittering in the pale northern sun. Beside him loomed Sandor Clegane, half a monster, half a man, shadowed steel hiding the ruin of his face.
Behind came the Queen's wheelhouse, lacquered wood carved with snarling lions, draped in crimson silks. When the door opened, Cersei Lannister descended, golden and cold, beautiful as a statue wrought by some southern smith. The royal children trailed after, Princess Myrcella all bright smiles, Prince Tommen puffing to keep pace, round-faced and earnest.
All bent knee. Lords and ladies, sworn men and squires, stableboys and kitchen lads. Even Lady Stark, stiff and silent, lowered herself with her daughters at her side. Jon dropped with the rest.
Jon risked a glance upward. The King swung down from his horse with more swiftness than Jon would have thought for so heavy a man, though not with grace. Robert Baratheon strode forward, belly first, arms wide, and swept Lord Eddard Stark into his embrace. He looked a bear then, large and bearded, growling with laughter as he crushed his father to his chest.
The greetings came swift after. Sansa moved with practiced grace, dipping low as if she had been born to court, her every motion delicate as a dance. Arya scowled, tugging at her skirts before giving a stiff bow that earned a sharp look from her septa. Jon felt the corner of his mouth twitch, though he stifled it quick enough.
The queen's eyes passed over them all, cool and bright as polished glass. She seemed not to see them at all.
"I want to see her," Robert said, sudden and sharp.
Cersei's lips thinned. "We have ridden for months, My Love. Surely the dead can wait."
A silence fell over the yard. The men shifted, boots scraping stone. Jon felt his own breath still, his hand tightening in Ghost's fur.
"Now!" the King barked, and none dared utter another word. Robert turned, and with him went Lord Stark. Together they descended into the crypts, into the dark place that was only for the blood of Winterfell. Yet who could deny a king?
As they vanished, Ser Jaime Lannister moved, a flash of gold as he stepped forward and laid a hand upon his sister's arm. She wrenched free, her face pale with fury, but said nothing. Queen Cersei swept away toward the Great Keep, her crimson silks snapping behind her, Catelyn Stark in tight-lipped silence at her side. Red cloaks flowed after them like a river of blood.
Jon exhaled then, slow and quiet, not knowing until that moment that he had held his breath. The yard was hushed, uneasy in the wake of the King's command. His eyes searched and found Arthur.
The blond knight had dismounted, pale hair stirring in the wind, when the stillness shattered. "Arthur!" Arya's cry rang sharp as a raven's call, and she darted forward with her cloak flying behind her like wings. Bran was not far behind, shouting the name as if it were a battle cry.
Arthur laughed, rich and warm, and dropped to one knee just in time to catch them both. They clung to him as if he had been gone a hundred years instead of a handful of months. In an instant, he was swallowed by them, drawn into the arms of a family not his by blood, but by bond all the same. Arya hung round his neck like some tree-born creature, her face alight with joy, while Bran tugged furiously at his sleeve, questions tumbling from him too quickly for sense. Robb seized his arm in that firm clasp that brothers shared, grinning wide.
Jon stood apart, watching. He felt the warmth of it from where he lingered.
Sansa came last, with the grace she thought was expected of her, hands folded neatly, chin dipped as if she were greeting a king. Arthur, ever the knight, swept into a bow so courtly it might have made any southern fool proud. "My lady," he said, his voice rich with gallantry and mirth. "You grow lovelier each time I blink."
Sansa's cheeks flushed, pink as the dawn. Whether from pleasure or embarrassment, Jon could not tell. Arya stood scowling, arms folded tight, her nose wrinkled.
Arthur turned on her with a flourish. "And you are lovely too, milady. Lovely, fierce, and wild."
Arya gaped, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, before she stuck out her tongue. Laughter rippled through them all, bright and sudden.
Bran was already talking over him, his voice breathless. "People are saying, Ser Barristan said you were the best he'd faced. He made you a knight right before the final joust, didn't he?"
