The hour of the nightingale was just ending when their guest came quietly down the stairs, his gaze distant, as though he were somewhere else entirely. He was wearing that wonderful cloak again, the one she had never seen the like of, though his hood was off, exposing his golden hair. Sara assumed he must find the far north terribly cold.
"Milord," she said breathlessly, straightening from where she knelt, building the fire in the hearth.
"Oh," he murmured, blinking as if only just noticing her. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name yesterday. How is your hand?"
Her eyes flicked down to the bandage, the memory of pain now faint. "Much better, milord, thank you." And it was—the burn had dulled within the hour, and when she changed the dressing that morning, the blisters had already begun to fade. "My name is Sara. I'm sorry, it's early yet, and father hasn't started cooking, but I can bring you some cold cuts and bread? Or ale?"
He waved her off, the same way he had when she tried to thank him before. "No need to trouble yourself. Though if you have a few minutes free, I'd love to learn more about the area from a local."
"Oh." She felt heat rise to her cheeks. He really was handsome, and he was looking at her earnestly, as though her thoughts mattered. "I—I suppose I can take a short break."
He smiled and sat on one of the benches, patting the space beside him. "Thank you, Sara," he said, her name rolling sweetly off his tongue in that foreign accent of his. "Have you lived in Last Hearth all your life?"
He wanted to know about life so far north—their customs, their struggles. He asked about the lordly houses, though there was not much she knew to tell him beyond the Starks of Winterfell, who had ruled the north for as long as anyone could remember. And he wanted to know about the red-and-white tree with a face at the fort's godswood.
"The heart tree, you mean?" she said when he mentioned seeing it when he was invited to dinner last night. Imagine that—sitting at the high table next to Lord Umber himself! Just the thought made her flush again. She didn't know how he could stay so calm. But then again, he had likely traveled far and wide, seen countless wondrous things. So maybe northern lords did not impress him so much, in the sum of all things.
"Heart tree?" he echoed, expression attentive.
"Yes, the heart of the godswood. Unlike you southerners and your Seven, we northerners remember the old gods." She said, then frowned at him. "Surely you have heart trees in your southern godswoods too? Or do you not call them that if they aren't weirwood? My father told me all the weirwoods south of the Neck were cut down when the Andals came, because they feared the greenseers were watching them through the trees."
He coughed. "Yes, exactly. I've not seen a… weirwood heart tree before coming north. Only regular ones."
"The face can be a bit frightening with red eyes," she admitted.
"And do you have… priests?"
She laughed. Was he being serious? Or was he just playing with her? Maybe he came from a very devout family, the kind who never spoke of any gods but their own.
"We need no septons and no septs, not like you Andals."
"So you pray in the godswood?"
Again, that question threw her off, and she blinked at him, surprised. "Have you really come all this way north without once asking anyone about the old gods?"
Shrugging, he looked away briefly before meeting her gaze again. "I couldn't. I needed to project a certain image." His pretty green eyes shone with something akin to embarrassment. "But I feel like I can trust you, that you won't mock me for asking."
Her heart fluttered. How sweet he was.
"I would never," she promised. "Ask to your heart's desire."
—--
Heart trees, John thought as he saddled the larger of his two new horses, tying the second to the saddle. The first was white, with grayish legs and a blonde mane, the second tan and spotted brown. Both seemed sturdy, built for long journeys over rough terrain.
He had sold his hand-drawn cart to a local rather than bothering to figure out how to rig it for an animal—it was easier to just make a new one once he was on the road again.
Sara had said the heart trees were believed to have a connection to the local nature gods, but everything she described afterward sounded more like a school of nature-based magic than anything divine. Greenseers looking through the trees? That sounded like a form of scrying, though perhaps one far less efficient than what was used in his world.
She also said there were no more greenseers, that they had all died out. But someone—or something—had called him to that tree.
Every keep in the North had a godswood and a heart tree, according to Sara. Did he want to try touching one again? If a mage had tried to contact him through the tree last night, then maybe he had found someone who could help him here in the North. Maybe he didn't need to travel all the way to this Oldtown after all.
But he couldn't rule out the possibility that something far more sinister lurked within that tree. Something like the eldritch beings known in his own world—things that anyone with even a shred of common sense knew to avoid. The interaction had been brief, but there had been something distinctly inhuman about that tree.
Round and round his thoughts went, tumbling in circles with no clear answer, even as Last Hearth faded behind him. When he finally reached the Kingsroad—in truth, a well-trodden dirt road, about two carts wide—he forced himself to set the question aside.
If he came across another heart tree, then he'd decide.
—-
That afternoon, John reached a river, and decided to make camp instead of pushing on. After feeding the horses and tying them nearby, he fell into his usual routine, panning the river to see what he could find.
Panning would never be as profitable as mining, but it still had its rewards. He found small nuggets of iron and copper, and even a few of lead. Among the silt and gravel, he uncovered a handful of gemstones—jet and nephrite jade, white and brownish-yellow quartz, and even a couple purple pieces. A few small sapphires and zircons rounded out the haul.
The river also had plenty of clay to collect, though it was a cool-toned, grey-blue glacial clay rather than the iron-rich red-brown he'd found near Yrga's home.
It was when he went to light the campfire that he hesitated.
He hadn't tested the spells he gained yesterday, too wary of the unknown to risk using them in a populated town. But here, there was no one but him, the horses, and the trees.
Positioning himself between the horses and the fire—just in case—he opened his inventory and selected Flames. Immediately, warmth suffused his palm. He hesitated. How did this work?
He tried thinking at the fire. Nothing happened. When he mimed throwing something at it, though, a cloud of flame shot forward, igniting the wood in an instant and melting the surrounding snow in a wide radius.
John's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline.
"Gods," he muttered.
A novice-level spell, and it did this? No wonder mages thought so highly of themselves.
He switched to Healing, and a soft, golden glow enveloped his hand. He frowned. That wasn't conspicuous or anything…he could almost see Yrga raising a judgmental eyebrow at him.
Dismissing the spell, he sat by the fire, considering his next move.
He still wasn't completely sure of the value of items here. The coin the Umbers had offered had seemed high to him at times, though their expressions suggested they thought they were getting a bargain. What he'd already made might be enough to secure passage to Oldtown once he reached White Harbor. He could likely build his money further by selling silverworks to the Starks—if he wanted to.
The Umbers had said there were villages and holdfasts all along the Kingsroad until Winterfell, unless he deviated into the mountains and clan territory. Such settlements were unlikely to have much interest in luxury wares. And now that he had horses, he could reach Winterfell directly without stopping.
And yet.
Being the guest of a lord had shown him just how harsh life here was if that was what they served at the high table. It was filling and plentiful, yes, but limited in variety, relying more on hunting and foraging than established agriculture. He had thought Yrga's village struggled because of harsh conditions and the pitfalls of a disorganized society, but it seemed the smallfolk here fared little better.
Yrga, for all that she seemed to be an acclaimed hunter, had been shocked at the amount of meat he'd secured for her village. Another reminder that his skills were… different.
