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The glass gardens of Winterfell held summer captive behind walls of thick glass and iron frames. Jon breathed in the warm, humid air that tasted of earth and growing things, so different from the crisp winter morning outside. Steam collected on the glass panes, creating a veil between this pocket of warmth and the snow-dusted courtyards beyond.
He found Alys Karstark kneeling beside the winter roses, her fingers hovering just above their pale blue petals. The morning light filtering through the condensation cast everything in soft focus, making her gray eyes appear almost silver when she looked up at his approach.
"They're beautiful," she said, not startled by his presence. "But sad somehow. Like they're mourning something."
Jon crouched beside her. "My father says they're the hardest flowers to grow. They need the cold to bloom properly, but too much cold kills them."
"The North is a hard place to live, and love, but it has it's beauty," Alys murmured, rising gracefully. "Like many things here." Her gaze lingered on his face for a moment. "We leave in three days."
Jon knew that, his father had told him, and had made sure to tell him many, many times to not break anyone's honor.
"Would you walk with me?" he asked, raising his hand towards her in a gentle invite.
She smiled, her hand softly grasping his. "I was hoping you'd ask."
They left the glass gardens through the lesser-used door, emerging into a narrow passage that Jon knew would keep them away from the main thoroughfares. The cold hit them immediately, sharp and clean after the gardens' humidity. Alys pulled her fur-lined cloak tighter, and Jon wanted to pull his arm around her, but did not.
She's leaving in three days, he reminded himself. Don't make this harder than it needs to be.
They walked in comfortable silence through Winterfell's quieter paths, past the old armory and the kennels where the dogs barely stirred at their passing. Jon led them toward the broken tower, knowing it would be deserted at this hour.
"Do you ever dream of it?" Alys asked suddenly as they climbed the worn stone steps. "The South, I mean. Seeing what lies beyond the North?"
Jon's hand found the rough stone wall, steadying himself against more than just the climb. "Sometimes," he admitted. "My mother was from the South. Dorne, I think, though Father won't confirm it." The words came easier than expected, perhaps because Alys had a way of making confessions feel like conversations. "Part of me wants to see where she grew up. The castle where she learned to dance, the gardens where she walked."
"Starfall," Alys said quietly, and Jon's heart skipped.
"What?"
"Just a guess." She glanced at him sidelong. "Purple eyes aren't common in Westeros. The Daynes of Starfall are known for them, though they claim it comes from their First Men blood rather than Valyrian."
Jon felt exposed, as if she'd peeled back a layer of armor he didn't know he wore. They emerged onto the broken tower's highest intact floor, where the walls had crumbled enough to offer a view south over the winter landscape.
"I'll probably never see it," he said, leaning against the ancient stonework. "Bastards don't take grand tours of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Perhaps not," Alys agreed, moving to stand beside him. "But the world has a way of surprising us." She was quiet for a moment, then added, "My mother used to tell me stories when I was small. Not the usual tales of knights and maidens, but the old legends of the North."
"Like what?" Jon asked, grateful for the shift away from his parentage.
"Oh, the strange ones. Tales of Barren the Eyeless, who lost his eyes when he was young, and because of his desire to see once again, he learned how to see through animals." Her voice took on the cadence of a storyteller. "They say he could control an army of animals, some say that he ate with them, he was more beast than man, that he had antlers in his head, and that he laid with female animals."
Jon chuckled. "Cheerful bedtime stories."
"Mother had peculiar tastes," Alys admitted with a small laugh. "She also loved the legend of Edric Bowman, who could shoot an arrow from Winterfell and hit a target at Castle Black. They say he once killed a giant from three miles away."
"Now that's definitely exaggerated," Jon said, thought he loved hearing the excitment in her voice. "The longest shot I've ever seen was maybe three hundred yards, and that was with perfect conditions."
"You're probably right." Alys turned to face him fully, and Jon became acutely aware of how close they stood. "But I like believing that impossible things were once possible. That the world was more... magical."
The wind picked up, sending a strand of her dark hair across her face. Without thinking, Jon reached out to tuck it behind her ear, his fingers barely grazing her cheek. They both froze at the contact.
"Jon," she whispered, and his name on her lips sounded like a question and an answer all at once.
They stood there, suspended in a moment that he wanted to last a long time. Jon knew this was foolish of him, she would leave in three days, he was a bastard, they were too young, her father would have opinions—but those thoughts felt distant and unimportant compared to the way her gray eyes had darkened to the color of storm clouds.
Alys's hand found his, her fingers cold but her grip warm and certain. "In three days, I'll be gone," she said softly. "But right now, we're here."
Jon squeezed her hand gently, marveling at how such a simple touch could make his heart race. "Alys, I—"
"Don't," she interrupted, but her smile took any sting from the word. "Don't make promises or apologies. Just... be here with me."
They stood hand in hand, looking south over the snow-covered landscape, each lost in thoughts they couldn't quite voice. Jon wondered if this was what falling felt like—not the dramatic plunge of stories, but this slow, inevitable drift toward something that felt both wonderful and terrifying.
