Chapter Text
297 AC Winterfell, Guesthouse, Joffrey’s Chambers
Joffrey was sitting up, propped against silken pillows, while Ser Hoster Algood stood at the foot of the bed, his helmet tucked under his arm. The Captain of the Guard looked as though he hadn’t slept since the hunt, his eyes were bloodshot, and his tabard creased.
“The dense brush, your Highness,” Ser Hoster explained, his voice gravelly. “It created a blind alley in the formation. Ser Kennos Kayce pushed too far ahead with the outer eight, and the inner six, led by Ser Donnel Hill, failed to close the gap when the terrain narrowed. They were riding as if for a parade, not a hunt.”
Joffrey’s fingers traced the embroidery of his blanket as he considered what he had been told.
Beside him, Ser Jaime drawled, “Fourteen men-at-arms. Two knights. And it was a bastard with a hunting spear who did their job.”
Ser Hoster bowed his head. “A shameful truth, Ser Jaime. As captain, the failure is mine, but the negligence lies with Ser Kayce and Ser Hill. I have prepared a proposal for their discipline, should it please you.”
“Very well,” Joffrey said. “Let us hear it.”
“Ser Kennos and Ser Donnel are to be stripped of their command of the outriders. I propose they be remanded to the baggage train for the journey back to King’s Landing, serving as common guards over the laundry and larder wagons. As for the twelve men-at-arms… ten lashes each for failure of vigilance, followed by the forfeiture of three months’ pay.”
Joffrey tilted his head slightly before answered, “Lashes on the road invite infection, and without proper rest their wounds will linger far longer than if we were in King’s Landing… Demote them as you see fit and dock their pay, make it five months’ pay and leave off the of the lash.”
Ser Hoster looked relief and bowed deeply.
“Also tell them that while mistakes have consequences, they may remain in my service. In time, they also may earn back both rank and honor… and have Ser Gerold donate the forfeited coin to the almshouse in Winter Town.”
“Rather lenient, nephew,” his uncle remarked.
Joffrey glanced at him, a small smile playing at his lips. “You may think so, but I have my reasons. They have proven themselves loyal since entering my service, never shirking the training yard or their watch. None acted carelessly, nor did they knowingly place me in danger. They were outmaneuvered by a beast of the North, and that will serve as valuable lesson and incentive to ensure it does not happen again.”
297 AC Winterfell, training yard
The first thing Joffrey saw on the fourth day when he was finally allowed to leave his bed, was Ser Jaime drilling Jon in sword forms, with Renly and Loras standing along the edges of the ring, clearly approving of what they saw.
“Nephew.” Renly greeted casually, while Loras offered a polite bow.
Both had been regular visitors during his confinement, bringing him news and amusing gossip as well as the political byplay of various northern and southron lords clashing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joffrey saw Robb approaching, so he turned in his direction and offered a smile.
The older boy relaxed and offered his own after greeting him appropriately.
“I see my uncle has taken upon himself the duty of Sandor. Tormenting my newly acquired knights and guards until they have acquired the appropriate skill in their eyes.” Joffrey said dryly.
Robb Stark’s lips twitched in clear amusement before he commented, “My brother is certainly up for the challenge. His competitive streak has emerged in full ever since Ser Jaime’s first pointed comment.”
Joffrey looked closer at the two sparring knights and true enough, there was a certain intensity in Jon’s expression while he parried as many of Ser Jaime’s hits as possible. His uncle of course was nowhere exercising his full strength or speed, but it was clear that he was paying attention and correcting Jon’s shortcomings through ruthlessly targeting the weakest points of his defense.
297 AC Winterfell, Lord Stark’s solar
POV Eddard Stark
Ned sat behind his heavy oak desk while he looked at Jon, who was dressed in a woolen doublet that had just been made a handful of days in response of Joffrey’s interest in him. And now there was clothing being made in the colors and with the livery of his own house.
For the last half hour, they had been discussing what Jon would take with him now that he was leaving Winterfell. Smoke, of course, was his, as were all the clothing, armor, and hunting gear he possessed.
Ned had also quietly made a mental note to include the small jewelry box containing Lyanna’s favored Stark pieces, for whatever wife or daughters Jon might one day have. There was also the coin he had been setting aside for Jon, which he had intended to gift him upon his twentieth nameday, or upon his marriage, or whenever fate would lead him away from House Stark. The initial thousand gold dragons had now turned into five thousand. No small sum, even for a Southron, and in other circumstances Ned would have been far more reluctant to part with so much, and so early. Yet the royal progress had brought its own advantages. House Stark’s coffers had swelled through the sale of food and drink, and by leasing out properties in Winter Town. Furthermore, the newly built quarters in the town, reinforced walls, cobbled streets, and even the small port upon the White Knife, constructed to better convey goods to Winterfell, would more than offset Jon’s portion of the Stark wealth.