He could make a difference. Not to all, but to some, if he chose to. And it wouldn't slow him down much. Selling fresh game might raise questions—the Umbers had mentioned something about 'poaching' when discussing hunts—so it was better to focus on goods that fit his established story.
With that in mind, he turned his efforts to provisions that would keep.
The berries he'd gathered since leaving the Gift became jams. The remaining meat, along with the fish he caught in the river, he trimmed of fat—rendering it into tallow for storage—then cut the meat into thin strips. He boiled them briefly, then arranged them on a rack over the fire's coals to dry in the banked heat and cold smoke.
While that cured, he turned to the copper he'd accumulated, shaping it into pots and pans. He wasn't sure how well they'd sell, but worst case, he could take them to White Harbor.
The clay he'd collected became cookware, storage containers, drinking vessels, and tableware. He kept the pots simple with an ash glaze, but for the rest, he chose stronger colors, pleasant to the eye:
Iron and copper in open fire for red and turquoise-green.The same minerals in sealed containers, cutting off air, to create moss green and deep blues.Crushed and powdered bones for a milky-white glaze, which, when mixed with iron or copper, also produced soft pinks and light blues.Finally, he built a new cart—one that could be pulled by two horses, with a wide driver's seat and ample storage—and wooden boxes to hold his freshly crafted goods.
By the time he finished, the sun was rising, and he was ready to continue on his way with new stock.
—---
The dried meat and jams were a success; he ran out of them at every village. While the meat and fish were easy enough to replenish, the jams were not. The rest of his wares sold poorly, as he had expected, though he noticed some of the smallfolk eyeing them with interest.
Here and there, he encountered a keep or a holdfast belonging to petty lords, and these places showed more interest in his copper cookware. His tableware, especially, seemed to be well received. Considering that the Umbers had eaten off wooden trenchers, perhaps ceramic plates were a rarity in these parts.
Day by day, he was starting to understand the lay of the land and the customs of its people, noble and common alike. They were hardy folk, wary of strangers but welcoming enough once they saw what he had to offer. They were eager for conversation and news, treating him as both an oddity and a source of entertainment. Children often flocked to him once their parents deemed him safe, eager to pet his horses and touch his cloak, bombarding him with questions and pleas for stories.
"Winter's not been long, yet, but it's been a harsh one so far," a stooped greybeard said, passing over a few coppers for the last of John's dried venison. "We expect it will be some time yet."
"Oh?" John prompted. He had found that he was still making too many assumptions that earned him strange looks. People here seemed convinced he was from the south—something to do with his hair and eye color, as he understood it, and expected him to know some things he couldn't. Instead, he found that a friendly, expectant demeanor, coupled with open-ended questions, was the best way to glean information.
"Nothing like the winter of 231 to 236, of course," the greybeard continued blithely.
John had to fight hard to control his expression. Five years of winter? Five years of winter?
The man kept talking. "I was just a wee thing then, but I remember. The young and the old died in droves, and by the end of it, there was hardly any game to be found."
John coughed, forcing down the lump in his throat. "We can only hope this winter will be short."
"Indeed." The greybeard wandered off, leaving John alone with his thoughts.
Years of winter? Years where nothing would grow, presumably, according to the greybeard. How did the population survive?
What kind of crazy place had he found himself in?
—--
John already had the fire high and crackling when he spotted the first dark shapes against the snowy road ahead. His keen eyesight picked out a loose column of men trudging northward, their breath visible in the cold air. At their head rode a black-cloaked figure atop a stocky, thick-furred rouncey, while the rest followed on foot—some slouched with exhaustion, others glancing warily at the dark trees lining the road.
Something about the lead rider tugged at John's memory. Dressed all in black, heading north—was he a member of the Night Watch?
Making a snap decision, John pulled out a pot and set to work, filling it with meat, vegetables, and herbs. By the time the column neared his camp, the stew was ready, the rich aroma wafting off it; he caught a few sidelong glances from the men as they approached, their hunger plain on their faces.
"Ho there, traveler!" the rider called out, raising a gloved hand in greeting. He was older, thick-bearded, his dark hair streaked with silver. His sharp eyes swept over John and his cart, assessing.
"Hello there," John replied with an easy smile, deciding to take a gamble. "On your way to the Wall?"
"Aye, escorting our new recruits." The man gestured at the six figures behind him. They were a mixed lot, some young, some older, all looking weary. One had his wrists and ankles bound in chains. Their gazes flickered between John and the pot bubbling on the fire.
"Might I invite you to rest a little? I've enough to share."
The crow's brow lifted. "Mighty kind of ye," he said, and after a moment's thought, nodded. "We'll take you up on that."
Relief washed over the recruits' faces as they moved toward the fire. Their leader—who introduced himself as Jonos—dismounted, tying his horse near John's before settling to his right. Each man produced a wooden plate or trencher from his pack, and John ladled out generous portions before serving himself.
For a time, there was only the sound of eating. When Jonos finally lowered his bowl with a satisfied sigh, he patted his stomach. "Best meal I've had in weeks. Now all that's missing is a good ale…"
John chuckled. "Can't help you there, sorry. Lord Umber cleaned me right out."
Jonos' eyes sharpened with interest. "You coming back from Last Hearth? Any trouble on the Kingsroad?"
John shrugged. "Nothing for the next hundred miles or so. When I left, there was talk of a wolf pack coming down from the mountains, though, so keep your wits about you when you near the Gift."
"Much appreciated," Jonos nodded. "What about wildlings? Any crossings sighted?"
The back of John's neck prickled. "No, nothing," he said, keeping his tone even. "It's been quiet."
One of the recruits, a gangly youth with straw-colored hair and a face still pocked, shifted uneasily. "Are there many wildlings, ser?"
Jonos looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes but restrained himself. "Beyond the Wall, or in the North? There's always some that try. The longer winter lingers, the more we'll see."
His indifference wasn't shared by the rest. The recruits exchanged wary glances, the reality of their new life settling in.
"I'm to Winterfell, and then White Harbor," John volunteered.
"Your road should be clear," Jonos assured him. "But I've heard talk of livestock disappearing from farms. Lord Stark sent men to look into it."
The crow then pushed himself up with a grunt. "On your feet, men. We've miles to go yet before we rest."
The recruits groaned but obeyed after a stern look, falling into formation once more. Jonos turned back to John. "Many thanks, friend. May the gods guard your path."
"Glad to be of service to the Night Watch," John replied. "Safe travels."
And with that, the men trudged northward, their weary figures slowly disappearing into the deepening night.
—---
John estimated he was only a few hours from Winterfell, though the dense forest pressed in on both sides of the road, blocking any view of distant towers or walls. The snow-dusted trees muffled most sounds, which made the sudden scream all the more jarring.
In a heartbeat, his bow was in his hands, an arrow notched, as he pulled the horses to a stop. He listened, scanning the shadows between the trunks. Another scream—closer this time, high-pitched with fear. It sounded like a woman, or a child. The frantic pounding of hooves followed, then the heavy crash of branches breaking as something large barreled through the undergrowth.