Arthur chuckled, ruffling the boy's hair with a gloved hand. "He never said I was the best, Bran. And aye, he knighted me, Gods bless him. Though he nearly broke my shoulders on our first tilt." He turned then, his eyes finding Robb and Jon together. Mischief tugged at his mouth. "You two had best start calling me ser now."
"When pigs grow wings," Jon said, smirking despite himself. Their laughter was easy and familiar.
Robb said, grinning ear to ear. "I heard the Knight of Flowers couldn't rise from the ground after you sent him flying."
"Half his pride is still buried in the mud," Arthur answered with a wicked gleam.
Even Theon laughed at that, though he stood with arms crossed, his smile sharp as broken glass. His eyes never quite softened, not even in jest. Theon had never liked how well Arthur fit within Winterfell's walls, never liked that a guest had grown into more of a brother than he ever could. Jon saw it plain.
Yet Arthur went to him all the same. "Still sulking, Greyjoy?" he said with a grin. "Don't worry. You can fetch the drinks tonight."
Theon rolled his eyes. "Only if you swear not to stumble into the snow halfway through the night."
"No promises," Arthur said. He turned to the others. "Shall we?"
Jon nodded. Robb was already grinning, clapping both of them on the back. "We're riding for Smoking Log," he said. "Old Harwin swears the ale's still as bitter as the women."
Theon snorted. "Suits Jon, then."
They left through the gates together, laughter echoing off Winterfell's stone. Snow clung to roof and wall, but the main road was churned to grey slush beneath cartwheels and hooves. Ghost padded silent at Jon's heels. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys, thick with the scents of meat and ash. Children scattered at their approach, wide-eyed, while elders bent their heads in stiff greeting.
The inn was loud with life, and when the four of them pushed through the doors, the room near erupted.
"Lord Stark!" "Ser Arthur!" "Long live the Wolf and the Merman!"
Theon rolled his eyes but grinned as he swung the doors open. Jon slipped through without a word, Ghost gliding after him like a wraith. Curious stares followed the direwolf, but it was Arthur who drew the hall like a flame draws moths. Men clapped him on the back, calling him the pride of the North. Women whispered behind their hands, eyes wide, lips parted in smiles. Arthur took it all with that same careless charm, trading words with the townsfolk, lifting an old crone's hand to kiss it.
"Mistress Branda," he said, "you still owe me that cherry pie you promised me six moons past."
The woman cackled, toothless. "Aye, and I'll give it to you, milord, as soon as you put a bastard in me daughter's belly. I want grandchildren with that fair hair of yours."
The hall roared with laughter. Jon only smiled thinly.
They found a wide table near the hearth, already set with mugs of steaming mead. Serving girls pressed close as they laid the cups, their hands lingering where they need not. One leaned across Arthur, her hand brushing boldly across his breeches.
"You've grown, Ser Arthur," she purred.
Arthur winked. "And growing still."
Robb snorted into his drink. "Gods, she'll be singing of your 'sword' in every tavern by nightfall."
"Ser Arthur's Dagger of terror," Jon muttered, dryly. Still, the corner of his mouth curved, and their laughter rolled like thunder.
Theon leaned back in his chair, studying Arthur with a sour half-smile. "Do you ever tire of it? The eyes, the cheers, the women tugging at your cloak?"
Arthur sipped his mead, unbothered. "Not yet. But I'll let you know."
"Oh, don't sulk, Theon," Robb said, grinning. "Arthur might weary of it sooner than you think. At least, he keeps his cock in his breeches long enough not to tumble his large-breasted nursemaid."
"She was not a nursemaid, she was a widow," Theon snapped, flushing red. "Her husband had been dead for two years."
"From choking out of air, no doubt," Jon said before he could stop himself.
The laughter came harder then, spilling over the table, even Theon smiled freely. They drank deep, the mead rich with honey, the warmth blooming in their bellies. The inn throbbed around them, loud and alive, the fire crackling at their backs. Ghost lay curled at Jon's feet, eyes half-shut but watchful, always watchful.
Robb leaned forward, tapping his mug against Arthur's. "Tell us again about the melee. Did Jaime Lannister really try to gut you?"