“I do not believe I have congratulated you yet, Jon. You have done well,” Ned said at last, once they had finished speaking of the practicalities of Jon’s departure. His voice carried a rare, open warmth. “The knighthood and your elevation are well earned for the deed you performed… I am proud of you. Truly.”
Jon stared at him, something vulnerable flickering across his face as he replied hoarsely, “Thank you, Father.”
“You have grown in the blink of an eye, and now you stand upon the cusp of manhood, ready to seek your own path.” Ned continued. “King’s Landing is not Winterfell, Jon. Here, a man’s word is his bond. In the South, words may be daggers wrapped in silk… and, in the right moment, just as deadly.”
At that, Jon lifted his gaze, listening intently.
“Moreover, you enter the prince’s household, and thus the orbit of House Lannister. They are not to be taken lightly. Trust Ser Barristan, he is a man of true honor, and Ser Balon and Ser Kirth seem men of worth as well. But be wary of the rest, especially those who smile the brightest.”
Jon bit his lip before saying, “Ser Jaime has been training with me since the hunt, showing me the flaws in my guard.”
Ned blinked, taken aback. “Ser Jaime is… a complicated man. He is the prince’s uncle, so it serves him well to see another blade stand between Joffrey and harm. Still, I would counsel distance. He is a man who slew his own king when fate turned against their side. Such a man cannot be trusted at your back.”
Jon held his gaze, then nodded grimly.
Ned felt a measure of relief. Jaime Lannister was, without doubt, one of the finest swordsmen the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, but Ned had never forgotten the sight of him seated upon the Iron Throne, with Aerys dead at his feet.
He paused, grey eyes searching Jon’s face. “The South has a way of changing men. Do not let it change the one I raised. Never forget, though you may wear the prince’s gold in your livery, you carry the North in your blood.”
“I will write, Father,” Jon said. “To you… and to Arya, and everyone.”
A faint smile touched Ned’s lips. “I shall look forward to it, as will your siblings. Yet our roads do not part just yet. His Grace has commanded that I accompany him to the Wall, and thereafter as far as White Harbor. We shall have more time together still.”
Jon’s nod was eager, which was heartening for Ned to see.
“If ever you have questions, or find yourself in doubt, do not hesitate to write,” Ned said. “Whether it be of your lands, your duties at court, or anything else. And Jon…”
Ned rose, came around the desk, and placed a firm hand upon Jon’s shoulder.
“No matter what name the King grants you, nor what lands you hold… you will always be a son of Winterfell to me.”
The Great Gates of Winterfell stood open, the morning mist swirling around the legs of the horses. The Royal Progress was a miles-long serpent of brightly colored wagons and riders, still waiting but ready to wind its way further up the Kingsroad to the Wall.
Jon sat atop Smoke, his new charcoal-and-gold doublet stiff against his chest. He looked back at the battlements one last time. He saw Robb standing tall, Bran waving frantically, and Lady Catelyn... she was a distant, silent figure beside the Great Keep, her expression unreadable even from a distance.
Beside her were Sansa and Arya who were waving as well, though Sansa distinctly more ladylike. Thinking about Arya made him smile. She had very much enjoyed his goodbye present to her. Needle would stay well hidden in her chambers and she promised him to go to Robb for additional lessons. Jon wished his brother good luck with that.
The King had just passed Jon with the Kingsguard and his own father, followed by Baratheon and Lannister men in livery and the large traveling carriage, now followed by prince Joffrey’s party, where his own belongings were stored in the royal wagons.
Ser Kirth rode up beside him, his own palfrey dancing with energy, behind him the prince’s party was finally on the move. Surrounding the large carriage in which Joffrey was currently riding.
"Ready, Ser Jon?"
Jon looked at his fellow knight and then at the road ahead. For the first time, he didn't feel like he was running away. He felt like he was riding toward a future he had finally earned.
The days following the boar hunt were a blur. My head throbbed with a persistent rhythm, a reminder of how close the Stranger had come to claiming me in the mud of Stark Park. I was bid to rest, confined to the soft furs of the Guesthouse.
The newly named Ser Jon Gerwulf spent his last days in Winterfell in preparation for his joining of the Progress and the move south thereafter. As such, we had only a handful of fleeting moments in each other’s company.
In truth, when I think back upon that time, I cannot say there was any great or ardent love between us. Rather, what bond we came to share throughout our lives was not born in haste but grew slowly in the months and years that followed. It was not a thunderclap, but a slow-rising sun.
In later years, it was preserved through quiet tending, patience, and through compromises that left us both in contentment. I learned his silences, he learned my thoughts and burdens. For, as with many things I have achieved in life, it was through steady effort and mindful intent that I built myself something to last.
By the time we were once again traveling, this time with the notorious Wall as our most northern destination, another travel companion had been added. For Lord Stark had been cajoled by my father into accompanying us up to the Wall and then as far as White Harbor.
Jon was visibly pleased to spend more time with his father, now permitted far more openly than when he had still the status of a bastard. After the tearful departure from Winterfell and his younger siblings, the presence of Lord Stark seemed to settle him.