There!
A girl on horseback burst from the trees at a gallop, clinging low to her mount's neck, dark hair streaming behind her. Her horse was lathered in sweat, nostrils flaring wide as it powered forward in desperation. Just behind her, a massive bear, fur bristling, jaws open in a roar, lunged forward with terrifying speed.
John loosed an arrow.
It struck true, burying deep into the beast's eye. The bear collapsed mid-stride, its own momentum sending it tumbling forward. Snow and earth kicked up as it rolled to a sudden, brutal stop.
The girl's horse kept going for several more strides before she seemed to realize she was no longer being pursued. She yanked the reins, bringing her mount to a jarring halt; the animal's sides heaved, steam billowing from its skin, eyes rolling wildly. The girl looked scarcely better—breath coming in sharp, rapid gulps, her face pale beneath wind-reddened cheeks.
John kept his bow lowered but ready. "Are you hurt, lass?"
She turned sharply at his voice, dark eyes locking onto him with fierce suspicion. Her breathing slowed as she took him in—the fancy cloak, the well-fed horses, the cart laden with goods. She parted her lips to speak but was interrupted by the appearance of several armed riders bursting through the trees, swords half-drawn.
"Lady Lyanna!" one of them called, urgency in his tone as they reined in, positioning themselves between her and John. Their eyes flicked to the dead bear, then to John himself, their expressions wary.
John remained still, making no move with his bow.
The girl straightened in her saddle. "Calm yourselves," she commanded, her tone steady now. Then, meeting John's gaze again, she nodded. "He felled the bear. Surely, he means me no harm."
The tension among the riders eased—marginally. One of them, a grizzled man with a lined face, gave John a considering look. "A fine shot," he acknowledged at last.
John inclined his head.
The Lady took a deep breath, visibly steadying herself. "I am Lyanna Stark," she told him. "You have my thanks."
********
Author's notes
I've made a bit of a gaff with the winter. I've been writing this story as though they've been deep into winter for a while—since we know 281 was the year of false spring and then at the last day of the year Blackwater Bay froze over. I assumed winter ended in 282, which meant it started in 279, but I rechecked and apparently it started in 280 and ended in late 283. So, I'm just claiming it as creative license that in this story, winter started in 279.
John's slowly finding his feet in this world and gaining a better understanding of just how different it is from his own. He's still dead set on finding someone who can help him return home, but he's starting to understand just what a difference his skills can make not just to himself but to others.
Next chapter: Winterfell and the Starks!Last edited: 26/3/2025 Award ReplyReport850RedPandaFishing25/3/2025NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Chapter 10: Winterfell part I New View contentRedPandaFishingAward Recipient28/3/2025Add bookmark#243A brief exchange revealed Lyanna's unlikely savior to be a merchant traveling to Winterfell, and without hesitation, she declared that she and her guards would accompany him along the Kingsroad rather than take the shorter route through the trees.
Locke, the most senior of her guards, gave her a wary look but didn't gainsay her. Likely, he and the others had come to the reasonable conclusion that six trained swordsmen could handle one merchant, no matter how quick he was with a bow.
Before they could set off, however, the merchant—who introduced himself simply as Jon—hopped down from his cart and made his way over to the fallen bear. Lyanna assumed he meant to retrieve his arrow, or perhaps inspect the kill. A shame they had no easy way to haul the carcass back to Winterfell; the meat could have fed the castle for weeks, and the pelt would be well-worth the effort of tanning.
Then she watched, along with the rest of her party, as Jon reached down, grabbed the bear's massive front paw, and began dragging it toward his cart as if it were nothing more than a sack of grain. He showed some exertion—his stance shifted, his grip adjusted—but he was moving a full-grown bear with little more difficulty than she might have hauling a particularly stubborn Benjen out of the training yard.
Her mouth went dry. The bear had to weigh over a thousand pounds.
"What the…" Locke muttered beside her, his voice barely above a breath. The other guards were similarly speechless, exchanging uncertain glances. One of them subtly reached for the hilt of his sword, though he didn't draw it.
Jon seemed to notice their reaction, his expression shifting to mild defensiveness. "No point letting such an animal go to waste," he said, as if that explained everything. "Not with food being so scarce."
And then, in one smooth motion, he hoisted the bear onto his cart. It was not effortless, but the fact remained: He had heaved the entire beast by himself.
Lyanna's fingers twitched against her reins, an unfamiliar unease settling in her stomach.
Jon dusted off his hands, climbed back onto the driver's seat, and took the reins. "Shall we?" he asked, as if nothing at all had just happened.
Lyanna met Locke's gaze, reading the same silent question in his eyes. What in all the hells had they just witnessed?
But she was a Stark, and Starks did not back down from strange things. If anything, they charged forward to meet them head-on.
So she spurred her horse forward and fell beside the merchant, her curiosity burning brighter than her caution. "Tell me, Jon," she said, as casually as she could manage. "Where did you say you were from?"
—---
John found Winterfell to be awe-inspiring. As the dense forest thinned, the great castle loomed ahead, its massive stone walls stretching high, with only the tallest towers and an imposing great keep visible above them. Before it sprawled a town that truly deserved the name—at least a few thousand small stone-and-wood houses, intercepted by packed-dirt streets bustling with activity.
Lady Lyanna led them around the town's outskirts to a smaller gate facing the woods.
"My lady," the oldest of the guards—the same one who had commended John on his shooting—began, but Lyanna waved him off dismissively.
"We'll go through the Hunter's Gate," she said, as if that explained everything. "The bear will draw too much attention otherwise."
All eyes swung toward John's cart in unison, lingering for a moment, before the lady and her escort cantered forward. The gate creaked open at their approach, and John followed behind with his rumbling baggage.
There were men stationed at the gate, more still peering down from the walls, but no one stopped him. He passed through a narrow bridge across a moat and yet another wall, emerging into a rectangular courtyard enclosed on all sides by towering stone. As he crossed the threshold, he felt an odd sensation—like a faint susurration, as though the very air shimmered around him. It was gone in an instant, leaving him uncertain whether he had imagined it.
To his left, he saw kennels, their occupants stirring at the ruckus of the returning party. Servants bustled about, some halting mid-step to stare openly at their lady's unusual companion. Lyanna ignored them, leading the way through yet another gate. Beyond it lay a vast courtyard, so large it made John hesitate, taking in the expanse of open space at the heart of the fortress.
"This way," Lyanna said as she dismounted, her guards following suit.
"Find my father or his steward," Lyanna instructed a passing servant briskly. The servant blinked, cast a wide-eyed look at the massive carcass in John's cart, then hurried off.
"And now we wait," Lyanna said, flashing John a smile. "You can unhitch your horses. The servants will tend to them."
"Kind of you to offer," John said evenly, "but I'll need them to move the cart."
She arched a dark eyebrow. "Will you."