Arthur shook his head. "He fought really well. I have never seen a better fighter."
Theon raised his brows. "And still you took him down. That must have cut the proud lion deep."
"He overreached," Arthur said, as if it were nothing. "I got lucky."
"Still," Robb pressed, "you beat the Kingslayer. That's no small feat."
Jon shifted in his seat. "And White Harbor?" he asked, steering the talk elsewhere. "How does it feel, being home again?"
Arthur's eyes softened. "It feels good. It's… home. A little bigger, a little louder, but still my home. Grandfather's built it piece by piece. There are ships in the harbor now I've never seen before."
Jon tried to picture it, the white stone towers rising above the sea, the masts of merchant ships creaking in the wind. His own world had always been smaller. Winterfell's walls, the godswood, the forests and fields. Arthur had seen so much more.
"I wish I could see it one day," Jon said before he could stop himself.
Arthur looked at him then, serious. "You can, Jon. Anytime you want."
Jon shook his head. "Not anytime. You're lucky you need no permission." The words came harsher than he'd meant.
Arthur only smiled, soft and certain. "So are you. Luckier than you know, brother."
That stung, though there was no cruelty in it. Jon looked away, hiding his face in his cup.
Robb cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We'll ride tomorrow. I want to test your arm, Arthur. See if you've gone soft on us."
"Best fight well, then," Arthur said, grinning. "I'd hate to knock the future Lord of Winterfell flat in front of his men."
Their laughter spilled again, and the mead flowed with it. Theon turned his charm upon a serving girl, only to be met with a scornful glance when Arthur smiled her way. That drew more laughter, and for a while it was as it had always been, just boys, just brothers, drunk on youth and warmth in a world that was too often cold.
The night wore on, the fire sinking lower in the hearth, the mead sweeter with each cup. Robb's face was ruddy with drink as he boasted of a night when he and Arthur had bested the town drunks in a game of cups. Arthur leaned close to Jon, voice low. "I bribed the barkeep. Our ale was watered."
Jon smirked, though Robb's laughter shook the rafters.
Then the door opened, and the air shifted. A gaggle of women swept in, cloaks trimmed in fur, skirts swaying like shadows. Some wore plain wool, others silk that clung and whispered when they moved. Their perfume drifted through the smoke and sweat, rose oil and fire, rich and strange in the rustic hall.
"Ah," Theon said, baring his teeth in a grin as he set down his cup. "The night's gotten better."
Robb laughed, Arthur smiled, but Jon felt himself stiffen. He watched them enter as though they were creatures from some far-off court, bright and dangerous. The warmth in his belly turned to stone. He had never known what to do when eyes lingered too long on him, and doubted these eyes would ever linger at all.
Jon knew two of them at once.
Kyra, who served ale by day and herself by night. She slid onto Theon's lap as if she had been born to it, curling round him like a cat claiming its stone. Theon grinned, his hands quick at her waist, his cup forgotten.
The other was Ros.
Her hair shone the color of autumn flame, loose about her shoulders, her eyes bright and sly as if she already knew the ending of every jest. She walked with the sway of someone who knew where every man's gaze would fall, and how long it would linger.
Jon's throat tightened. It had been a winter ago, a stolen night of ale and foolish pride. Less than an hour in truth, though the memory had clung to him like frost. He had gone to her with a stag in his palm, drunk enough to think himself bold, but when she took his hand, he had faltered. He could still see her bemused smile, the kindness in it too, when he stammered his apology. I won't father a bastard, he'd blurted.
Ros had only laughed, There are worse fates, Lord Snow. She had spoken it plain, without cruelty, as if it were simply the truth of things.
Now she glided to their table as if the rest of the hall had vanished, and placed herself across from Arthur. She leaned forward on her elbows, a smile sharp as a dagger and twice as pretty. "Ser Arthur," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "I've heard so much about you. All of it good."
Arthur regarded her with the same easy courtesy he might have shown a lord's daughter. "And now you've come to see whether the tales are true," he said, light as snowfall.
