After the trial by combat, Jon Snow's name spread like wildfire through every street of Winter Town, every corner of the camp, every smoky tavern and dim tent.
Men who had not seen the duel swore they had. The tale grew with every retelling.
"Jon Snow fought through half of Bolton's men with nothing but a stick!" one soldier declared by the campfire, slamming his tankard for emphasis.
"Nonsense," another scoffed. "Did you not hear? He carries the blessing of the Old Gods themselves. That's why Roose Bolton's champion fell to him."
Others whispered more dangerous theories—about Jon's bloodline.
The official story had always been simple: that Ned Stark had lain with a fisherwoman during Robert's Rebellion. But to most, the tale rang false. Ned Stark, honorable as stone, bedding some nameless peasant? Few could picture it.
So the rumors twisted. Some spoke of Lady Ashara Dayne, the fabled beauty of House Dayne, whose violet eyes had haunted many a man's dreams. Had not Eddard once been close to her? Had she not died in sorrow after the rebellion, throwing herself from a tower? Perhaps Jon was her son.
Whether truth or folly, the whispers fed Jon's rising legend.
After all, who else but a son of Dayne—or even a hidden Targaryen—could choke a giant of a swordsman into unconsciousness with nothing but a staff?
---
The duel had done more than earn Jon glory. It had silenced dissent.
Many lords had grumbled, restless under Robb's command, whispering their ambitions. They had thought Jon a tool at best—a sharp blade in Robb's hand, useful but replaceable.
But after the duel, they saw him differently.
That blade now burned with blue fire.
Trial by combat was a sacred tradition, shielded by both law and the gods. If Jon challenged again, who would dare face him? Who would risk not only their reputation but their very life?
No, best to stay quiet. Best to obey.
Of course, Jon knew he could not lean too heavily on such victories. Power won too quickly often bred jealousy, and jealousy bred daggers in the dark. If he flaunted his skill, he would find himself not in fair duels, but with knives slipping between his ribs at night.
So he kept his head bowed, his duties simple. He did not boast. And slowly, the lords settled.
Some even considered courting him. Perhaps, they thought, Jon Snow could be made to serve their houses more directly. A bastard might be persuaded by gifts, honors, or even marriage.
But when reminded that Robb had already named Jon to oversee logistics and intelligence, those schemes faded into sighs of regret. The wolf was already claimed.
---
In those days before the march, Jon turned his attention to something quieter but no less important—his Warging.
It had begun with Ghost, of course. His bond with the direwolf was as natural as breathing. But Jon was not content with one companion. If he was to serve Robb truly, he needed more eyes, more wings.
So he turned to Maester Luwin's rookery.
There, amidst the fluttering wings and scattered feathers, Jon studied the ravens. Luwin had dozens, some trained, some not. Jon chose one—a young bird, dark-feathered, bright-eyed, unscarred by long service.
He fed it patiently, whispering softly as it perched upon his arm. At first the bird pecked warily, but soon it began to settle on his shoulder, its claws gripping his cloak as if it belonged there.
Ravens were not chosen idly. They had endurance unmatched by hawks or falcons. They could fly for days, carrying messages across the length of Westeros. With one under his command, Jon imagined soaring over enemy lines, scouting camps unseen, relaying messages to Robb with perfect precision.
An ordinary raven might learn one path, two if clever. A rare genius could remember four or five. But if Jon bent his will to the bird, if he mastered it through Warging, then it would not be bound by training. It would be guided by him alone, able to fly where he wished, find who he wished.
A living compass. A dark-winged sentinel.
It was still early, the bond unsteady, but Jon persisted. Each day, men saw him with the raven perched upon his shoulder, a strange sight for soldiers used to mocking bastards.
No one mocked now.
---
Despite his rising name, Jon kept to his patrols through Winter Town. It was habit now—to walk the streets, to watch the soldiers, to remind them that discipline was not merely expected but enforced.
The effect was striking. Even soldiers who had done nothing wrong lowered their heads when they saw him approach, retreating hastily down alleys. His very presence was like a weight pressing down on their backs.
Jon sometimes wondered if this was what his father had felt—honor mixed with dread, respect curdling into fear.
But he did not stop. Fear was useful.
---
One day, as Jon's patrol rounded a corner, they found their path blocked. A crowd of townsfolk stood waiting—old men leaning on canes, young boys clutching their mothers' skirts, women with infants in their arms. Their clothes were plain, patched in places, but each had scrubbed themselves clean. Even their faces shone from washing, rare in a land where water and firewood were precious.
They held baskets and bundles, small offerings clutched tightly. Their leader, a middle-aged man Jon vaguely remembered from Winter Town, stepped forward.
"My lord," the man said, bowing deeply. His voice wavered with nervous pride. "We heard you are marching to rescue Lord Eddard. We gathered what we could—food, clothes. Please, accept them."
Jon's men shifted uneasily. These were Winterfell soldiers, proud of their service. They had taken food from smallfolk before, demanded it even. But never had they been offered gifts freely, with gratitude shining in the givers' eyes. Their cheeks burned red. They did not know where to look.
Jon dismounted swiftly, boots striking the ground. He reached down to lift the man by the shoulders.
"Neighbors," Jon said, voice steady. "Fellow Northerners. The army's rations come from Winterfell. Our clothes keep us warm enough. We ride south, where the air is mild. Keep these things. You will need them more than we."
The people murmured, moved by his words, but unwilling to give up. The leader exchanged glances with his companions, then produced a small bundle from within his cloak.
"If you will not take our food, my lord," he said, "then take this."
He unfolded the parcel. A banner spilled open, dark fabric rippling like a shadow in the wind. Upon it, stitched with careful hands, gleamed the white image of a direwolf.
Jon stared.
A black field. A white wolf.
The reversal of the Stark banner.
The custom was well-known. Bastards bore their family's colors inverted. Blackfyre had risen with its red dragon on black, a mirror of the Targaryen red on black. This was no different. A bastard's flag, made with care and pride.
The cloth was fine—not scraps, but good material, costly for smallfolk. The stitching was neat, each line of the direwolf lovingly made. It was a gift of their hands, their time, their hope.
The Winterfell soldiers murmured in admiration. Even the hardest among them could not deny its beauty.
Jon's throat tightened. He took the banner in both hands, bowing his head.
"Then this, I will accept," he said quietly. "And I will carry it with honor. Thank you, all of you, for your kindness."
The people bowed low, relief and pride on their faces. To them, it was enough. Their bastard son of Winterfell would march with their banner.
---
That evening, as Jon folded the black cloth with care, he could not help but feel the weight of it. A banner was not merely a piece of cloth. It was a claim. A declaration.
He had not asked for it. Yet now it was his.
And soon, when Robb called for knights to ride under his command, that banner would rise for all to see.
A white wolf on black.
The mark of Jon Snow.
code 28E9E
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