Before John could decipher her meaning, two men emerged from the great stone keep across the courtyard. The first was powerfully built, middle-aged, with the same long face and dark hair as Lyanna. He wore a quilted grey coat over woolen breeches, a belt studded with silver, and a heavy fur cloak clasped at the throat with a silver-and-jet wolf's head. There was no mistaking him—Lord Rickard Stark.
The second man, slightly older with thinning hair and dark eyes, was dressed in humbler browns and greys. This must've been the lord's steward.
"Lyanna," Lord Stark greeted his daughter, his penetrating grey gaze resting on John for a long moment before flicking to the bear on his cart and then back to his daughter.
"This is Jon, Father," Lyanna said with uncharacteristic earnestness. "He saved me from that bear. Shot it from a hundred paces—straight through the eye."
Rickard Stark's gaze settled on John once more, cold and assessing. This was no boisterous warrior lord like Greatjon or Mors Umber; there was calculation in his stare, the weight of a man who saw far more than he let on. John, despite himself, felt unease prickle.
Finally, Lord Stark inclined his head. "As a father, I thank you," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "You shall have my bread and salt for as long as you remain beneath my roof."
"Thank you," John replied, aware of the many eyes still watching him. "I won't be here long. I'm bound for White Harbor."
"A merchant," Stark observed flatly, as if testing the word.
John nodded. "I trade in all sorts of wares, should you have any interest."
"I just might," Lord Stark murmured. He gave John one last lingering look before turning to his steward. "See to our guest's needs—and see to that beast."
The steward stepped forward as Lord Stark turned away, summoning Lyanna with a subtle gesture. She hesitated for only a moment before falling in step beside him, the leader of her guard following close behind.
John exhaled slowly as they departed, only now realizing how tense his shoulders had been under the weight of the Warden of the North's scrutiny.
—-----
John was given a place to store his wares before being shown to his rooms, which were in a separate building from the great keep where Lord Stark and his daughter had departed to. His quarters were well-appointed: a hearth, a large bed layered with furs, a sturdy chest for belongings, and a solid wooden table for eating or writing. Woolen textiles covered the windows, likely to keep out the cold; when he pulled them aside, he found himself facing the castle's godswood, a glint of red among the green hinting at the presence of a heart tree.
The godswood was restricted to the Stark family, the steward informed him when he asked. Permission would have to be granted by Lord Stark himself. The library, however, was open to him. The lord was busy, the steward said, and would likely take some time before deigning to discuss business with the merchant, honorable guest though he was.
That suited John just fine. His brief interaction with Rickard Stark had shown that the man was shrewd—far sharper than most of the people he had dealt with until now. The longer he could avoid that scrutiny, the better. Besides, this was the first place he had come across in this world that had an actual library. Knowledge at his fingertips, acquired safely through books rather than conversation—there was no better opportunity.
The reality of the library, however, was somewhat underwhelming. The snug room was pleasant enough, with high windows letting in watery light and a sturdy table for reading, but the collection itself was modest at best. At a glance, John estimated no more than a hundred books—far fewer than he would've expected from a great castle like this and a family that were apparently kings in their domain in all but name.
Most of the volumes were thick, leather-bound tomes filled with parchment, though there were some scrolls as well. A quick survey of the shelves revealed a mix of topics: historical records of the North, which he collected eagerly; observations of scientific subjects like healing, agriculture, and geography; and a scattering of myths and legends.
It might take some effort, but he was confident he could work his way through the entire catalog in a day or two. Settling at the table, he opened the first book and began to read.
By the time a servant arrived to summon him for dinner, evening had fallen, and John had worked through some fifty books. The knowledge had filled in many gaps in his understanding of this world's history and customs—and, unexpectedly, had even granted him some XP towards his skills.
The servant led him across the vast courtyard to a large building, its wide oak-and-iron doors opening into a great space. The soaring rafters were of dark wood, the stone walls alight with flickering torches. The hall could clearly seat hundreds with ease, but tonight, only the high table was occupied. Lord Stark sat at the head, with Lyanna beside him, along with two others: a boy of similar age with the same long features—introduced as Benjen—and a frail woman wrapped in thick furs, her health bar almost empty. This, he was told, was Lady Lyarra Stark.
John was seated to Rickard Stark's left. The rest of the family sat to the lord's right, the children's expressions betraying their displeasure at the arrangement. Lyanna in particular looked ready to object, but a firm glance from her father silenced her before she could voice any protest.
Dinner was served shortly after. The meal began with onion soup, followed by roast pork on a bed of carrots, potatoes, and parsnips. There was winter squash cooked in butter and herbs, capon in a rich mushroom and wild garlic gravy, and a salad of turnip and nettle greens. Dry red wine accompanied the meal, watered down for the children. Dessert was apples poached in wine, alongside blackberry oatcakes with crabapple preserves.
The conversation remained light, largely carried by the children's questions. Lord Stark spoke little, but when he did, John felt the weight behind each word. Every question seemed to probe for something unspoken. Lady Stark remained silent, eating sparingly.
At some point, as he cut his pork into precise bites, Rickard Stark spoke in a quiet, measured tone. "My lady wife's mother was a Flint." He did not look up. "Have your journeys taken you to the Wall? The current Lord Commander is a Flint of Widow's Watch."
John was abruptly grateful for his remedial reading. The Flints were a noble house with multiple branches, and their history with the Night's Watch was storied—and at times sordid.
"No, I only traveled as far north as Last Hearth," he answered casually, offering a small smile. "While the Night's Watch is commendable, it's quite the distance for a merchant to travel for trade."
"It is as you say," Lord Stark murmured, chewing methodically before dabbing the corner of his mouth with a cloth napkin. "Still, visiting the Wall is something every man should do at least once in his lifetime, if given the chance. Standing at the top, looking out over that great expanse… one does wonder what might be found beyond."
John kept his smile in place, though it was becoming somewhat fixed. "I'm afraid you would know better than I, Lord Stark. Perhaps I will make the journey one day, if I am ever in the North again."
"Perhaps," Rickard echoed. Then, with an air of finality, he turned to his wife and spoke to her in a low voice, signaling the end of the conversation.
—-
A servant girl brought a light breakfast to John's room in the morning when she came in to rebuild the fire; two eggs, a sausage, and some oatcakes, along with a mug of ale. He thanked her and waited for the door to close before popping the food into his inventory.
He'd barely left his room, making for the library tower, when another servant caught up to him and bowed slightly. "Lord Stark will see you in his solar now," the man said, bidding John to follow.
The great keep, as he'd been told it was called, was just as large on the inside as it appeared from the courtyard, and notably warmer than the other buildings he'd visited so far. The corridors and floors were built of the same granite as the rest of Winterfell, but tapestries of thick wool in muted colors hung here and there, lending the space a sense of comfort. The lord's solar was at the top, overlooking the courtyard, and when John was ushered inside, he found Rickard Stark seated behind a great oak desk scattered with parchments, a half-finished plate near his elbow.