Her laughter came unbidden, genuine, and her cheeks colored. Jon watched, unable not to. He saw how her game turned back upon her, how her wiles faltered in the face of Arthur's gentleness. He asked her about her family, about the new cook at the inn, questions so simple they seemed nothing at all. He did not leer, nor boast, nor take. He only listened.
Then he leaned close, and whatever words he whispered made Ros squeal like a maid at her first dance, half-flustered and half-giddy. She fled the table with her face in her hands, laughter trailing behind her.
Theon gaped. "Seven bloody hells. What do you say to them?"
Arthur sipped at his mead. "Truth. A little flattery, perhaps. I don't remember."
"You charm them like some foreign sorcerer," Theon muttered. "Even highborn women."
Jon surprised himself by laughing. "You remember that Riverlands lady? One of Lady Stark's friends?"
Robb's grin split wide. "Lady Bracken! She kept bringing Arthur lemon cakes, and her daughter Bess, both on the same tray."
Arthur groaned. "She was kind."
"She was hunting," Theon said. "You fled half the times she appeared. We thought you'd leap from the battlements rather than take her next invitation to tea."
"Tea, her daughter, and a dowry," Robb said, chuckling.
"Four thousand silver stags," Theon put in. "That was the bait."
Arthur laughed then, a sound warm and true, tilting his head back so his hair caught the firelight. "I'm fifteen. I've outrun worse."
"You can't run forever," Robb teased.
"I'm not," Arthur's smile lingered, but his voice softened. "Merely waiting." Arthur never spoke of love or marriage. He kept such things close, close as a sword sheathed at the hip.
The sweet taste of mead lingered on Jon's tongue when Robb brought his cup down hard upon the table. "Arthur. Sing for us."
Arthur raised one pale brow, leaning back in his chair, "I came for a drink, not to play the bard."
"You can drink and sing both," Robb answered, already turning to the others. "He sings better than any crow south of the Neck. Tell them, Jon."
Jon smirked into his cup. "It's true. The kitchens go still when he sings in his chambers."
Theon Greyjoy's grin was sharp as a knife. "And the washerwomen weep."
The chant began quiet, just Robb and Theon, but it spread like fire in dry grass, "Sing, Arthur! Sing!" Tankards thudded on tables, fists beat time, and soon the whole hall was stomping its feet. The innkeep himself joined in, banging a ladle against a mug while the barmaids clapped in rhythm, their cheeks flushed with laughter.
Arthur sighed, shaking his head as if wearied by their nonsense, but Jon saw the smile he tried to hide.
"Seven hells," he muttered, pushing to his feet. He crossed to the wall and pulled down a lute, its wood worn smooth, the strings dulled with age. He plucked it once, and the room hushed, then the strings came alive.
The first song was fast, the kind Jon had only ever heard in half-remembered tales of wedding feasts. Arthur's voice rose strong and clear, smooth as still water. The crowd clapped along, boots drumming on the floorboards, laughter spilling out into the night. Even old Ben the tanner spun his wife in a lurching circle until she nearly toppled into the fire. Robb whooped, red-cheeked with drink, and he and Theon leapt into a clumsy reel that set the benches shaking.
Jon laughed with the rest, warmth blooming in his chest. "If he weren't a lord, he'd be the best bard in the realm."
Theon, breathless and wild-eyed, called back, "He's got the hair for it, and the looks. Like a man who's come to steal hearts and purses both."
Arthur played another, and another still: a bawdy sailor's ballad of the Narrow Sea, a marching tune from the Reach that had the whole hall stomping in time. The night rang with his voice, with clapping and hollers, and when the last chord faded, Jon thought it was done.
But Arthur did not sit.
Arthur stood with the lute in his hands, his head bowed as if listening to some song the rest of them could not yet hear. His smile faded, and for a heartbeat the inn seemed to lean forward with him. When the sound came, it was different. The tune was low, slow as falling snow, the kind of song that carried a hush with it.
"Hear you now the sad lament
Of Brave Young Danny Flint
Whose parents died of sickness
When she was not but ten."
