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Jon Snow
Nine days after Last Hearth, Jon saw the sea for the first time.
It wasn't like the maps. Maps were orderly things, with neat lines and labels that made sense. The Shivering Sea was chaos, waves rolling toward the shore, the whole thing stretching to the horizon like someone had taken the sky and laid it sideways. It smelled like salt and fish.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Harmond said, pulling up beside him. The master-at-arms had that knowing smile people got when they watched someone experience something for the first time. "Different from lakes."
"Long Lake was massive," Jon managed, unable to look away from the water. "This is... this is a very big Long Lake."
"Wait until you're on it," Rickard called back. "Then you'll really understand what you've gotten yourself into."
Jon was about to respond when the road crested a hill, and there it was: Karhold.
The castle rose from the coastline like it had grown there, gray stone the same color as the sea on an overcast day. Four towers, not seven like Winterfell, but four was enough, four was right for this place, stood at each corner of thick walls that looked like they'd been built to withstand the sea's fury along with any human threat. No elegant archways here, no decorative stonework. The castle looked like it wanted to say We endure.
But it was the town that surprised Jon. He'd expected something small, maybe a fishing village with pretensions. Instead, Karhold's town sprawled around the castle like a prosperous merchant's dream. Large buildings, with multiple stories and good roofs, lined streets. Smoke rose from what had to be dozens of chimneys. And everywhere, everywhere, Jon saw timber. Stacks of it, carts hauling it, men working it.
"Timber trade," Lord Karstark said with obvious pride, noticing Jon's attention. "Karhold timber's the finest in the North. Straight grain, slow growth, dense enough to build ships that last decades. We've been selling it to White Harbor for generations."
"And you still want to add whaling to that?" Jon asked.
"Prosperity is good. Diversification is better." Lord Karstark's expression turned serious. "One bad fire season, one failure in the timber market, and suddenly Karhold's fortunes change. But if we have timber and whaling? We're secure. We're important in ways that transcend any single commodity."
Lord Karstark wasn't just thinking about money—he was thinking about legacy, about ensuring his house's relevance for generations. It was the kind of long-term planning Maester Luwin always praised but Jon rarely saw in practice.
As they rode closer, Jon noticed fishing villages dotting the coastline in both directions. Small clusters of buildings, boats pulled up on beaches, nets drying in the sun. Each one flying the Karstark banner, the white sunburst on black. This wasn't just a castle and a town. This was a thriving region, and Jon was expected to help it thrive more.
No pressure, he thought, then immediately felt his palms sweat despite the cold.
The gates of Karhold stood open, guards in Karstark colors standing at attention as their lord approached. Jon noticed how they greeted him with respect. It reminded him of how Winterfell's guards treated his father.
The courtyard wasn't as big as Winterfell. Servants rushed forward to take horses, and someone was shouting instructions about provisions that needed unloading.
"Rickard!" A woman's voice cut through the noise. "Finally! Another week and I'd have assumed you'd decided to winter at Last Hearth!"
Jon turned to see a tall woman descending the keep's steps. She had to be Lady Karstark; she carried herself like a lady, but there was nothing soft about her, unlike Lady Stark whenever she was not looking at him. Sharp features, eyes the color of flint, dark hair streaked with gray, pulled back in a practical braid. She wore northern wool rather than southern silks, and Jon noticed her hands were work-worn.
"Maera," Lord Karstark said warmly, pulling his wife into an embrace. "We made good time despite the weather. And I've brought our new foster son."
Lady Maera's gaze found Jon immediately, and he felt himself being assessed with the same sharp intelligence Lord Karstark possessed. "So this is Jon Snow." She moved closer, studying him. "My daughter wrote ahead. Said you were clever, well-spoken, and had the most unusual eyes she'd ever seen. I see she wasn't exaggerating on the last count, at least."
Jon bowed, trying to remember every lesson Septa Mordane had drilled into him about proper greetings. "My lady. Thank you for your hospitality."
"We'll see if you're still thanking me after a northern winter." But she smiled, taking some of the sting from her words. "Come, meet the rest of your foster family. Boys!"
