Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Void Uzumaki & Himura; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

10th day of the 4th Moon

Torren Liddle

The crisp morning air saw him kneeling in prayer at the Heart Tree amidst its thick roots, just as the first rays of the sun lazily peaked from the eastern hills. His breath formed fleeting misty clouds in the morning cold. The weirwood was old, older than the Liddles, with most of its gnarly roots being thicker than a woman's waist. Torren opened his eyes and looked at the carved face grotesquely twisted in defiance as usual. The Gods had proven merciful yesterday; now it was time for a sacrifice. Behind him, clad in wool, leather, and fur, stood his sons, his unruly daughter, and his greying uncle Jarod, who watched on from the side as he thoughtfully stroked his braided white goatee.

His nose tingled at the strong metallic scent as he started circling the Heart Tree and poured the crimson liquid carefully into the base of the gnarly roots while Duncan began hanging its entrails along the branches. Enough blood was drained from the behemoth bear to easily fill the five ironbound buckets. The crimson liquid did not colour the bone-white roots red but seeped into them and the soil below as the red leaves rustled.

A wide smile formed on Torren's face; the Gods had seen and accepted the offering! He nodded inwardly; it was a macabre sight as some blood still dripped from the entrails.

Sacrifice and worship to the Old Gods required little ceremony and could be done anytime, unlike the southrons and their stone effigies, where one had to have the zealous rainbow-loving white-bound priests perform pompous ceremonies.

The Liddles all kneeled in a half circle around the Heart Tree in silent prayer for a few more moments.

Before long, he stood up and looked at his family. His sons and brother were solemn, while Lysara finally looked shaken. Good, it would do for her to finally learn some of the olden traditions. She was too young the last time they made an offering to the Gods - just before joining the Stark to fight the reaving squids on their dreary isles.

"Let's go."

Unlike the larger lordships, the Liddles were nought but a clan, their keep modest, and godswood but a small yet old grove for prayer and sacrifice, filled with sentinel pine, oaks, chestnut, and a scant few elms. The ground was covered in blue coldsnaps and dangling bleeding hearts, giving the air a soft and pleasant sweet scent. It was separated from the rest of the keep by a small granite masonry, barely seven feet tall. In less than a minute, they were in front of the small oaken gate that led to the training yard.

He stopped and turned to Lysara, whose usual cocksure attitude was replaced with uncertainty and trepidation.

"Even entrails and blood could be turned into blood sausages to fill our larders, yet we sacrificed them to the Old Gods. Why?"

His daughter stilled as her brow scrunched up in thought. The minutes stretched by as she was mulling, but in the end, she shook her head as no answer left her lips, so Torren turned to his eldest.

"Duncan, can you tell her why?"

"The gods of forest, stream, and stone are harsh and primal like the very nature they embody and care nought for the affairs of mortal men," his eldest began explaining in his deep voice as his slate-grey eyes darted to his sister. "They might not give, but they do not take. It's an olden custom to give an offering when luck shines upon you so the gods do not feel spurned for their blessing, but it is mostly practised only in the mountains now. And we, the Liddles, have our own tradition of giving a sacrifice before going to war."

Torren nodded in satisfaction at the explanation.

"Luck?" Lysara muttered in confusion.

"Do you know how incredibly fortunate you were, sister?" Morgan grunted in displeasure and gently ruffled her hair, eliciting a pout from his sister. "If any other man found you, they would have turned tail and run or simply died under the bear's claws. By the time we arrived, you'd have been nothing more than food in its belly. Each claw was as big as a dagger and could shred through armour as if made out of parchment. Not only did the Jon decide to risk his life to aid an unknown young girl in mortal peril, but he succeeded in slaying a beast that would take down many a brave man with it."

Lysara stared guiltily at the ground, making Torren sigh. A few months of mucking horse shit and endless chores in the kitchen would whittle down her foolish wildness. After all, one could only be foolish until one realised the pain of consequence.

The Liddle turned around, pushed the small oaken gate open, and entered the small training yard, and his daughter immediately darted towards old Lena's Quarters, where Jon Snow was resting.