Lady Lyarra Stark was seated close to the fire, still wrapped in furs despite the warmth. Now that he was closer, John could see that her chair was an odd contraption—wide and sturdy, with wheels instead of legs. Though she looked just as pale and fragile as yesterday, she managed a faint smile in his direction.
"Lord Stark, Lady Stark," John greeted, bowing slightly.
"Good morning, Jon," Rickard Stark replied, standing. "I find myself with a few rare hours free and thought to peruse your wares."
John blinked, caught a bit off guard, but nodded. "Of course, my lord."
They made their way to the storage room, the lord's pace unhurried. Once there, Lord Stark examined the goods with a discerning eye, picking up some items to study closer and setting others back down without a word. John couldn't quite read his expression, but there was an intensity to the silence that kept him on edge.
"These are of very fine quality," Lord Stark said at last, holding up a bowl with a deep blue glaze. "Especially the pottery; I've never seen colors like these. Where did you say you came to the North from?"
"Oh, I make everything myself," John deflected.
"A craftsman as well as a merchant?" Stark murmured, as though to himself. "And is this the extent of your skills?"
"I also have some silver jewelry, quite well-made, if I do say so myself," John replied.
That earned him a long, considering look, and finally a slow nod. "Let us return to my lady wife, then," Lord Stark said, and they retraced their steps to the solar in a somewhat uncomfortable silence, the air heavy with words unsaid and questions unasked.
Partway there, the lord instructed a servant to fetch the children from their lessons. It wasn't long before they heard the sound of pounding feet, and the door to the solar burst open as Lyanna and Benjen all but tumbled inside, skidding to a halt.
"Lyanna," Rickard Stark reprimanded sharply. "Behave yourself."
"Sorry, father," she said, not looking particularly repentant. Her eyes brightened when she spotted John. "Good morning, Jon! We looked for you at breakfast but you weren't there. Can you teach us how to shoot like you do?"
Benjen, peeking out from behind his sister, nodded with eager enthusiasm, and John found himself faced with two sets of pleading, wide-eyed stares.
"Lyanna!"
The girl jerked upright, smoothing her dark blue dress and adopting a more decorous posture. "Sorry," she muttered.
Lord Stark's expression tightened briefly before he sighed and gestured for John to continue. "Please, go on."
John nodded and approached the desk, reaching into his bandolier pockets as though to retrieve the jewelry. In reality, he was pulling them from his inventory, but the motion looked convincing enough. One by one, he laid out brooches and belt buckles, necklaces, bracelets and more with muted clinks of metal on wood.
The children's gasps were almost comical, and even Lord Stark's reserved expression shifted slightly, as though he was impressed. Lyanna immediately honed in on the two hairpins John had carved from light violet amethyst, shaped into roses and set in a bed of finely detailed silver leaves. Benjen, on the other hand, was captivated by a brooch shaped like a running wolf against a forest backdrop, tiny sapphires sparkling like frost on its fur.
"This is exceptional craftsmanship," Rickard Stark said, examining a heavy necklace of silver, carved ivory, and greenish jade. "Do you also work in steel?"
"When I can get my hands on it," John replied.
The lord gave a decisive nod. "Lyanna, Benjen—you may each choose one piece for yourselves, and one for each of your brothers. One," he emphasized when Lyanna looked ready to argue. "Yes, the two pins count as one."
Lyanna relaxed and beamed, and Benjen looked equally pleased, though he was more subdued than his sister. Lord Stark's attention shifted back to John. "My firstborn, Brandon, is due to finish his fostering in a few weeks. I would like to commission a sword for him to mark the occasion. I will provide steel and any other materials you require, and you will have access to the forge. We can discuss the details later."
It was not a bad deal, and probably would not delay him much; he still wanted time to finish perusing the library, and maybe this would make the lord more inclined to grant him access to the godswood.
He therefore inclined his head. "Of course, my lord. I would be honored."
—-------
The library turned out to be occupied; two suddenly excited faces swung his way when he paused at the doorway. The grey-robed man with them—a maester, by the look of him and his chain—looked annoyed at the interruption.
"Jon," Lyanna enthused, while Benjen waved at him with a small smile. Her new pins sparkled in her dark hair, while her brother had his brooch pinned to his doublet.
"And you are?" the maester sneered, his tone sharp. "You are disrupting the children's lessons." He was a middle-aged man of average height, with thinning blonde hair and dark, close-set eyes; his thin mouth thinned further in displeasure as he looked John up and down.
"He can stay, Maester Walys," Lyanna ordered, her tone authoritative despite her youth.
"I'm just here to read," John said, keeping his tone neutral. He didn't like the man's attitude, but starting an argument wasn't worth it.
The man sent him another scowl, but bowed to his lord's daughter's demands, though he sharply reminded both children to focus on their work and warned John not to be an interruption.
Ignoring the man, John made his way over to the books he had yet to read. Among them were the scrolls that had caught his eye last time; the material looked dry and in ill repair, and he took them to a bench and began to unroll them carefully. Spidery glyphs appeared from the curl of parchment, faint with age and dust.
Congratulations! You've unlocked the 'High Valyrian' skill. You are now Level 0!
John blinked. Valyrian, huh? And level zero. He exhaled slowly, settling himself for long hours of staring at the same scrolls again and again, trying to pick out repeated symbols or patterns that might help him make sense of the language.
"What are you doing?"
Lyanna's voice startled him out of his concentration an hour or so later. Benjen was hovering behind her shoulder, a habit John had come to expect in his short time knowing them. The surly maester, meanwhile, was packing his things before leaving the room in a huff.
"I don't think you should be alone with me here," John said, casting a wary glance at the doorway, but Lyanna just waved off the concern by pointing to her brother, as if to say they had a ready chaperon.
"Is that Valyrian? Do you know Valyrian?" she peered at the parchments with wide, curious eyes. "We don't know any. But we're learning the Old Tongue from Old Nan! Benjen is a bit better at it than me, but we can both teach you!"
"Lady Lyanna—" John tried to protest, but she was already wheeling away to one of the shelves. She returned a moment later with a thick volume, its cracked leather cover and yellowed parchment showing its age. She beckoned him over to the desk as she opened it, her enthusiasm palpable.
Congratulations! You've unlocked the 'Old Tongue' skill. You are now Level 0!
Unlike the scrolls, John found he could read the letters, though the meaning still eluded him. He looked down at the page, tracing a finger over the lines.
"The First Men also used runes—you can find them sometimes in caves or on stones in the north," Lyanna explained, before pointing to a word in the text. "This means 'the' and it's pronounced as..."
—--
John took the next morning to work on the sword. Lord Rickard had asked for a one-and-a-half-handed longsword, with a wolf theme incorporated into the pommel. Beyond that, he gave no instructions, saying he trusted in John's skills.
At John's request, the forge had been completely emptied and given over to him. At first, the lord had raised his brows at the unusual demand, but when John clarified that he would only need it for a few hours, he acquiesced—though not without giving John another one of his long, considering stares.