Four young men emerged from the keep, and Jon immediately understood what Alys had meant about her brothers. They were all variations on the same theme, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, with their father's solid build and their mother's sharp features. But the similarities ended there.
The eldest stepped forward first, and Jon recognized the heir's bearing immediately. "Harrion Karstark," he said formally, offering his hand. "Father's written about you. Said you had ideas about improving our harbor."
"I have theories," Jon corrected, taking the offered hand. "Whether they work remains to be seen."
"Honest. Good." Harrion's grip was strong. "We'll talk more after you've settled."
The second brother had an easier manner. "Eddard Karstark, though everyone calls me Edd. Yes, I'm named after your father. My parents had... optimistic hopes about future alliances." He grinned. "Fair warning—Alys wrote that you're clever and handsome, which means my mother is already planning ways to keep you around permanently."
"Eddard!" Lady Maera's voice cracked like a whip. "We do not embarrass our guests on their first day."
"My apologies, Mother. I'll wait until his second day."
The third brother pushed forward, and Jon recognized him immediately from Alys's descriptions. Scholarly, she'd said, and it showed, he had ink stains on his fingers. "Torrhen. I read about you in the letter, my sister said that you like reading books. If you want I can show you the library, there is nothing better than to read with the sound of the ocean near you."
"Thank you...and I think I would like that," Jon said, shaking his head, and Torrhen seemed relieved.
The youngest brother, well, the youngest present, since one was apparently missing, hung back slightly, studying Jon with unconcealed amusement. This had to be Arthor, the fish-in-bed troublemaker. "Jon Snow," he said finally. "The bastard who danced with my sister and made half the North talk. Have to admit, I wasn't expecting someone so... pretty."
"Arthor!" This time both parents spoke in unison.
"What? He's got prettier eyes than most girls I know." But Arthor grinned, making it clear he was testing rather than insulting. "Fair warning, Snow, we're going to make your life interesting. It's tradition."
"I look forward to it," Jon said dryly. "Though I should mention I'm quite good at revenge. Especially creative revenge."
Arthor's grin widened. "Oh, we're going to get along fine."
"Before my sons completely overwhelm you," Lady Maera interjected, "let's get you settled. Your chambers are in the north tower. A view of the sea, which my husband insisted you'd appreciate."
"I would, thank you."
As servants gathered Jon's meager belongings, two saddlebags and his sword, everything he owned in the world fitting in less space than Robb's wardrobe. Jon caught sight of Alys watching from the keep's entrance. She smiled when their eyes met, and Jon felt that now-familiar warmth bloom in his chest.
"My daughter has plans to show you the castle," Lady Maera said. "I've agreed, with appropriate supervision. Teacher Jynessa will accompany you."
"Of course, my lady."
"Good. Now come, I'll show you to your chamber. I'm sure you're exhausted after weeks of travel."
Jon's chamber was on the fourth floor of the north tower, reached by a narrow spiral staircase that made his thighs burn after all those days on horseback. But when Lady Maera opened the door, Jon understood why Lord Karstark had insisted on this particular room.
The window.
It was larger than any window in Winterfell, facing east toward the Shivering Sea. From here, Jon could see the waves rolling endlessly toward shore, boats bobbing in the harbor, and the vast expanse of water stretching to the horizon. It was beautiful in a harsh, unforgiving way.
"You'll hear the sea at night," Lady Maera said, watching his reaction. "Some find it soothing. Others can't sleep for weeks. Which will you be, I wonder?"
Jon turned from the window, meeting her gaze. "I don't know yet, my lady. I've never heard the sea before."
"No, I don't suppose you have." She moved to the door, then paused. "My husband believes in you, Jon Snow. That's rare—he's not a man given to faith in untested theories. My daughter clearly believes in you as well, though I suspect her reasons are more complicated." Her expression softened slightly. "I reserve judgment. Not because of your birth, but because belief should be earned, not given freely. Prove you're worth my husband's faith, and you'll find no warmer welcome than Karhold. Fail, and... well. We'll address that if it comes to pass."