"Lysara!" She immediately froze at his words and turned around. "Ye have ta clean the stables and assist Dalana in the kitchens before attending lessons."

His daughter hung her head low and headed towards the stables instead.

"If you offered to wed her to the Jon, she would accept in a heartbeat," Jarod's ribbed as his eyes crinkled in delight while the stable boy handed Lysara a shovel. "It's been hundreds of years since a Liddle was wed to a son of Winterfell."

"I'd love ta have a man of his calibre as my good-son, but Lysara's far too young at only two and ten, not even flowered yet," Torren grunted. "She can dream all she wants, but I saw she did not hold Jon's gaze. Maybe Lysara could have caught his eye in a few years, but now he thinks of her as a child. But do you think a man like him will stay unwed for a handful of years?"

"You've grown soft, Torren. If this had happened to the old Norrey or Burley, Jon would already be swearing marriage vows with one of their daughters at the heart tree," his uncle countered cheerily. He tried to keep a serious expression, but a second later, his lips twitched, and he burst out in laughter.

"Aye, and they would have The Ned knocking on his gates, asking why his son was stolen like a wildling," the Liddle added with a chuckle before shaking his head. "The Stark watches over his brood like a hawk, scarcely letting any of them out of his sight. Let's go to see the beast's fur."

"Should be still salted at the mead hall," Duncan helpfully supplied. "The tannery's chamber wasn't large enough to stretch the skin."

"Are we going to put it on display?" Rickard chimed in.

"Nay, neither of us took it down," Torrhen shook his head. "Would be shameful to display such a trophy when slain by another. The organs, meat, and fat are a generous gift that would bolster our stores for quite some time. The Jon will decide what to do with the pelt when ready."

They finally reached the middling mead hall. It was the second largest structure in the Liddle's seat of power and was almost entirely made out of pine, with grey slate tiles covering the roof. At the ridge, it barely reached eighteen feet. The facade also had a small slanted front shielding the door and the now-opened shutters from snow and rain. With a small push, the bronze-bound oaken gate no longer barred their way.

The insides smelled of the sweet scent of burned oak as the hearth's flames playfully danced, illuminating the belly of the mead hall. Four large ornate beams of intricately carved oak supported the rafters, each depicting a different tale. All the tables were pushed to the walls, leaving a large clearing in the middle of the hall, where the enormous pelt stretched between the four pillars' bases.

He looked at the enormous salted pelt, and his mind could not help but wonder. It easily covered a big part of the large wall of his hall. It was sixteen feet from the tail to the head, and the width was only slightly lesser.

Gods, his daughter had come so close to dying; Torren had seen the beast with its formidable size up close before it was butchered, and his heart swelled with gratitude towards Jon Snow. The thick sentinel tree that Lysara had climbed was almost toppled. It looked like a slanted pillar; even its bulging roots, the size of a man's waist, were half-pulled up in their futile struggle to keep the trunk grounded. The charge of the monstrous bear would have easily laid low a smaller pine. If Ned's son had not been there, they would have been mourning Lysara, not feasting in celebration.

"Tough beast. Two skinning knives broken, three twisted, and two more blunted in skinning it," Duncan's sombre voice roused him out of his musings. "Even more in butchering it. Rodrik says most of the meat is as hard as steel."

Jarod scoffed to the side as he pulled a chair over.

"Have no fear, Dunk. Dalena will work his magic as always. We'll sample its tender paws for the next few days, and you will enjoy smoked venison for moons to come." His uncle's mention of the succulent delicacy that was bear paws made Torren salivate a bit, but he quickly shook his head.

"What are we going to do with the Jon?" Morgan asked as he pulled one of the chairs over and sat down.

"He's a guest in my halls for as long as he wishes," the Liddle declared.

"Only he has to wake up first to receive Guest Right," Rickard jested, making them chuckle.

"I'd like to see how you end up after a meeting with a bear even half the size of that beast, nephew mine," Jarod snorted, making his youngest son deflate.

