The road south was much better—lined with summer snow and clear lakes, deer tracks winding between stagnant pools, however with patches of ground that would swallow a horse whole if he placed a hoof wrong. Jon pressed on, riding from dawn until dusk with only Ghost at his side, his cloak and leathers stained with the grime of travel. He skirted Winterfell's lands, cutting instead through the cold emptiness of Bolton ground, then Hornwood forests where famous ironwood trees covered the horizon.
Seven days he rode with little rest, the weight of his own thoughts his only company. When he finally crossed into the borders of the Moat, he reined in atop a low ridge. The land before him was unlike the North he knew. The air was thick, heavy with the stench of wet earth and peat smoke. Mist hung low, curling between moss-draped trees, and the ground seemed to shift with each step, as though the swamp itself was breathing.
Maester Luwin's voice returned to him then, from lessons long ago in Winterfell's solar. "The Neck is the shield of the North, Jon. Narrow land, endless bogs. Armies vanish here. Only the crannogmen know its ways."
Jon urged his horse forward, his eyes scanning the mist. That was when he saw them.
Three figures stood in the distance, motionless upon a patch of firm ground that rose from the swamp like an island. They were waiting. For whom, Jon could not yet say.
He drew nearer, Ghost padding silently beside him, hackles raised but not yet threatened. As the shapes grew clearer, Jon made out a man of short stature, his body leaning heavily to one side as if an old wound pained him. Beside him stood a boy near Jon's own age, wiry and sharp-eyed, and a girl a few years older, her bearing proud and watchful.
Jon slowed his horse, studying them. Still they did not move. The mist coiled about their ankles like smoke, and their eyes were fixed on him alone, particularly of the short-statured man.
Then, without warning, the small man stepped forward and sank to one knee in the muck. His voice carried across the damp air, steady and solemn:
"I swear my fealty to King Aemon Targaryen."
The boy and girl both gasped. Jon himself froze in the saddle, his heart thundering in his chest. Aemon. The name his father- no uncle never spoke off. The name his parents had chosen for him.
The stranger looked up at him, and in his eyes Jon saw no doubt. Only recognition.
Few days earlier, in the godswood of Greywater Watch.
The crannogmen seldom prayed aloud, but Howland Reed was no common man. Beneath the moss-hung weirwood, its face half-hidden by creeping vines, he knelt with the damp earth soaking through his knees. The air was still save for the drip of water from the leaves.
Then it came—the vision.
A boy, dark-haired, grey-eyed, cloaked in black furs, riding south across swamp and marshes. Beside him a white wolf, red eyes burning through the mist. And beyond the boy's image, the gods whispered a name. A name he had not heard for a long time.
Aemon. Prince Aemon. Son of ice and fire.
Howland's breath caught. He saw blood spilled at a tower's base, a woman's last cry and plea as she placed her babe into another's arms. Lyanna Stark, whom he had thought of as a sister, who once defended his honor with fierce courage at Harrenhal's tourney. The gods spoke now that her son would need him.
When he rose from the vision, his heart was resolved. He had not left Greywater Watch in many years, but the time had come. He would answer the gods' call. He would find the boy.
And so Howland Reed set forth, with his children, Meera and Jojen, who had never seen their father quit the halls of their shifting castle. They went out for curiosity to know the person who could make their father leave the keep when he didin't leave not during Greyjoy Rebellion and not even during King Robert's visit to North when he passed by Neck.
Jon sat rigid in his saddle, the man's words echoing still in his ears. King Aemon Targaryen. The title felt strange, dangerous, like a blade pressed against his throat.
Jojen stared at his father in disbelief, while the girl's sharp eyes flicked from her kneeling sire to Jon's stunned face.
Jon cleared his throat, his voice suddenly hoarse. "You… know who I am?"
Howland Reed bowed his head low. " My name is Howland Reed, your grace. I was there when you were born, my king. I was there when your mother placed you in Ned's arms. I knew your mother well. Lyanna Stark, I thought of her as my own sister and By her love and by the truth I have seen, my life and my house are yours to command."
The words settled heavy as stone upon Jon's shoulders. For years he had been Snow, the unwanted son, the quiet shadow in Winterfell's halls. Now here, in the misted swamps of the Neck, a man he had never met bent knee and swearing off his life and house naming him the King.
Ghost padded forward, his great paws sinking into the mud, his crimson eyes fixed on the Reeds. The swamp was silent but for the rush of Jon's own breath.
He looked down at the kneeling man, the boy, the girl. At last, Jon found his voice.
"Rise," he said quietly. "If I am to be anything more than Snow… I must know the truth of what happened there."