"We should go back," Alys said eventually, though she didn't release his hand immediately. "People will notice we're gone."
"Let them notice," Jon said right away.
She laughed, a bright sound that seemed to chase away the morning's chill. "Spoken like someone who didn't have Lady Janna lecture them for an hour about proper behavior."
They descended the tower slowly, as if by stretching the moments they could somehow extend their time. At the base of the stairs, where the path diverged, Alys paused.
"Thank you," she said simply. "For the walk. For..." She gestured vaguely between them. "For seeing me as more than just Lord Karstark's daughter."
"Thank you," Jon replied, "for seeing me as more than just Ned Stark's bastard."
She squeezed his hand once more before letting go, the absence of her touch feeling like a loss. "Until later?"
"Until later," he agreed, watching as she walked away, her figure soon swallowed by Winterfell's maze of walls and passages.
Jon remained there for a moment longer, his hand still warm from hers, wondering how three days could feel like both forever and no time at all.
The Next Day
The godswood lay hushed beneath the weight of approaching evening. Jon's boots crunched softly on the frozen ground as he made his way toward the heart tree, where Lord Rickard Karstark waited, a figure carved from the same stern northern stone as the castle itself.
The summons had come through a servant—brief, formal, requesting Jon's presence before the weirwood at the hour before sunset. No explanation, no hint of purpose. Just the command of a lord who expected to be obeyed.
Keep your composure, Jon reminded himself, though his pulse quickened with each step. The heart tree loomed ahead, its bone-white bark and blood-red leaves creating a sight both beautiful and unsettling in the dying light. Lord Karstark stood before it, hands clasped behind his back, studying the carved face with its weeping eyes.
"Lord Karstark," Jon said, offering a respectful bow.
The older man turned, his weathered face revealing nothing. His gray beard, streaked with white, made him look like winter personified. "Snow," he acknowledged, then gestured to the ground before the heart tree. "Stand here, boy. Where the old gods can hear us clearly."
Jon moved to the indicated spot, feeling eyes on him—both the carved ones and Lord Karstark's—upon him.
"Do you know what this place demands?" Rickard asked.
"Respect, my lord?"
"Truth." The word fell like an axe stroke. "Only truth is spoken before a heart tree. The old gods have no patience for lies or pretty words." He studied Jon, like he was trying to scare him with a single look, but Jon did not show fear, he held his own. "During the feast you told me you had ideas on how to make my home prosper. About helping Karhold prosper."
Jon's throat felt suddenly dry. "I offered some observations, my lord. Though I should say honestly—I've never been to Karhold. Any specific advice would require seeing your lands, understanding your exact situation."
"Honest," Rickard mused, a ghost of approval in his tone. "Good. But surely a boy clever enough to impress half my bannermen at a feast must have some thoughts, even working from maps and ledgers?"
Jon recognized it for what it was—a test, here where only truth could be spoken.
"Ships," Jon said, meeting the lord's gaze directly. "Karhold needs to expand its shipbuilding. You're positioned on the Shivering Sea with natural harbors that go unutilized."
Rickard's laugh was harsh as winter wind. "Ships? Have you forgotten your geography, boy? The Shivering Sea freezes three months of the year, sometimes four. What good are ships trapped in ice?"
Jon had expected this objection. He had studied maps, he knew the North, even the South, but not as much.
"The ice is a challenge, yes," he acknowledged. "But being further north than White Harbor gives you an advantage Lord Manderly can't match." He paused, gathering his courage for what would sound like either brilliance or madness. "White whales, my lord."
Rickard's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "White whales?"
"They summer in the far northern waters of the Shivering Sea. I've read accounts from Ibbenese whalers, even some Free Cities pirates who've hunted them." Jon's words came faster now, warming to his subject. "Their oil burns cleaner and longer than regular whale oil—the Pentoshi pay triple the standard rate. The meat, when properly preserved, is considered a delicacy in Braavos. Even the bones have value—ground for fertilizer or carved for luxury items."
"Those beasts are massive," Rickard objected, though Jon noticed his tone had shifted from dismissive to intrigued. "Too dangerous for untrained men."
"Which is why you'd hire experienced Ibbenese harpooners to train your men, at least initially." Jon had thought this through during long winter evenings, turning the problem over in his mind like a puzzle. "Take a loan from the Iron Bank—they're always eager to invest in ventures that expand trade. Build ten ships specifically designed for whaling. Reinforced hulls for ice, larger holds for oil storage."
"And how would we repay this loan? The Iron Bank doesn't forgive debts, boy."
"Within a year, if managed properly." Jon pulled the numbers from memory. "One white whale can yield thirty barrels of oil. At current Pentoshi prices, that's one thousand gold dragons per whale. Ten ships, even operating only seven months a year, catching conservatively one whale per ship per month... that's seven thousand dragons annually."