"A pity our guest of honour spent the feast in his name in the tender hands of Lena," his eldest slapped his uncle's shoulder and barked out a laugh.

The old wood witch was anything but tender, but there were scant few things she could not cure.

"We'll simply hold another feast once he's well on his feet," Torren said.

"What about our larders?" Rickard's face grew solemn. His youngest might be all jests and smiles but could be serious when it mattered. 

"Worry not, Rickard," the chieftain waved away his concerns. "The summer snows are over, and food's easier to come by. With our bolstered stores from the bear, we can easily afford not one but at least four more feasts!"

"I wonder what brought him so deep in the Northern Mountains," Jarod hummed thoughtfully. "If he wanted to take the Black, he could have simply taken the King's Road to Castle Black. Hells, his uncle, the First Ranger, would have probably escorted him. And as you said, the Stark keeps his pack close, refusing to part with any of them."

His brother voiced his own thoughts, but the Liddle shook his head.

"There's no need for idle guesswork as if you're a gossiping scullery maid, Jarod," Torren chastised, making his eldest snort softly. "We'll find out from the horse's mouth when he wakes."

The conversation lulled down, and the only sound heard in the mead hall was the soft cackling of the hearth and the faint hubbub from the yard.

"I do wonder how that behemoth ended up here," Rickard broke the silence after a few minutes.

"Beast like this can only come from the Lands of Always Winter. It probably swam through the Bay near the mouth of the Milkwater in search of food, or maybe something drove it away," Jarod thoughtfully supplied. "But the fucker is big even for the lands beyond the Wall."

Torren couldn't help but shudder at the thought. What could chase away a monster such as this?

***

More than an hour later, Delia, one of old Lena's assistants, fetched him with the news that Jon Snow had finally awoken. He ordered one of the servants to bring over the large clay pot from the kitchens. The wood witch and her apprentices lived in a not-too-small house built out of log and undressed stone, nestled just next to the godswood's wall. It was crowned by a simple roof of grey tiles. There was even a small door next to it, leading inside the godswood, where the old medicine woman had a small garden full of various herbs.

Many years ago, when old Lena was not so old, when his father Torrhen was still alive, and Duncan was just a newborn babe in his swaddling clothes, the medicine woman had stubbornly lived in a small thatched hut far outside the walls of Little Hall and refused to move in, no matter how hard his father had tried persuading her. At least until her granddaughter, Valla, had been taken by the wildlings while gathering herbs in the forest. Lena had bitterly cried and cursed but had finally agreed to come under the protection of the Liddle.

Torren opened the creaky pine door and was immediately hit with the usual heavy herbal smell. Only a few candles and the flickering heart illuminated the dim room. All the walls were fully covered with wooden shells full of clay and bronze pots full of her herbal concoctions. Old Lena was sitting near the fire, using a bronze mortar and pestle to grind some herbs into powder. A hunchbacked and wrinkled old woman, her hair had long become as white as snow. She turned to look at him with her icy eyes the moment he entered.

"Liddle," the old woods witch rasped out in greeting.

"Lena," Torren returned with a nod. "How's he?"

"Healing well. The boy is… strong," she hummed thoughtfully and finally placed her mortar and pestle on a small wooden stand nearby.

"A green boy no longer," he corrected. If Jon Snow was a boy, what did that make the rest of them? Green Southron maids of summer? "And aye, his arm is strong - a single strike cracked part of the great snow bear's skull."

"That might be so," the old crone conceded grudgingly with a wet cough. "But he's still six and ten. Yet there's more, something on the edge of my mind I can't put my finger on. A normal man would have been gutted open even with all the armour, yet Jon Snow's flesh had not been raked too deeply, and his ribs were only barely bruised instead of shattered. Mayhaps it's luck."

"The gods were generous," he hummed in agreement. "And his brigandine is the finest make of northern steel, not some iron a green smith cobbled together for a poor man-at-arms. Can I see him?"

"Aye, just don't let him get up or walk," Lena mentioned towards the red door to the left, leading to the small, cosy infirmary room where her bedridden patients usually rested.

