Chapter 70 - Winterfell Again.

 

[Chapter Size: 3300 Words.]

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Third Person POV

North, 105 AC.

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The gates of Winterfell were crossed some time later. Everyone was waiting for the group in the courtyard, and Alys was the first to appear, quickly going to her son as soon as he dismounted from his horse, checking to make sure he was all right.

"Are you all right, Rickon?" she asked, worried.

Meanwhile, Jon was preparing his horse to take it to the stable when he heard footsteps approaching quickly.

"Jon! Jon!"

He turned and saw Lyra coming toward him. The girl with curly black hair and gray eyes walked quickly across the courtyard, lightly holding up the skirt of her dress so she would not trip, with a huge smile on her face.

"Lyra, shouldn't you greet your brother first?" Jon asked with a small smile.

She looked at Rickon, who at that moment was practically trapped in his mother's arms.

"My mother is already doing that for all of us," she replied, before immediately turning her eyes back to Jon. "Are you all right? Was it really a battle? How many wildlings were there? Did you kill any?"

Jon raised an eyebrow at the string of questions.

"I'm fine. And yes, I had to kill two, although it's not exactly something to celebrate." His expression grew a little more serious. "I also lost one of my birds to one of them."

The enthusiasm immediately vanished from Lyra's face. "One of your birds?" she asked, concerned. "It wasn't one of those that stay in your room, was it?"

"No. It was a raven I found in the forest during the tracking."

Lyra seemed a little relieved, though she still made a small grimace. "Even so... I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

She remained quiet for only a few seconds before her smile returned. "Oh! We received a letter from Father. He's coming back to Winterfell!" she said happily. "And before you say you're tired... can we practice archery later? You promised you'd teach me."

"Not today, my lady," Jon replied, teasing her. "I still have a few things to do, and then I intend to rest. Maybe tomorrow."

Lyra narrowed her eyes at him. "Maybe?"

"Tomorrow," Jon corrected with a sigh.

"Better." She gave him a satisfied smile. "A promise made before a Stark cannot be broken."

"I'm almost certain you just made that up."

"It doesn't matter. Now you've promised."

Before Jon could reply, Lyra turned and ran toward Rickon or Rickard to ask more questions.

Jon took the horse to the stable. At the same time, he began to hear people crying behind him. The bodies of the men who had fallen during the battle were being carried away, and their families were beginning to recognize them.

It was not always possible to save everyone. Eight Stark men had died. Although they had been the only casualties among them, they were still deaths no one wanted to suffer. There were wives who had lost husbands, children who had lost fathers, and families that would never be the same again.

Jon called his wolves and walked away. He did not want to intrude on those family moments, nor did he wish to remain before that scene. He would give each family the right to experience their own grief. Later, when it was appropriate, he could offer his condolences. After all, he knew those men; years in Winterfell had given him extensive knowledge of the people who guarded the walls and those who carried out their duties within the castle...

For now, that moment belonged only to them.

Jon made sure to check all the wolves after that. He checked whether any of them were injured before tending to his sword as well, examining it for any possible damage caused during the battle. Fortunately, there was nothing significant.

Soon, he entered the castle. Rickon appeared again accompanied by Lyra.

"My mother wanted to check on you, but you disappeared. So we went looking for you at the kennels," Rickon said.

"Anyway, your uncle is writing the report. Maybe we should help him?" Jon suggested.

"I think he's more than capable of doing that on his own. After all, he has eyes," Rickon replied.

Jon simply kept walking. He had a few things to do, but the Stark siblings were following him. "I know you're in a bad mood, but you got revenge on that man for your bird," Rickon added.

"I know. But I want to be alone for a while."

Lyra looked at him with some pity, while Rickon also seemed concerned, but he could understand.

"All right. Go rest. You don't have any more duties for the rest of the day," Rickon said.

Jon nodded and left the two Stark siblings behind, continuing down the corridor until he reached his own room in the same wing as the family.

He took off his coat, the same one made from the hide of the bear he had killed years ago... He needed a bath and would go to the hot springs some time later, but he decided to spend his first bit of time trying to relax. He picked up one of the many books he had taken from the library and began to read. A short while later, his birds began arriving one after another through the window. Jon set the book aside for a few moments to feed them.

Some of them remained in the room, as was already customary. Jon had gathered a small group of birds that practically lived there, though he kept their spaces separate to prevent disputes between them.

After feeding them, he returned to the book.

Jon stayed in his room for some time until he finished what he had to do. Then, he left to carry out some of his duties at the forge. As he crossed the courtyard, he found Rickon recounting the battle to other boys who lived in Winterfell, even hearing his own name mentioned a few times during the story.

It was not as if they were the only young people who lived there. There were always other children in Winterfell, the children of servants and of people who held important positions in the castle. The master-at-arms had a son two years older than them, just as the castellan had a daughter and a boy younger than Lyra, and it was not uncommon for them to talk or spend some time together.

Despite that, their lives were quite different. Jon, Rickon, and the other children of the Starks and more important people received a privileged education and had their own responsibilities, while the servants' children spent much of the day carrying out their chores or helping their parents.