"That's fair, my lady."
"I'm glad you think so." She smiled properly then, transforming her sharp features. "Rest. Dinner is at sunset. Tomorrow you can begin proving yourself." She paused at the door. "And Jon? My daughter has asked permission to show you the castle. Try not to lose your heart in the first hour. It makes the rest of the year terribly complicated."
She was gone before Jon could say he would be respectful towards him, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the sound of the sea.
Jon had maybe half an hour to himself, enough time to wash his face, change into cleaner clothes, and stand at the window trying to convince himself he wasn't about to make a fool of himself, before a knock came at his door.
Alys stood in the corridor, Teacher Jynessa a discrete distance behind her. She'd changed since their arrival, trading travel clothes for a dress the color of storm clouds, her dark hair arranged in a braid that made her look older than her twelve years. Beautiful, Jon thought, then immediately tried to think of something less obvious.
"Ready for your tour?" she asked, her gray eyes bright with amusement. "Or do you need more time to stare at the sea and contemplate your fate?"
"I wasn't contemplating my fate."
"You were definitely contemplating something. You had that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're thinking too hard about serious things. It makes you frown." She reached up and tapped his forehead gently. "See? Frown lines. You'll get wrinkles before you're twenty at this rate."
Jon couldn't help smiling. "Fair enough. Show me Karhold, my lady. I promise to frown less."
"I'll believe it when I see it."
They started with the great hall, which was... well, smaller than Winterfell's. It looked more intimate. The hearth was massive, large enough to roast an entire aurochs, Jon estimated, and clearly the focal point of the room. Shields hung on the walls, each one bearing the Karstark sunburst, some new and bright, others old and scarred.
"Family shields," Alys explained, noticing his attention. "Every Karstark who's fought in major battles adds their shield to the hall. See that one?" She pointed to a shield so old the paint had mostly flaked away. "That's from Karlon Stark, the man who founded our house. He fought the Boltons alongside King Stark, earned his own lands, and became the first Lord Karstark."
Jon studied the old shield in the same way he looked at Ice. "Your family started as a reward for loyalty."
"Most houses did, if you go back far enough. The difference is we remember it. We remember that the Starks trusted us with these lands, and we've spent centuries proving that trust was deserved." She moved toward another set of doors. "Come on, I want to show you the library."
The library surprised Jon more than anything else so far. He'd expected something modest, a few shelves of dusty ledgers and maybe some northern histories. Instead, he found a proper library, shelves reaching toward a vaulted ceiling, packed with more books than he'd seen outside of Winterfell's own collection.
"My grandfather was a scholar," Alys explained, watching Jon's expression with obvious pleasure. "Collected books from all over. Trade histories mostly, but also maps, natural philosophy, even some poetry. Torrhen basically lives here when he's not required elsewhere."
Jon moved between the shelves, reading spines. The Timber Trade of the North. Navigational Charts of the Shivering Sea. The History and Practice of Ibbenese Whaling. "This is incredible."
"Thought you'd appreciate it." She pulled a book from a shelf, handing it to him. "This one's my favorite. The Founding of White Harbor. Written by a Manderly maester two centuries ago. It's basically the blueprint for how a new house establishes itself in the North."
Jon opened it carefully, noting the worn pages and margin notes in several different hands. Someone—probably multiple someones—had studied this extensively. "You've read this?"
"Three times. It's fascinating seeing how the Manderlys went from refugees to one of the most powerful houses in the North in just a few generations. Remind you of anything?"
"Are you comparing our whaling scheme to the Manderly's rise?"
"I'm saying all great ventures start with people willing to try something ambitious and possibly insane." She took the book back, returning it to its place. "Come on, there's more to see."
The armory was predictably northern, functional, well-maintained, full of weapons that showed signs of regular use.
"Father believes in readiness," Alys said. "Says you never know when you'll need to defend your home, so you'd better be prepared. We train regularly, even the women, though that's supposed to be secret."