Torren gave her a nod and opened the red door. The room was quite dark, and the smell of herbs and poultices was even heavier. Two pairs of eyes instantly settled on him as he entered. Two sharp grey eyes belonged to Jon Snow lying on the bed near the small hearth, and two crimson red belonged to the silent white direwolf curled at the bottom of his master's feet. With the colouring of weirwood, the beast was blessed by the Gods, and he even suspected that the Ned's son might be a warg. Ghost, the aptly named direwolf, decided Torren was not very interesting, laid down his head and closed his crimson eyes.

"How are ye feeling, lad? I hope ye don't mind me using yer name."

"Call me Jon," he said with a slight grimace as he lifted himself up so his back was supported by the wall. Herb-soaked bandages covered his naked torso. "And I'm as well as one could be when stuck to a bed. Did you manage to get Willow, Shadow, and my things? The old wood's witch left before I could ask her."

"No need to fret - all yer hounds are at the kennels. Feisty bitches, the lot of them. The grey one almost took off Daren's hand when he tried to bring her over," he explained, and the young man coughed before wincing in pain. "Easy boy, our hounds aren't much better. Yer garron is resting at the stables, and yer things are in the chest at the corner over there. Only yer longbow was trampled by the bear."

Jon just sighed.

"Thank you for taking care of the girls and me," he bowed his head. The chieftain squinted his eyes, remembering how obedient the man's hounds were at his every gesture but fierce to everyone else. Any doubt that the Jon was a warg quickly evaporated, yet he was not one to press.

"Bah, it's the least I can do," Torren bowed his head deeply in turn. "If anyone has to give my thanks, it is me! Ye saved me precious daughter. Ask any boon, and I will grant it."

Jon Snow shuffled uncomfortably in the bed before sighing.

"I would require some dragonglass, Lord Liddle."

"Dragonglass?" The Liddle asked incredulously.

Of all the things the young man could have asked, his request was some worthless brittle rock that could be found at every corner of the mountains?!

"Aye," Jon Snow confirmed, face deadly serious. "If you have someone knowledgable in working it, I'll need as many daggers and arrowtips as possible."

The chief of Little Hall paused for a short moment and looked at the solemn man in front of him, and his mind was quickly made up.

"I'll see it done," Torren declared. If the Ned's son wanted dragonglass, he would get it. "By the time yer well enough to leave, ye'll have more obsidian than you know what to do with! But if ye don't mind me askin', what brings a son of Winterfell here, in the Northern Mountains?"

Jon Snow's face grew troubled as his brow scrunched up in thought.

"Tis not a very believable tale," the young man began with a heavy sigh; the words were slow to tumble out of his mouth. "I have been having dreams for some time. Dreams of darkness, death and ice from the far north…"

He wanted to say that the boy was just jesting. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it in and observed Jon Snow's face. He was gravely serious, and his grey eyes were resigned. The young man had spoken, expecting not to be believed. Not a believable tale, indeed…

The chieftain's blood ran cold.

"The Long Winter?"

"Aye, but I have no proof. Mayhaps it's just a bad dream, or my wits have been addled," Jon Snow eked out a hollow chuckle. But Torren found himself staring at the empty grey eyes. The eyes of a man who had lost everything yet were on the youthful face of a lad scarcely six and ten. "I wish it were so, but I cannot take the chance that it is not…"

"Say it is so, what can a single man do, albeit as daring as ya?" Torren challenged. "Why not go to the Stark with this?"

"I've already warned my father," a tinge of bitterness crept through the young man's voice. "But he cannot begin moving the North without proof, and I have none to give. I am here to travel to the Lands of Always Winter and see the threat with my own eyes."

The chieftain could feel that the man was not telling the whole tale, but why would he? Even here in the North, where people had long memories, the Long Night was little more than a children's tale or an old legend from more than eight thousand years ago. For good or bad, Torren himself wanted this to be just a boy's nightmare.

"What's dragonglass got to do with any of this?"

"I've perused some of the olden tomes of Winterfell," Jon's face became an unreadable icy mask, reminding Torren of The old Stark. "The Others are unharmed by bronze and iron, but dragonglass is said to be their weakness, and these mountains are brimming with it."