Jon's breath caught. He knew the tale. Every Northern child did, though few ever told it out loud. The old men of the Watch spoke her name with tight jaws, the way some speak of ghosts.
"So off Young Danny went to live
With her wicked uncle
Who one night stole her maidenhood
So into the North she fled."
Arthur's voice didn't crack, yet every word was carved with pain, each note heavy as an oath. There was no clapping. No cheering. No sound but breath and the wind outside, scratching at the shuttered windows like a thing wanting in. Even the fire seemed to burn more softly.
"Oh! Danny Flint, you'll never escape
The Fate the Gods have written
And life must seem the cruelest jape
Oh! Brave Young Danny Flint."
The chorus came low and mournful, Arthur's voice soft as snowfall, and clear, like water rushing under ice, and the lute's notes fell like slow raindrops on a grave.
"North she fled to take the Black
And leave her troubles past
She cut her hair and changed her name
To Danny Flint the Brave.
At the Nightfort, Danny took the oath
Thought a boy by all
And she hoped to live forever
As a Brother upon the Wall."
The inn grew colder. Jon felt the chill, the kind of cold that sank into your bones when a thing was wrong and could not be undone.
"Oh! Danny Flint, you'll never escape
The Fate the Gods have written
And life must seem the cruelest jape
Oh! Brave Young Danny Flint."
Someone sobbed behind Jon. Yet, he did not turn.
"Now, Danny was so diligent
To keep from watchful stares
But one night, as she bathed
Her Brothers saw her body bare.
These men were quick to break their vows
As they threw her to the ground
They took her honor, then her life
While Danny made not a sound."
Even the oldest men at the back of the room bowed their heads. Women in the corners wept openly. Ros was sobbing, hands clutched to her mouth. Jon noticed that even Theon's smirk had vanished, his gaze distant. Robb didn't move, eyes fixed on Arthur, as if spellbound.
"Oh! Danny Flint, you'll never escape
The Fate the Gods have written
And life must seem the cruelest jape
Oh! Brave Young Danny Flint."
By the final verse, the silence was so deep Jon could hear the sound of tears striking wood.
"It is said, Young Danny still, yet, walks
The Nightfort's shadowy halls
A pale form singing sorrowfully
The loneliest, saddest song."
The last chord lingered like smoke in the rafters. Arthur looked up then, and Jon saw his eyes were wet.
No one clapped. No one dared.
Arthur set the lute down with gentle fingers and gave the room a respectful bow. He whispered goodnight, yet somehow it carried to every corner of the tavern.
As they returned to Winterfell, it felt colder and still. Snow had begun to fall again, soft flakes drifting through the dark, settling on hair and cloak, turning the world pale. Their boots crunched on the frozen earth. None of them spoke. Even Theon walked with his hands buried deep, lips pressed thin. Robb trudged beside Jon with his head low, frowning at thoughts he kept to himself. Jon felt as though he were walking through a dream, or the shadow of one, the song still echoing in his chest.
Arthur alone seemed untouched by the weight. He moved with calm steps, cloak trailing in the snow, his face unreadable in the pale light of the moons. When they reached the courtyard he stopped.
"I'll be heading to the godswood," he said softly.
Robb stirred from his thoughts. "Now? It's freezing."
Arthur smiled faintly. "They say the gods hear best when the world is still."
He turned toward the weirwood gate and walked alone across the snow-covered yard, his long cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. Jon watched him go, pale against the darker line of trees.
The godswood of Winterfell was no common grove. It was ancient and vast, with a heart tree older than any living man. Only those of Stark blood had leave to enter as they willed, but Lord Eddard had long allowed Arthur. As he prayed to both gods, old and new. Lord Stark had once said that such balance was something even gods might honor.
Jon took a step after him. He wanted to go and sit beneath the heart tree and speak of things unspoken. But something held him back tonight. It felt like Arthur wanted to be alone now. So, Jon turned toward the keep instead.
The halls were hushed, the hearths burned low. Jon made his way to his chamber without seeing a soul, pulled off his boots, and lay down in his clothes. Sleep took him quickly, and when it came, it was dreamless.