Jon looked at her sharply. "You train?"
"Enough to defend myself if needed. Mother insists I know how to handle a blade." She ran her hand along a sword rack. "She was a Flint before marriage. They take a more practical view of women's education than some houses."
Jon thought she was similar to Arya in that way.
"The godswood's this way," Alys said, leading him through a side door into the cold afternoon air.
Karhold's godswood was very old. Jon could feel it the moment they stepped under the trees. The trees here were wind-twisted, their branches reaching inland as if trying to escape the coast.
The heart tree was magnificent. Massive, with a trunk so wide three men couldn't have circled it with arms linked. The face carved into it was different from Winterfell's, more weathered, the features softened by time and salt air. But the eyes still wept red sap.
"Karlon Stark carved this face himself," Alys said softly. "The day he became the first Karstark. They say he prayed here for guidance, asking the old gods if he was worthy of his own house."
"What did they say?"
"Nothing, I imagine. The old gods don't speak in words." She moved to touch the trunk gently. "But Karhold has stood for centuries, and we're still here. Maybe that's answer enough."
Jon approached the tree, feeling that familiar pull he always felt around heart trees. "May I?"
"Of course."
He placed his palm against the bark, rough and real beneath his hand. The old gods were watching. I'm here, he thought toward whatever might be listening. I'll try to be worthy of this chance. I'll try to prove I was worth keeping.
The wind picked up, rattling the branches overhead.
"Come on," Alys said eventually, breaking the spell. "One more place I want to show you. The best place."
They climbed. And climbed. Up the highest tower, the northwest one, Alys explained between breaths, traditionally reserved for the lord's family but currently occupied by guest chambers and storage. The stairs seemed to go on forever, a narrow spiral that made Jon's thighs burn all over again.
"Still have those dignified legs?" Alys called back after the second landing.
"Perfectly dignified," Jon panted. "Just... taking my time. Appreciating the architecture."
"The architecture."
"These stones are very well laid. I'm admiring the craftsmanship."
"You're dying."
"I'm appreciating."
She laughed, the sound echoing in the narrow stairwell, and Jon found himself smiling despite the burning in his legs. They passed the third landing, then the fourth, and just when Jon was beginning to wonder if this tower actually had a top or if Alys was testing him to see when he'd admit defeat, they emerged into open air.
Jon forgot about his burning legs immediately.
The view was... gods, there were no words. The Shivering Sea stretched before them, vast and violent and beautiful. He could see fishing boats like toys on the water, the white caps of waves, the way the light caught on the surface and turned it silver. To the east, the coastline curved away toward horizons he couldn't name. To the west, more coastline, more villages, more possibilities.
And everywhere, the space. The sheer endless space of it all.
"Well?" Alys asked, watching his face with obvious satisfaction. "Still think the library was better?"
"I..." Jon moved to the parapet, unable to form coherent thoughts. "This is..."
"I know." She joined him, leaning against the stone. "I used to come here when I was younger. When my brothers were being annoying—which is always—or when Septa Jynessa was drilling me on proper behavior until I wanted to scream. I'd climb up here and just... look. Remind myself the world was bigger than whatever was bothering me."
Jon understood completely. "At Winterfell, I'd climb the broken tower. Not as high as this, but high enough to see past the walls. Made everything feel..."
"Smaller?"
"More manageable." He turned to look at her, finding her gray eyes already on him. "How often do you come here?"
"Whenever I need to think. Or whenever I want to avoid my brothers. Or whenever I'm supposed to be doing something tedious and would rather be anywhere else." She smiled. "So fairly often."
"I'm honored you're sharing it with me, then. Your refuge from tedium."
"Don't be too honored. I had ulterior motives."
Jon's heart did something complicated. "Did you?"
"Obviously. If you're going to be fostered here for a year, you need to know the best spots." She gestured grandly at the view. "This is where you come when you need to escape my father's lectures about fiscal responsibility. The library is where you hide when Arthor wants to talk about war for hours. The armory is where you go when Eddard is plotting revenge and you need weapons."