In any case, the boys always enjoyed hearing stories, and Rickon loved showing off his adventures whenever he had the opportunity. Which was good, as this could be the new generation of men serving the Starks, and it was good for him to have contact with them while he was still young.

And one of the stories he most enjoyed telling was about the time he and Jon had gotten drunk at ten namedays old, hiding during the Tourney at Harrenhal and ending up wandering into another camp without anyone knowing.

By the time they realized what they were doing, they had already caused trouble during the night and ended up inside the tent of a southern lord, who found them and, instead of punishing them, thought the whole situation was hilarious and took them both in.

That had happened four years ago, during the events at Harrenhal, and much time had passed since then. Even so, it remained a funny story that Rickon enjoyed telling. Turning any feast into entertainment.

In a way, that day had brought the two of them even closer. Rickon had become something closer to a brother to Jon than Sam had managed to be up to that point, just as Jon was closer to him than Bennard was to Rickon.

Jon felt a little guilty about that. He had ended up growing apart from Sam since he was eight, just as he spent more time away from his own parents than he would have liked. Obviously, he visited his family whenever he could and, now, had much more freedom to leave Winterfell and go see them. He still had his duties at the castle, but he never failed to make the one- or two-day journey to the farm whenever an opportunity arose, to stay there for a week.

Jon continued across the courtyard and made his way to the forge, where the repetitive sound of a hammer striking an anvil echoed throughout the place. The blacksmith quickly noticed his presence.

"Jon? You're already here?"

"I have a few hours free. I wanted to make a tool," Jon replied.

"You killed wildlings today, from what I've heard," said the blacksmith, Sellin, staring at him with a raised eyebrow. "I've never killed a man in my life, and you're walking around as if nothing happened."

"Well, it's not like the world is going to end because of it, right? Rickon is out there boasting about the battle at this very moment," Jon replied.

Sellin laughed. "Well, that young man likes attention." Then he looked back at Jon. "But even so, I'm not going to let you use my forge today."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Wait. You don't have the authority to do that."

"I do as long as you want to use my tools, my anvil, and my coal."

Jon grimaced. "That's an abuse of authority."

"You can complain to Lord Stark when he returns," the blacksmith replied, not seeming the least bit concerned. "You faced wildlings today, risked your own life, and watched men die beside you. Leave your inventions for tomorrow. At least for one night, since the day is already coming to an end..."

Jon stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to be joking. He wasn't. The blacksmith truly had no intention of letting him work that day.

"You're a pain sometimes," Jon muttered, while the man merely shrugged, already accustomed to the boy's complaints, despite understanding only some of his words.

"Vīlībāzmio āeksio" [Damn blacksmith], Jon grumbled in Valyrian.

"There's no point in changing languages. I know perfectly well you're saying something unpleasant," the man said unconcernedly.

Jon shook his head and sighed before putting away the tools he had already begun to pick up.

"Tomorrow, I don't want you bothering me, understood?" With that final warning, Jon left the forge while thinking about what to do. He could return to his room after taking a bath, but perhaps it would be better to walk through the godswood for a while.

Before that, he stopped by the kennels again, where he found Bery finishing feeding some of the dogs. Jon had brought two Caucasian Shepherds to Winterfell while they were still puppies, while leaving the other two on the farm with the adults. Now those two were young adults, and the animals had become quite useful for hunting over those four years. Bery in particular wanted Jon to bring one of the females that remained on the farm for breeding; he loved dogs, and these were special because of their enormous size.

"Hello, Jon. I heard you did a good job with those wildlings," the man said as soon as he saw him.

Jon nodded. He knew he would keep hearing that for quite some time, probably until the next day, when more people would come to congratulate him. He had killed two men during the battle, something quite surprising for someone his age. Even Rickon, the son of the Lord of Winterfell, had taken a life for the first time that day. Some people in Winterfell would certainly treat it almost like an occasion worthy of celebration.

"I'm taking Safira for a walk," Jon said.

His gaze went to the enormous white tiger lying peacefully in her enclosed space. Safira had already grown accustomed to the kennels and rarely showed any restlessness, especially when she knew Jon would appear at some point during the day to let her walk around for a while.

"All right. Just be careful where you take her. Some children arrived yesterday with the new servants Lady Stark hired," Bery warned.

Jon nodded and opened the door. Safira immediately stood and came out, walking beside him without showing any sign of hostility; on the contrary, the fierce tiger was docile beneath his touch. Jon also saw several of the direwolves lying around the area, resting after the battle. He left them there and continued on with only the tigress.

He did that every day. He did not like the idea of keeping Safira confined for too long and, because of that, always found some time to let her walk freely beside him.

As he crossed the courtyard, Jon could not help but look up toward the upper galleries of Winterfell, from where much of the castle could be seen. He found Lyarra Stark there, beside her second son. The woman fixed her eyes on him and gave a small smile when she realized she had been noticed as well.

Jon raised one hand in greeting; he would certainly have to speak with her later.