"They are, true. And fret not, you'll have yer black stone," Torren found himself sighing. "Why not warn the Watch about this?"

"The Watch is dwindling and can barely hold off the wildlings, let alone spare men to look for the Others on the word of a dream-struck green boy," Jon Snow scoffed. "I'll be lucky if they don't laugh in my face."

The Liddle agreed inwardly; the Watch was indeed hard-pressed to deal even with the savages beyond the Wall. And they wouldn't believe the Jon's word either, mistaking his youth for foolishness or inexperience. Torren shook his head; there was not much that could be done, and he himself was not sure if he truly believed.

"Enough of these dreary tales for now."

Jon nodded, and for a short few moments, Liddle sat there in contemplation. He had no idea how long had passed when a knock on the door broke the silence. An older boy in roughspun clothes entered with a large wooden tray, struggling to carry a large pot easily twice the size of a grown man's head, together with some bread and salt. It was carefully placed atop the small wooden drawer next to the bed.

"It is finally here! Thank you, Jor," the chieftain dismissed the serving boy and turned to Jon. "I have not given Guest Right yet."

The white direwolf finally stirred from his resting spot, hopped on the ground, and neared the tray curiously with a wagging tail.

"What is this?" Jon Snow inquired with a nod towards the clay pot after dipping a piece of bread in the salt and devouring it.

"This is the heart of the snow bear ya slew," Torren provided with a small chuckle.

"I gave up my rights to the spoils, though," the son of Winterfell pointed out.

"That might be, but it's an ancient tradition. In the olden days, when a boy reached six and ten, he would venture out alone in the wilderness and would not return home lest they proved themselves a man. To do so, one had to best a warrior in single combat or hunt a worthy beast! 'Tis rarely practised nowadays, even here in the mountains, but by taking down the bear, ye have proven yerself a man grown."

"What does the heart have to do with that?" Jon Snow asked curiously.

"Ah yes," Torren coughed. "To complete the journey, the boy had to eat the heart raw to gain the strength of his hunt." The chieftain couldn't help but chuckle at the grimace on the young man's face that slowly morphed into a steely resolve, so he finally added with a laugh. "But at some point, we started cooking them instead."

"Thank you once again, chieftain."

The Liddle waved away Jon Snow's concerns.

"Eat up and rest, lad. Ye've given me much to think about."

Torren took one last glance before he left, and he snorted inwardly as he saw the young man sharing his spoils with the white direwolf.

***

14th Day of the 4th Moon

Jon Snow

The Liddles proved generous in their hospitality. In his previous life, Torren had died fighting the Boltons for Stannis, and Jon knew little of him. Duncan, the Big Liddle, had been one of the rangers of the Night's Watch, a hardy and reliable Northman both now and before. Morgan, the Middle Liddle, was severe and gruff as always, and the youngest, Rickard, known as the Little Liddle, almost always had a jest on his lips and could be seen smiling most of the time, a contrast to his solemn self that Jon remembered. Truth be told, all three of the brothers were tall, their bodies were rippling with power beneath their leather tunics, and there was nothing middling or little in any of them.

According to a guardsman, the nicknames came when they were still young and stuck much to the displeasure of the brothers.

The old Jarod Snow reminded him of Uncle Benjen with his easy laughs and generous tales. Despite getting on with age, he was tall and wiry, and Jon had little doubt that the greybeard knew his way around a sword or bow.

The young Lysara not only looked like a mix of his Arya and Sansa but also acted like them; she had not been a thing in his last life, to his knowledge. Being the object of her admiration was amusing, but she was just a young girl. He had an inkling that Lysara had died when encountering the behemoth bear before, her clansmen too late to save her; thus, he had never heard of the spirited girl before…

Jon shook his head and focused on the present. His bruised side only ached if he tried to overexert himself or moved too suddenly, but otherwise, he was fine. The wounds had scabbed, and Lena had already removed the stitches in the morn. Jon took up his horn of mead and emptied it in one breath.