"Noted. And where do I go when you're plotting something?"
"Nowhere. I always find you." She said it matter-of-factly. "Besides, my plots are usually more interesting than my brothers'. You'll want to be involved."
"That sounds ominous."
"Only a little." She turned back to the sea, her expression growing more thoughtful. "I meant what I said earlier. About you being here. I didn't ask Father to foster just anyone."
"Why me, though? Really?" Jon moved closer. "We barely knew each other."
"I knew enough." She was quiet for a moment, then: "Do you know what I noticed first about you? At that feast at Winterfell?"
"My devastating wit? My natural charm?"
"Your eyes, actually. Everyone else was trying not to stare at them, those purple eyes that mark you as different, as other. But you met everyone's gaze directly anyway. Like you were daring them to say something about it."
"I was probably just being stubborn."
"You were being brave. There's a difference." She turned to face him fully. "Then you challenged Lady Stark's seating arrangements, and I thought—gods, this boy is either brilliantly confident or completely mad. Possibly both."
"Definitely both," Jon admitted. "That didn't end well."
"No, but you did it anyway. That's what I meant about seeing something in you." Her voice softened. "You don't let them make you small, Jon. Not Lady Stark, not the servants who call you bastard, not anyone. You take up space like you have every right to be there. Like you know you're worth something, even when they try to convince you otherwise."
"I don't always feel that way," he said quietly. "Sometimes I feel like I'm one wrong word away from proving everyone right. That I really am just a bastard with ideas above his station."
"Then you're an excellent actor. Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who knows exactly what he's doing." She paused, then added with a mischievous smile, "Even when you're clearly terrified."
"I'm not terrified."
"You're going whale hunting in three weeks."
"I'm... strategically concerned."
"You're terrified," she repeated, but gently. "Which is actually the smart response. Only idiots aren't scared of hunting something that can sink ships."
"That's encouraging."
"I'm not trying to encourage you. I'm trying to tell you the truth." She reached out, her hand finding his on the parapet. "You're scared, and you're doing it anyway. That's the definition of courage, Snow. Acting despite the fear, not acting without it."
Her hand was warm against his. Jon became acutely aware of how close they were standing, how the wind was catching in her hair, how her gray eyes looked almost silver in this light.
"I should probably let you go," Alys said eventually, though she didn't release his hand. "Septa Jynessa will notice we've been gone too long, and she'll lecture me about propriety and reputation."
"Probably," Jon agreed, not moving either.
"She'll use her disappointed voice. The one that makes you feel like you've personally betrayed the Old Gods."
"Sounds terrifying."
"It is. But..." She squeezed his hand once, firmly. "Worth it."
Jon felt his face heat. "Was it? We just looked at the sea."
"We did other things too." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "We talked. You held my hand without asking permission first, which was very forward of you."
"You took my hand."
"Did I? I don't recall." She was definitely teasing now. "Either way, Septa Jynessa would be scandalized. We're basically engaged now, according to northern customs."
"I don't think that's how it works."
"Are you certain? I'm fairly sure there's a rule about hand-holding on tower tops. Very binding. Your father will receive a raven about dowry negotiations by week's end."
Jon couldn't help laughing. "I don't think we can skip straight to a wedding by just holding hands."
"Why waste time on courtship when we could skip directly to the awkward family dinners?" She finally released his hand. "You're going to catch it, you know," she said, her voice cutting through the wind with absolute certainty.
"The whale?" Jon asked, the doubt creeping back in. "It's a gamble, Alys. A massive, dangerous gamble."
"No," she shook her head, her gaze fierce. "Not just the whale. The future. The respect. The place in the world you're so desperate to carve out."
"How can you be so sure? I've never even been on a ship."
"Because you look at that chaos out there and you don't blink," she said softly. "Most people look at the unknown and see a wall. You look at it and see a door." She turned to him, her eyes fierce and bright. "The world only breaks the people who stand stiff against it, Jon. You? You're like the wind. You don't break. You just change direction and keep blowing until you knock everything else down."
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