For now, he continued toward the godswood. The place was, as always, quite peaceful. Exactly what he needed at that moment. Safira walked freely among the trees while Jon made his way toward the heart tree.

He stopped before the white tree and gently placed his palm against its trunk.

"So much has changed..." he murmured.

His thoughts returned to the last four years. When he stopped to reflect on everything that had happened since his return to Winterfell, he realized just how much his life had changed in such a short time.

But something interrupted his thoughts. Jon heard the entrance to the godswood open and, shortly afterward, footsteps began approaching from behind.

He knew those footsteps very well. After all, he had already been approached by that same person once that day. Jon did not turn around as Lyra approached.

"I thought you'd be alone in your room," she said.

"And I thought I'd have a little peace here," Jon replied, still looking at the heart tree.

"Then you chose the worst place in Winterfell to hide from me."

Jon finally turned his face toward her, suppressing a small smile. "You can't blame me for wanting to come here, can you?"

"Of course not." Lyra gave him a smile far too innocent to be genuine. "And I can't be blamed for coming to the exact same place and finding you purely by chance either."

"By chance?"

"That's what I said."

Lyra was not alone. Tornado, her gray-furred direwolf, walked beside her. He already stood nearly ninety centimeters tall and, despite not yet having reached Ghost's size, he was certainly an impressive creature.

"I was in my room, but I decided to take care of some of my duties. I got thrown out of the forge and ended up coming here," Jon replied.

"Thrown out of the forge?" Lyra asked, holding back a laugh. "What did you do this time?"

"Nothing. That was the problem."

"Of course. You never do anything."

Jon gave her a look, but Lyra merely smiled before looking at the heart tree. "Were you praying?" she asked.

"And if I was?"

Lyra shrugged. "There wouldn't be anything wrong with that. Your gods are my gods too," she replied.

"Good to know I have your permission."

"That's not what I meant," she grumbled, making Jon smile.

Lyra remained silent for a few moments before moving even closer. Not caring about getting her dress dirty in the snow, she sat down before the heart tree, deliberately positioning herself in front of Jon.

"I wanted to ask you this earlier, but you were being all serious," she began. "Rickon said you spoke to one of the wildlings in the Old Tongue."

"..." Jon remained silent.

Lyra narrowed her eyes. "So it's true? You know how to speak the Old Tongue?"

Jon shrugged. "Maybe."

"That's not an answer." Lyra narrowed her eyes. "I asked the master-at-arms and the guards too. Not to mention Uncle confirmed it. You're hiding something."

"And how did you come to that conclusion, Lyra?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I know you."

Jon was silent for a moment. "But you're right," he admitted. "That's my great secret. I'm planning to conquer the world."

Lyra huffed. "Jon the Conqueror," she declared solemnly. "You'd need a dragon for that. I've heard dragons solve a lot of problems during a conquest."

"Oh, that." Jon nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Don't worry. Mine is waiting for me on Dragonstone."

Lyra smiled. "And which of the dragons on Dragonstone decided to serve the great Jon the Conqueror?"

"What, you still don't know?" Jon asked as if it were obvious. "What was the third dragon that appeared at Harrenhal back then?"

She thought for a few seconds. "Cannibal..." Her eyes immediately returned to him. "Are you saying Cannibal is your dragon?"

"Exactly. He's just waiting for me." Jon kept his tone so casual that Lyra began to laugh.

"Oh, of course. And I'm the queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon merely smiled. Little did she know how much truth there was in that joke.

"All right, all right." Lyra quickly regained her curiosity. "Now tell me what you talked about with that wildling."

"Why should I?"

"Because I deserve to know. After all, you didn't even train me today."

"It's not exactly something a little girl should know."

"I'm not a little girl," she immediately grumbled. "I'm a wolf."

"Of course..." Jon had to suppress a laugh.

"And soon I'll be riding with all of you too," she added confidently.

Jon knew that was probably true. Although Lyra adored dresses and enjoyed many of the things considered more feminine, she also possessed that wild side characteristic of the Starks. At eleven namedays, she was already quite a competent archer at a distance of 20 meters, and she showed no intention whatsoever of being left behind while her older brother lived his own adventures with Jon.

"If you want to know so badly, the wildling cursed us. He said death would come from the north to kill us all."

Lyra's smile faded slightly. "And what did you answer?"

"That I would kill death myself."

It was easier to tell the truth that way than to invent a lie he would have to maintain later.

Lyra stared at him for a few seconds before clapping her hands once, satisfied. "Very well. Then forget Jon the Conqueror." She raised one hand as though wielding an imaginary sword. "Now you're Jon the Brave, Slayer of Death! Would you fight the Stranger?"

"I don't think it's that simple," Jon shook his head, unable to hide his smile. "But how about a story before you invent any more titles for me?"

Lyra immediately brightened. "Of course! Tell me one about conquest."

"You really like those, don't you?"

"Less questions and more story," she demanded, laughing.

Jon smiled as well before settling more comfortably before the heart tree. Beneath the white branches and red leaves of the heart tree, with Safira and Tornado close to the two of them, he began telling one of the many stories he still carried from the memories of his other life.

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