The burning liquid went down his throat, and the warmth entered his belly, but he was not getting tipsy yet. The mead had a rich, honeyed taste that felt bittersweet on his tongue. But for good or bad, it seemed that spirits were still slow to affect him.

"DRINK!" The gathered men urged on as the serving wench filled their horns again.

"DRINK!"

With a smooth motion, Jon lifted his horn, emptying the mead in one swig and looked across. Rickard, whose face was reddened and his eyes bloodshot, swayed while clumsily attempting to lift his horn. But before he reached his lips, his eyes rolled over, and he fell back on the ground, his horn clattering on the floor, mead spilling on the pine boards of the hall.

"THE JON!'

Hearing his name being cheered with such fervour was odd, yet not unpleasant. While the hall was roaring in celebration, Jon knifed a whole roast chicken and slipped it beneath the table, where Ghost and Red Jeyne had curled by his feet.

Two men pulled over unconscious Little Liddle to the side, and the Middle Liddle took his place, and the surrounding men quieted down.

"Another round?" Morgan challenged with his gruff voice as his sweaty, bare scalp glistened with the light of the fire.

Jon lifted his newly filled horn in the air and downed it again in one go, making the crowd erupt into cheers again.

***

15th Day of the 4th Moon

Little Hall was a small but cosy keep; the people were all welcoming, and Jon couldn't help but like it. The seat of the Liddles was nestled atop a steep hill, making the otherwise twenty-five-foot walls a formidable obstacle. Torren Liddle had not mentioned anything about the Others, and Jon had not pushed, so his stay here had been carefree and peaceful. Alas, all good things must end, and he could not afford to dally any longer since he was good enough to travel.

Even after all that drinking, was only feeling tipsy at best. In fact, aside from waking up twice to relieve his displeased bladder, Jon had slept like a newborn.

So, after waking up before the crack of dawn, he already dressed up fully and clad himself in his patched-up armour. The smith here was not as good as Mikken, but while the repairs looked ugly, they were good, and the brigandine and chainmail were as good as new. He knew the dragonglass he had requested was with his saddle in the stable, so there was little point in staying any longer.

The sun was yet to show in the east, but a slight pink hue heralded the arrival of dawn. Ghost silently trailed after him as Jon entered the kennels and opened the door to the small fenced square where his hounds were.

Helicent, Red Jeyne, Willow, and Maude greeted him with happy barks and wagging tails. He ruffled them behind their ears, and they happily joined Ghost, who was already approaching Helicent in size, the biggest of the pack, and was already above his knees in height.

With a mental nudge, they all grew silent as Jon headed towards the stables.

But as he approached, he realised that his path was barred.

Jared Snow, Toren and Duncan Liddle, all armed to the teeth and clad in brigandine and ringmail, barred his way. Jon groaned inwardly; he wouldn't be able to leave unnoticed now.

"Chief Liddle, Dunk, Jarod," Jon greeted evenly with a tilt of his head. "I thought you'd still be resting after yesterday…"

"You might have managed to drink all of us under the table, but the Liddles are made of stern stuff too!" Duncan boasted.

"What he means to say is that we drank and ate pickled cabbage to make the hangover go away," Jarod added with a chuckle.

"Uncle, you're not supposed to give away our secret…"

Torren, however, looked furious, and Jon could even see a vein throb dangerously at his temple.

"Lad, do ye think The Liddles to be thankless curs who know no gratitude?!" The chieftain finally exploded, and his angry voice thundered through the yard, scaring away a few snowshrikes from the slated rooftops.

"Ah, you've helped me more than enough with just the dragonglass and patching me and my gear up," Jon responded, baffled. They owed him nothing!

"Horseshit," Torren spat on the ground and signalled to the side. A servant ran out from the stables, carrying a long, pale bow. "You broke yer bow to save my daughter, and it's only right that I grant ye another. This is a weirwood longbow with a string from the sinew of the beast you slew."

Jon accepted it with a nod. In his haste to sneak away, he had forgotten about the longbow.

