The Northern camp was abuzz with rumors of peace. Old York, when he heard whispers that the war might end sooner than anyone expected, nearly burst with joy.Though he had not slain a great many foes with his own hand, the name "Old York" was being passed around as if he were a hero. His part in the flood, in rallying the mountain veterans, in standing at Jon's side—all of it earned him praise.Military merit was assured, reward inevitable. For York, this campaign was already a success—more than he had ever hoped for. He could return home without shame, perhaps even with new honors to pass on to his family.Jon, however, was less sanguine. "The war may appear to end," he told York sternly, "but the storm is only gathering. Speak of this to no one else. And keep the training sharp.""Don't worry, Marquis!" York replied, chest puffed out. His voice carried such eagerness that Jon gave him a curious look.The old knight met his gaze with something almost hungry. Once, York had had a son, but the boy had died young. Now only a granddaughter remained, not yet fourteen.If Jon Snow is ennobled, York thought, if the boy wins a fief of his own, then I must bind him to my house. My granddaughter… yes, she could be his bride.Jon felt the weight of York's gaze grow increasingly fervent and knew it for what it was. He had seen it too many times before—in another life, in another world. When he had dropped out of school to pursue business, people had mocked him, called him a fool. But when he made his fortune and raised a house for his family, matchmakers had swarmed his door like flies to honey.He did not expose York's thoughts. He merely turned away, focusing instead on the old veterans drilling nearby.For men well past their prime, their movements were surprisingly sharp. Years of hunting had hardened them, and though their limbs were not as quick as young soldiers, their eyes still burned with that reckless light of men who no longer feared death.Their only hesitation about dying was the fear of waste. Each had carried thirty to fifty catties of grain from home when he marched south. So long as the reward they might earn for their kin outweighed that meager offering, they would throw themselves into battle gladly.Six or seven hundred of such men—natural suicide troops, bound not by loyalty but by necessity—now stood beneath Jon's banner.When added to his original five hundred, plus the scattered survivors and soldiers who had lost their lords yet chosen to follow him, Jon now commanded more than fifteen hundred men directly.Most of them were, in truth, "temporary cards," men who might disperse once the war's dust settled. But compared to the day he had left the Wall alone and nameless, it was an army. And if he continued to lead them to victory, if he carved out land and title, then many would remain his for life.Westerosi did not cling to ancestral soil as tightly as in other lands. Men followed strength, not stone.---Two days later, scouts came riding hard into camp. Their faces were pale."The Westerlands army has strengthened defenses and doubled its patrols!"Jon's stomach sank. Could it be? Has Eddard already been executed?Ned Stark was no father of Jon's blood, but he had been father enough. Jon did not wish his death. Yet some things were beyond even his power. If chaos spread now, Jon would need another plan—something bolder, darker.---When Roose Bolton convened the next council of war, the air in the command tent was markedly different.No longer was Jon relegated to some distant corner. He was seated at the very front, nearly in the center. Nobles leaned toward him, their voices filled with warmth."Well done, Jon," said Severn Manderly, his booming laugh shaking the air. "You gave Tywin Lannister the tongue-lashing of his life! You've brought honor to us all.""Yes, yes," said Haliang Karstark, his youthful face flushed with excitement. "A bastard daring to reprimand a Duke! It's unheard of." He faltered, realizing his poor choice of words. "Ah—Jon, I meant no offense."Jon waved it away with a calm smile. "None taken."Even Howland Reed, who rarely spoke, offered a small nod and a rare smile. Each day, he found himself admiring Eddard's bastard more. Each day, he prayed more fiercely that Jon never learned the truth of his own parentage.The lords' laughter died as Roose Bolton entered, silent as a shadow. Pale-eyed, pale-faced, his expression gave nothing away. Yet he could not miss the subtle shift of the room. The respect was no longer his. It pooled around Jon like sunlight.Bolton pretended not to notice. For once, he even shaped his lips into something like a smile."My lords," he said, voice smooth as oil, "I bring good tidings."Every ear leaned forward."Lord Robb has won a great victory in the Whispering Wood. Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, is captured and now languishes in Riverrun's dungeons."The tent erupted. Cheers thundered. Cups banged on tables. "Robb! Robb! Eddard's true son!""The Kingslayer will fetch a king's ransom!"The joy was palpable, loud enough to rattle the canvas walls.Roose Bolton waited, patient as ever, for the cheers to fade. His pale eyes slid toward Jon. He expected jealousy, bitterness. Surely the boy would resent being overshadowed.But Jon's expression was unreadable, his lips pressed in a tight line.Is it envy? Bolton wondered. Yet he could not know the truth. Jon was not jealous—he was grim. For he knew what victory at Whispering Wood meant.Eddard Stark's execution had come around this time. The strange movements of the Westerlands army only confirmed it. Ned was likely already gone.Jon felt the weight of that realization pressing upon his shoulders. With Ned dead, the path ahead grew darker, bloodier.---The nobles quieted, their celebrations spent, and Bolton raised his voice once more."Jon," he said, almost graciously, "Riverrun sends word. Robb wishes to see you. He says there are matters of importance to discuss."Jon bowed his head slightly. Robb knows. He must know father is dead. And grief weighs heavy on him. That is why he calls me."Very well," Jon said aloud. "I will make ready and depart at once." He turned to Severn. "Lord Severn, I leave the logistics in your care.""Gladly," Severn said, clapping Jon's shoulder with a laugh. "Go, boy. Robb needs you."Bolton's mouth twitched. He had planned to seize control of supplies himself. Yet Jon had closed that door with quiet decisiveness. The pale lord swallowed his annoyance, hiding it as always.---Jon wasted no time. He and Ser Tormien rode hard toward the Twins, planning to take riverboats the rest of the way to Riverrun. The journey would be swifter and safer by water.He pressed his men to ride day and night, resting only when their horses threatened to collapse. For Jon knew what awaited at Riverrun.The lords of the North would be urging Robb to wear a crown. "King in the North," they would name him.The words rang with glory, but Jon saw only peril. A crowned king could never ally with Renly or Stannis, never join hands with Highgarden. The crown was not a shield but a target, painting Robb as enemy to half the realm.To wear the crown was to declare war on the world.---At the Twins, Lord Walder Frey sat in his hall, sour wine in hand, surrounded by squabbling kin. Yet his ears were sharp. News came swiftly even here: Jon Snow had risen high, had commanded men, had faced Tywin Lannister with unflinching eyes.And Eddard Stark—the Hand of the King—was dead.Old Walder licked his lips. He could smell opportunity.Once, he had dangled the prospect of a marriage tie to Jon half in jest, half as a test. But now? Now the boy was proven. Talented, respected, whispered of in every Northern camp.This time the thought was serious. To bind Jon Snow to House Frey by marriage would secure a future worth far more than gold.When a servant hurried to announce Jon's arrival, Old Walder sat up straighter, setting aside his cup. His eyes gleamed with the hunger of a spider sensing its prey approach the web."Quickly," he barked. "Bring him in! At once!"This time, Walder Frey vowed silently, he would not let the bastard slip through his fingers.--
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