The road east bent through dense forest covered with snow and rivers, where the air hung cold and heavy. A thin fog clung to the roads, and the silence between Jon and Allana stretched as they rode side by side. She sat stiff-backed on the horse he had taken from one of Ramsay's dead men, her torn dress hidden beneath a cloak Jon had offered her. Ghost padded ahead, silent as snowfall, his red eyes glowing faint in the mist.
For a time, she said nothing. Her eyes, though calm, betrayed flickers of thought—questions that pressed too sharp to remain unspoken.
At last, she turned her head toward him. "You never told me your name, ser."
Jon glanced at her, quiet for a heartbeat too long. His first thought was to give a false one, to let the matter lie. But she was a noble lady, travelling with an unknown man—she had a right to know.
"My name is Jon Snow," he said at last, a known truthful lie in a low and steady voice. "Bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Her brow lifted slightly, though not with scorn. "A Stark, then," she said, almost with wonder. "Or near enough."
Jon said nothing, his jaw tightening. Bastard though he never was, that name still clung like a brand. Yet her tone bore no contempt, only curiosity.
"You fight like a proper knight," she added after a moment, softer. "I owe you my life. My father will know of it."
Jon only inclined his head, eyes forward, though something in him bristled at the thought of facing Greatjon again. In another life, he had known that man roar Robb's name in loyalty. He had heard about him fight, feast, bleed for Starks. This time, things might be different.
They rode on in silence until the treeline broke, and before them loomed the gray, almost black stone towers of Last Hearth, stark against the dying light. Smoke curled from the chimneys, and the distant clang of steel echoed across the yard.
Evening shadows stretched long as they approached the gate. Torches flared to life along the walls, and a horn sounded. Men poured forth, steel shining, shields raised—searchers ready to march.
At their head stood two figures unmistakable: Greatjon Umber, massive as a bear, his voice booming even before he saw her, and beside him, the younger, sharp-edged Smalljon, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"Allana!" Greatjon's shout shook the yard. His face, scarred and fierce, softened for a heartbeat in relief.
Before Jon could halt his horse, Allana leapt from the saddle, sprinting across the muddy yard. She flung herself into her father's embrace, words tumbling out as she clutched at him.
"Father—they came upon me in the forest, Bolton men—Ramsay Snow himself—he loosed the hounds on me, would have—" Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, loud enough for all gathered to hear. "He would have had me, if not for him!" She turned, pointing back toward Jon, who sat silent astride his horse, Ghost at his side.
The yard stilled. Dozens of eyes turned upon him—soldiers, servants, kin. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and more than one man flinched at the sight of Ghost, taller than any hound, his coat white as snow and his eyes burning red.
Jon dismounted slowly, his cloak brushing the mud, hand resting on Ghost's thick fur to keep the beast calm. He stood tall but said nothing, letting the weight of their stares wash over him.
Greatjon's eyes narrowed, heavy with suspicion, then softened again as he looked to his daughter. "Is it true, girl? This man saved you?"
"Aye," Allana said firmly. "He slew them all. Ramsay Snow lies in the mud because of him."
A low hiss of voices ran through the yard at the name. Ramsay Snow, the Bastard of Bolton, hated and feared in equal measure. To hear him dead—truly dead—was to hear of a nightmare ended.
"And his name?" Greatjon asked, his voice carrying, demanding the truth before all.
Jon's voice was quiet, but clear. "Jon Snow. Bastard of Winterfell. My father is Eddard Stark."
The murmurs grew. Men exchanged glances, weighing him with new eyes. Some muttered with doubt, others with recognition. Ghost bared his teeth at their whispers, but Jon kept his hand firm on the direwolf's shoulder.
Greatjon studied him long, the firelight casting his face in hard lines. At last, he barked a laugh, though not unkind. "Eddard's whelp, eh? I should've known. Only Stark blood could birth a wolf that size." His gaze fell upon Ghost, who met it with a silent glare.
Smalljon stepped forward, lips curled in something between suspicion and respect. "Father, if it's true—"
"It is true," Allana cut him off, fire in her voice. "I'd be carrion now if not for him. You'd be hunting for my bones instead of finding me whole."
Greatjon grunted, nodding once. He placed a heavy hand upon his daughter's shoulder, then turned to Jon with the weight of a lord. "You've done my house a service beyond repaying. The blood of Bolton bastards stains our lands no more, thanks to you." His booming voice softened, only slightly. "Come inside, boy. Eat at my table. You'll have a roof over your head tonight, and the gratitude of the Umbers besides."
Jon bowed his head, quiet, accepting. He had no hunger for feasts nor desire for gratitude, yet he would not spurn the man's offering.
Ghost looked up at him as if understanding words being exchanged, and Jon murmured something quiet to him before following the Greatjon into the great hall of Last Hearth.
Behind him, the soldiers whispered still, speaking of the bastard Stark who had come from nowhere with a direwolf and Ramsay's blood on his blade.
Jon paid them no mind. His thoughts lingered on the Umber girl, alive where once she had not been, and on the shifting wheel of fate that spun faster with each step he took.