John had decided to design the pommel as a snarling direwolf head, based on what little he had heard from Lyanna about her eldest brother. He crafted it from silver, blackening the material before polishing it again to give dimension to the carved details, and set two grey, sparkling sapphires as the eyes.
The tang he made from folded steel, deciding to give it a single wide fuller, within which he etched the Starks' house words, 'Winter Is Coming.' The guard, also of steel, he kept simple, except where it flowed into the fuller in the shape of a wolf's head as viewed from above. This one received two tiny garnets as eyes.
For both the grip and the scabbard's outer layer, he delved into his stock of deer leather, bleaching it pale to match the Stark house colors of grey and white.
When he presented the finished sword to Lord Rickard, the man seemed, for once, struck speechless, if only for a moment. The lord took the sword from him, touching the pommel and running his fingers over the fine details of the carved fur. Then he pulled it from the scabbard, his eyes catching on the second wolf and the etched phrase.
"You have done masterful work, truly," he began, but then something else caught his eye. He bent to look closer at the blade hurriedly, and a long silence fell over the room as Lord Rickard seemed captivated by whatever he had seen. Finally, he straightened up and met John's gaze with slightly wide eyes.
"Did you just forge Valyrian steel?" he demanded.
John blinked. He had seen mention of Valyrian steel in some of the books; it seemed to be some sort of steel forged with magic to be extremely durable, though he wasn't sure of its other characteristics. "No?" he said uncertainly. "I just folded the metal to make it stronger, as I assumed this is not meant to be a decorative sword."
"I see," Lord Stark murmured, his stare again uncomfortably heavy. "What else can you make? Glass?"
"Sure, if I have sand," John answered, not sure where the lord was going with this.
At this, an abrupt shift came over the man, as though his iron-held composure suddenly cracked. He sat down heavily against his desk, looking much older than his years.
"I find myself in an unexpected position, Jon," he started quietly, his intense, focused stare holding John in place. "To be frank, I am not sure what to make of you. You are a man of many skills, each one more unexplainable than the last. No, don't stop me—the pottery I could reason away, but no man makes a sword such as this in just a few hours."
His gaze flicked toward the parchments on his desk before returning to John. He seemed to reach a decision.
"Not long ago, I received a raven from the Lord Commander of the Watch. In it, he told a curious tale. Two of his rangers were attacked by wildlings beyond the Wall. One was saved by a man with golden hair and green eyes, wearing a very specific cloak," his eyes flickered to John's shadowcat cloak. "This man miraculously healed his wounds and even returned him to the Wall. The ranger also claimed this stranger could do magic."
John's throat was dry. "Sounds like a fantastical tale."
Lord Stark smiled faintly. "Come now, Jon. Neither of us are stupid men. It does not become you to pretend to be one."
John wasn't sure how to answer, and so he didn't. At his prolonged silence, Lord Stark stapled his fingers, his expression becoming serious once again.
"I won't ask for an explanation, or even your story. As Warden of the North, I should. But I am also, for all my faults, a selfish man."
His gaze went unfocused for a moment before settling on John again. "You have seen my wife. One does not need to be a man of your reputed healing skills to see that she is dying."
Mutely, John nodded.
"Maester Walys is a learned man, but healing is not one of his particular talents. We've consulted a few other maesters, but all seem of the opinion that there is nothing to do for Lyarra except ease her suffering." Lord Stark's gaze was all fire now, none of the cool composure he had displayed in all their previous interactions. "I ask you not as a lord, but as a husband facing the loss of his wife and the mother of his children. Can you help her?"
"I... I'm not certain," John started, licking dry lips. "I have some healing skills, but only some; I would not know if I could help until I try, and it would be dishonest of me to promise otherwise."
"I appreciate your honesty and your willingness," Lord Rickard said, looking as though a great weight had fallen off his shoulders. "If you succeed in this, I promise you—you will have gained a true friend in House Stark for life."
*****
Author's notes
And there you have it. I initially intended to write all of John's time in Winterfell as one chapter, but obviously this was getting long, and so this seemed a good place to pause, and we'll continue the Winterfell mini-arc in the next chapter. Obviously, this is where we're starting to see small ripples in the OG plot, though they'll remain small for a while yet.
A few notes:
#1
I think Rickard was a very shrewd man who unfortunately made a miscalculation with Aerys. I don't know why, but I'm kind of imagining him a bit like Roose Bolton, only with empathy and obviously without all the raping and flaying.
#2
Lyanna and Benjen. We know Brandon and Ned were only one year apart in age (born in 262 and 263). Lyanna was born in 267 (or very late 266, since she was 16 when she died in 283), and Benjen's date of birth is given as 267 or after. So conceivably, they could've been only a year apart in age, practically twins.
I also think people tend to forget that for most of their childhood, they were just the two of them—Ned was sent to the Eyrie at age eight, and Brandon was also fostered away with the Dustins, though presumably they saw him more since he was nearer. I think it would make sense that Lyanna and Benjen were very close (which would explain why he basically ran away to the night watch the minute he could, rather than stay in Winterfell with the ghosts of all his family), and also that, given that we know she had a strong personality and Benjen was more like Ned in temperament and also that she was older, that she would be the dominating one between the two of them.
#3
According to the sources, it seems reasonable to assume that Brandon was a pretty good sword fighter. I decided to have Rickard order a bastard sword for him because bastard swords are the midway between a longsword and a greatsword (from the wiki: The bastard sword is mostly distinguished from a longsword because it has a grip long enough to allow two-handed use. Bastard swords have slightly longer blades as well, but they remain light enough to be wielded one-handed should the need arise, unlike the greatsword that requires two hands.)
I think Brandon was probably tall and strong enough to handle the size, and skilled enough (and also wild enough) to be able to make use of switching between one-handed and two-handed grips.
"My lord, I must protest!"
Rickard leveled a flat stare at his maester; the man stood before him all puffed up with self-importance, deliberately ignoring the other occupant of the room. "Must you?"
Walys either did not notice or chose not to heed his tone. "Taking care of Lady Stark is my domain and my responsibility! To let some uneducated, ill-skilled merchant take my place; why, I—"
"You forget yourself, Maester," Rickard cut him off. He had no patience for the man's prideful histrionics. "Did you not admit that you could do nothing more for my wife? Did your fellow maesters not say the same?"
"Well, yes," the man spluttered, "but that man will make her worse! Do you really want to hasten your lady wife's death so? It is—"
"Enough!" Rickard thundered, slamming his palm on the desk and making the man jump. "You are crossing a line, Maester Walys. When I give you an order, I expect it to be followed, not questioned. Now, have you brought your notes as instructed, or must I send a servant to fetch them?"
Between petulant mutterings, the maester admitted that he had brought his notes and attempted to hand them to Rickard.
Rickard took a calming breath. "Give them to Jon, Maester Walys."
More grumbling followed as the maester handed the parchments to Jon, acting as though even touching the man would somehow pollute him. Jon raised an eyebrow at the behavior but remained silent, choosing instead to begin reading through the parchment stack.