"The bear pelt is yours as well," Jarod added. "Nay, don't decline, lad. It's a magnificent skin, too precious to turn into clothing, but it would only shame us if we place it on display when we're not the ones to hunt the snow bear down."

Jon knew a stubborn Northman when he saw one; he was one, after all. They all looked like they had made up their minds and would not accept his refusal, making him sigh. What was he going to do with that gigantic pelt? Jon silently mulled for a moment before a mirthful chuckle tore from his lips.

"If so, I have a request for you. Could you bring the hide as a gift to my father in Winterfell?" And as proof that he was alive and well. But that was left unsaid. "I might have taken his favourite tent before leaving…"

Torren barked out in laughter.

"I thought your tent was familiar," Jarod added with a throaty chuckle. "It belonged to the Silver Prince, and the Ned took it as his spoils after the Trident. But worry not, lad, I'll see the pelt to Winterfell myself!"

The bastard of Winterfell stood there stunned while the young stable hand brought out the saddled Shadow. What was the chance that he had taken the tent that had belonged to both his father and his sire?

At that moment, another servant ran over, holding two folded packages.

"Can't have a son of Winterfell travel around without bringing glory to his house," Toren declared and handed the still baffled Jon a padded surcoat and a thick linen cloak lined with wool on the inside.

Jon Snow mechanically looked at the thick dark-grey surcoat, which had a lone white direwolf head with red eyes proudly sitting in the middle of the chest. These were the reverse colours of House Stark whilst also depicting Ghost, who had come over to inspect the image with his silent gaze curiously. The cloak was much the same in colour, but the heraldry was on the back.

Even when he had been declared a King of the North, he had stuck to black clothing with scarcely any sigils other than a silver direwolf clasp for his cloak. The North had a long, bitter war to fight, so he had little time and patience for pageantry.

At that moment, he felt wetness on his cheeks and realised that a few tears were escaping from his eyes. Jon furiously wiped them, cursing the dust that had probably irritated him. The stable hand kept taking out saddled horses for some reason.

"Just take them, Jon," Torren urged. "The Stark acknowledged ya as his son before ye could even walk, so bear the direwolf proudly. And Lysara spent every last minute of her free time helping in their making."

"Not that any would doubt you're a son of Winterfell with a living direwolf," Jarod added with a chuckle.

With trepidation, he donned the surcoat, and the cloak was clasped over his shoulders with a small bronze pin.

"If you give me any more, it will be me who owes you," Jon warned.

"Pah, me daughter's more precious than some trinkets," Torren shook his head. "Four quivers full of black glass arrows and twelve daggers are on yer saddle as I promised."

"Thank you, Chief Liddle," Jon nodded gratefully and mounted Shadow with a leap, ignoring the small stab of pain to the side where he was still tender.

"Duncan and I are going to join ya, lad," Jarod said, making Jon tense.

"We want to see with our own eyes if your dreams are true," Duncan added solemnly.

Jon inwardly cursed the stubbornness of his fellow Northmen once more and began feeling regret about telling Torren.

"There's a high chance I will perish," he warned. "If you come with me, you might not return."

"Good," Jarod laughed boisterously. "This was to be my last summer, and dying in a battle against the foes of legend or the wildlings riders is far more glorious than going hunting in the winter!"

"I was about to go to the Shadow Tower and join the Watch the next sennight, but there's far more glory and honour in fighting for a Stark than for the Watch!" Duncan declared with a wide grin as he mounted a brown garron.

"I'm just a Snow," Jon reminded them.

"Load of Andal horseshite," Torren spat on the ground. "A son of Winterfell is a son of Winterfell, regardless of which cunt spawned him."

Jon remained impassive outwardly but felt warm on the inside, despite the clansman's crude language. Although it was a Stark that birthed him, not that he would go around announcing that…

"You can come, but only if you follow my command," he finally acquiesced.

To Jon's surprise, Duncan and Jarod nodded in agreement, despite being older and supposedly more experienced. Mayhaps it wouldn't be bad to have more horses, trusty men to watch his back, and more supplies on his journey.