"So, the symptoms began three years ago?"
When no answer came from the huffy maester, Rickard answered instead. "Yes. At first, it was small things—Lyarra just seemed to tire more easily. We thought it the natural slowing of age. Then came the dizzy spells and the loss of color. Her appetite diminished, and now she can barely walk more than a few paces."
Jon made a thoughtful noise. "Maester? Anything you'd like to add?"
The maester sneered but reluctantly spoke under Rickard's expectant gaze. "Lord Rickard described the symptoms well enough. I would add, perhaps, that Lady Stark has become more prone to chills and fevers, and she bruises quite easily of late."
"What was your diagnosis?"
Walys scowled, frustration evident. "I have none. It seems as though her life is draining away, but neither I nor the maesters I consulted could find a cause."
Jon looked thoughtful. "And how have you been treating her?"
"Initially with bleeding, leeches, and purging tonics, to remove what was harming her, as well as strengthening potions. As she grew weaker, I deemed it unwise to continue. Now, I mostly administer milk of the poppy to help her sleep at night."
"I see," Jon said. "I'll need access to your stores, and—"
"Absolutely not!"
"You'll have everything you need to treat my lady wife," Rickard spoke over the maester, sending him a warning look.
Jon continued as if there had been no interruption. "I'd also like to examine Lady Stark before devising a treatment."
"I demand to be in the room and to vet all his treatments," Walys said immediately.
"No," Jon replied simply, standing up and heading for the door.
"Lord Stark!" Walys began, puffing up with outrage again, but Rickard had no more patience for his pride. "Denied, Maester Walys. Make your stores ready for what Jon will need."
He could hear the maester sputtering behind him as they made their way to Lyarra's chambers.
Lyarra was in her chair by the fire, wrapped in furs. Lyanna sat nearby, working on a piece of embroidery and chattering softly, while a servant girl waited on hand. A pot of mint tea and oatcakes sat on the table next to them, though only Lyanna's portion seemed touched.
"Lyarra," Rickard said gently. "Would you allow Jon to examine you?"
Lyanna looked up curiously, while Lyarra opened her eyes, giving Rickard a long, searching look before nodding.
"Thank you," Jon said quietly. "May I have your hand for a moment?" He took her hand and seemed to check her fingers and wrist for something, then hesitated. "May I see your mouth?"
It was an odd request, but after a moment, Lyarra obliged.
When Jon straightened up, he gave Rickard a meaningful look, then gestured toward Lyanna and the servant.
"Lyanna, please step outside. Wylla, you as well."
"But—" Lyanna started to protest, eyes flicking between her mother and Jon.
"Now, Lyanna."
Once the room was empty, Rickard turned a questioning look on Jon. "Well?"
"Something is wrong with her blood," Jon said, a hint of regret in his voice. "I'm sorry—I can't be more specific. My skills aren't high enough. I believe I can improve her condition and extend her life, but I can't cure her."
Part of Rickard despaired at hearing that, hope once again slipping away. Yet even a small improvement would be a blessing, a few more years a gift.
"What do you need to treat her?"
"I'll mix a few things for her to take daily, and she'll need specific foods to strengthen her. It should be manageable even after I leave. And don't let your maester bleed her again—it will only make things worse."
The man had mentioned several times he was on the way to White Harbor, but still… "Can I not convince you to stay?"
Jon shook his head, expression regretful but firm. "I'm sorry, but no. While I'm here, though… I can do some more to help. You must give me your word not to speak of what you're about to see."
Rickard raised his brows, caught off guard by the strange request. Yet Jon's resolve was clear, so he nodded.
Jon took a breath, determination hardening his features, and extended his hand toward Lyarra. A soft light glowed from his palm, and Rickard watched in stunned silence as slowly, color seemed to return to his wife's cheeks.
"Oh," Lyarra murmured, her eyes fluttering open. "That felt… nice."
Rickard found his voice, just barely. "Did you just—"
"If you can get me parchment and ink, I'll write down the treatment regimen," Jon cut him off. "If you don't trust Maester Walys with it, the cooks should manage. It's not complicated."
"I—yes. Thank you."
Perhaps now was not the time to push the man for answers he clearly did not want to give. He'd be in Winterfell for a few days yet, after all.
—---
John worked in the kitchens, surrounded by the rich smells of roasted meat and fresh bread. Lyanna hovered close to his elbow, her wide eyes fixed on his hands as he mashed dandelion root and rowan berries together with a mortar and pestle. Once the mixture was fine enough, he scraped it into a little teapot with some nettle leaves and poured boiling water over the top.
"I didn't know you were also a maester," Lyanna remarked, her voice pitched low but curious.
"I'm not," John answered simply, reaching for a slice of dried ginger from the jar he'd taken from the maester's stores. It was imported, expensive, and he was careful to use only a thin shaving before dropping it into the pot. Turning to the gathered cooks, who were standing around with an odd mixture of skepticism and interest, he spoke clearly, knowing they needed to remember the steps. "Let it steep for ten minutes, then strain it. Serve it immediately, with a teaspoon of honey mixed in."
The cooks nodded, murmuring amongst themselves as they noted the instructions. Lyanna, meanwhile, hurried to keep up with him as he moved to the pantry, still firmly attached to his side.
"But you are a healer!" she insisted. "You're helping mother—father said so."
John didn't look at her as he began sorting ingredients, laying out what he needed for the next part. "I have some small skill, but I can't cure her," he said quietly. "I'm just treating the symptoms."
"It's more than Maester Walys can do," Lyanna muttered under her breath, her mouth twisted in annoyance. She watched as he selected carrots and wild greens and laid them on the cutting board, a few deer bones from a recent hunt waiting on the side. The cooks bustled around them, still preparing the midday meal, but the head cook stood next to him, following his work.
In a sudden burst of energy, Lyanna moved to stand right in front of him, hands on her hips and her chin tilted up. "Teach me," she demanded.
John blinked, momentarily thrown. "What?"
"You heard me," she said, voice firm and unyielding. "If you teach me, I can help take care of mother when you're gone. And it's a good skill to have, isn't it? One can never know too many things—that's what Maester Walys always tells Benjen."
John hesitated, glancing at the cooks again. They looked amused, not at all put out by Lyanna's forceful attitude. He considered her words—she wasn't wrong. Knowing how to make simple tonics and nourishing meals for the sick was a useful skill, especially here, where winters could be long and harsh. Besides, Lyanna had that same fierce determination he'd seen in her father's eyes.
"Alright," he said finally, and Lyanna lit up with a triumphant smile. "But you'll have to listen closely and do exactly as I say."
"Of course!" she agreed eagerly, edging closer to see what he was doing.
John pointed to the pot he had set to simmer on the fire. "We're making bone broth. It's good for building strength and keeping up energy. First, you need bones with plenty of marrow. Next, add a splash of vinegar to help draw out the minerals while it cooks. After that, you'll add vegetables—parsnips, carrots, onions—whatever you have on hand that's hearty. Cover it with water and let it simmer for several hours. The longer, the better. At the end, add greens."
Lyanna nodded, clearly taking mental notes. John found himself oddly warmed by her enthusiasm. It was easy to see why Lord Stark could never bring himself to be wroth with her for more than a few moments.
Leaving the broth to simmer, he moved on to the next part of Lady Stark's meal, Lyanna and the head cook following.
—--
The castle was all abuzz with gossip. Donnis, who was assigned to Maester Walys, had told Beth (who told Sarra in turn), that the maester had returned to his quarters a little after noon, positively trembling with rage and spewing insults at the Starks' current guest—a man who had accompanied the Lady Lyanna back from her ride some two days ago.
Rumor had it the man was some kind of merchant, but Sarra did not believe it. She'd caught a look at him yesterday, and the man was far too handsome and well-dressed to be a mere merchant. Furthermore, he had apparently slain a great bear in defense of Lady Lyanna in the woods; that certainly did not sound like the act of a merchant, more like a gallant knight.
According to Beth, Donnel said the maester accused the man of conspiring to oust him from his position with lies and tricks, and of pulling the wool over Lord Stark's eyes—a ridiculous claim, as though anyone could hope to trick one of the sharpest lords in the North into anything.
Beth revealed another piece of the story a few hours later, as the two of them were working together to stir the big, boiling vats of laundry, the humidity making Sarra's hair stick to her neck unpleasantly. Apparently, the man was some sort of healer, and Lord Stark had him brought to Winterfell to try and cure the Lady Lyarra. He'd been spotted in the kitchens, of all places, instructing the cooks in all manner of potions and brews.
While that seemed to add credence to the maester's complaints, Sarra couldn't help but scoff in contempt. The maester thought too much of himself, like all Southerners. He couldn't heal Lady Stark; of course, being as devoted a husband as he was, Lord Stark would search for a cure elsewhere. It was no surprise to anyone who knew how much he loved his lady wife.
Though it was somewhat absurd to think the lordly stranger was truly a healer, Sarra couldn't help but hope. Lady Lyarra was truly the best of women, kind and patient even when her illness drained her strength and spirit. It had saddened them all to watch her fade these past few years while her family stood helpless, unable to ease her pain.
Yet still, despite the rumors and the gossip, none of them had expected the lady, who had been wheelchair-bound for the past six months, to walk to the high table that night on her own two feet.
—--
Last night had robbed John of whatever anonymity he had previously enjoyed in Winterfell. The girl who had brought him his breakfast—noticeably fuller and richer than the two previous days—had been shiny-eyed and eager to please. The servants he met on his way to Lady Stark's rooms for her morning checkup and treatment behaved likewise, greeting him joyfully with much respect and even thanks. Though they did not delay him, their expressions made it clear that word of Lady Lyarra's 'miraculous' recovery had spread.
After casting the healing spell on Lady Lyarra once more and confirming that both her breakfast and tonic followed his specifications, John made his escape to the library tower. The early hour meant it was empty—no excitable children and no seething maester—leaving him to settle among the books in blissful quiet.
Benjen and Lyanna's help the previous day had made acquiring the Old Tongue far easier compared to High Valyrian, which had continued to prove both challenging and frustrating. At last, he had collected enough XP to push his skill level from 0 to 1, and a few words suddenly made sense—'fire' and 'blood' standing out among them.
He was celebrating his modest success when a servant entered the room, bowing respectfully. "Milord, Lord Stark asks to see you in his solar, if you are not otherwise occupied."
John glanced down at the scrolls regretfully before rolling them up. Perhaps he should make copies to study on the road—writing the text would net him more experience points while also ensuring he retained access to the knowledge when he left. "Thank you for letting me know. You don't need to stay; I know the way."
The servant bowed again and left, and John briefly opened his map for navigational help before making his way through the corridors. He was announced for barely a second before being ushered into the solar. The lord rose from behind his desk, and John almost didn't recognize him—Rickard looked younger, lighter, practically jubilant behind his usual somber facade.
"Ah, John," Rickard greeted him, stepping forward. "I appreciate you coming so quickly."
John inclined his head. "Of course."
Then Rickard hesitated, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, his hands clasping and unclasping as he searched for the right words. "I... I don't know how to thank you, truly," he started. "Lyarra—it's been years since we've seen her so well."
"I'm happy I was able to help, even a little," John replied cautiously. He didn't want to dampen the man's joy, but he also didn't want to give him false hope. "But... I can't guarantee how long it will last."
"More than a little," Rickard countered. "You've done what the learned maesters of the Citadel haven't managed. And yet, you speak as if your knowledge of healing is limited and sparse, when it seems… exceptional."
"It's not one of my high skills," John explained. "I've only recently acquired it, and I've had few opportunities to practice."
Rickard's brow furrowed. "Practice?" It seemed something about the word caught his attention. "Is practice all you need to improve?"
"Yes," John replied, confused. "Access to knowledge would of course help—books, teachings from a skilled healer—but practice alone will raise my level as well, though slower."
Something seemed to click in Rickard's mind. "I see. You would find plenty of practice opportunities wherever you will go, I'm sure. Knowledge, though…" his grey eyes, previously thoughtful, focused again. "Have you heard of the Citadel?"
"In Oldtown?" John asked. "Yes. It's where I'm headed from White Harbor."
The admission seemed to catch Rickard off guard, though he rallied himself. "You are already on your way to the Citadel? For your healing skills?"
"No," John said. "I need to consult with an expert on another matter."
Rickard gave him a shrewd look. "Magic, then?"
At John's expression, the lord raised a brow. "It's a logical conclusion, given what I've seen you do. I did not broach the subject earlier, as you seemed reluctant, but neither am I blind."
"It's a long story," John said, cutting off that avenue of discussion. Lord Rickard seemed a good sort, and more capable of accepting him at face value than Yrga and her people had been, but a few hours of conversation did not create that level of trust.
"I would caution you to temper your expectations, Jon," Rickard warned him. "The official stance of the Citadel is that magic is dead."
John latched onto the wording. "Official? That means not all maesters agree."
"There are always outliers," Rickard allowed. "Finding them and convincing them to speak to you may prove difficult, however. Unless you're an acolyte or come from a powerful house, you'll not be allowed into their library, and you may struggle to secure a meeting at all."
John frowned. He had assumed he could simply walk into the library—or at most, pay a fee for access.
Rickard seemed to come to a decision. "I will write you a letter," he said, tone resolute. "It will bear my authority as Warden of the North, requesting that they grant you access to their library as the healer treating my wife. That should at least get your foot in the door."
John hesitated. "Why?"
"For what you've done for my wife," was the quick response. "And… because I would hope that, once you have resolved your business, you might consider returning to Winterfell to continue treating her. Even if just for a time."
"I can't promise anything. It depends on whether my quest will find a resolution," John warned.
Rickard's expression was understanding. "An expectation rather than a promise, then. I will not hold my assistance hostage, as you haven't."
To that, John could agree.
—---