Rickard stood silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the gathering dusk. "And Lord Manderly? He won't appreciate competition from another Northern port."
"It's not competition, it's complementary," Jon insisted. "White Harbor can't reach those northern waters efficiently—it would take their ships two weeks just to sail there and back. The meat would spoil. They handle grain, timber, standard trade. You'd handle specialized goods they can't reach. Different markets, different goods."
The lord's weathered face cracked into something that might have been a smile. "You have the dark curls of your father, boy, but it seems those purple eyes aren't the only thing you inherited from your mother." He stepped closer, and Jon caught the scent of leather and iron that seemed to cling to all northern lords. "She must have been clever as well as beautiful."
Jon's heart clenched at the mention of his mother, but he kept his face neutral. "My lord?"
"I've spoken with your father," Rickard continued, his tone shifting to something more formal. "About fostering. A year at Karhold, learning our ways, helping implement these ideas of yours."
The words hit Jon like cold water. Fostering. A chance to prove himself beyond Winterfell's walls, to build something with his own hands and mind. His thoughts raced—he could establish himself, earn respect through merit rather than blood. He could show everyone that a bastard could be more than an awkward reminder of sin.
But then other faces flashed through his mind. Arya's fierce gray eyes. Robb's easy smile. Even little Bran's chubby hands reaching for him. A year without them felt like a lifetime.
She wanted you to reach high, his father's voice echoed in his memory. His mother—whoever she truly was—had wanted more for him than a bastard's typical fate.
"My lord," Jon began carefully, "why bring this to me rather than settling it with my father alone?"
Rickard's laugh was approving. "There's the North in you, suspicious of gifts freely given." He glanced at the heart tree, its red leaves rustling despite the absence of wind. "Because a fostering forced on an unwilling boy serves no one. Because I want to know if you have the stomach to leave comfort for opportunity. Because your father insisted you have a choice."
A choice. How often did bastards get those?
Jon thought of Alys. Of Lady Stark's cold eyes. Of the servants who now smiled at him but would forget him soon enough if he produced no deeds to remember. He thought of his purple eyes in the looking glass, marking him as different, as other. At Karhold, perhaps different could mean valuable instead of wrong.
"I want to foster at Karhold," Jon said, the words emerging firm and clear. "For the year."
Rickard clasped his shoulder, he felt his feet slip a little. "Good. We leave in two days. Bring warm clothes—Karhold makes Winterfell look like Dorne." He turned to go, then paused. "Your mother, boy. Whoever she was, she'd be proud. Not many twelve-year-olds would dare lecture a lord about whaling economics."
As Lord Karstark's footsteps faded into the darkness, Jon remained before the heart tree, its carved eyes weeping red sap that looked black in the failing light. He'd made his choice, spoken it true before the old gods.
A year at Karhold. A year to prove that Jon Snow was more than just Ned Stark's shame.
Daenerys Targaryen
The Morning Light carved through dark waters, its sails full of wind that tasted of salt. Daenerys moved through the ship like a ghost learning to haunt new halls, her bare feet silent on boards worn smooth by countless voyages. The Sworn Stars—as Arthur Dayne had named them—watched her passage with eyes that held too many secrets.
She found Ser Richard Lonmouth on the forecastle, his dark hair whipping in the evening wind as he adjusted the rigging. He had the look of a man who'd been handsome once, before something had carved deep lines around his eyes and mouth.
"Princess," he acknowledged, though his hands never paused in their work. "Couldn't sleep?"
"The ship moves differently than I expected," Dany admitted, gripping the rail as the deck tilted beneath her. "In Lys, the harbor was always so still."
"You'll grow accustomed to it." His voice carried warmth beneath its roughness. "Your brother Rhaegar loved the sea. Said it reminded him that the world was vast enough to hold all possibilities."
Dany had heard it before, of course—Viserys spoke of their eldest brother in tones that wavered between worship and resentment. But hearing it from someone who'd known him, who'd stood beside him, transformed the name from myth to memory.
"You knew him well?" She asked, eager to hear anything about the brother she never knew.
"Well enough to die for him," Richard said simply. "Would have, too, if Arthur hadn't pulled me from the Trident after—" He stopped, his eyes shown pain as if he were somewhere else for a moment. "But that's old history, Princess. Your brother's waiting in the main cabin. Something about lessons."
The main cabin sprawled larger than their entire room in Lys, its walls lined with charts and maps. Viserys sat at the captain's table, purple eyes bright that meant he'd been drinking wine and discussing glory. Septa Alyss stood beside him, her gray robes managing to look elegant despite their simplicity, pointing to locations on a map of Westeros with one slender finger.
"The Riverlands," she was saying, her voice carrying that musical Dornish lilt. "House Tully holds Riverrun here, at the junction of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone."
"I know where Riverrun is," Viserys snapped, though Dany suspected he hadn't until that moment. "The Tullys bent the knee quickly enough when the dragon came calling."
"All knees bend before dragons, Your Grace," Alyss replied smoothly. "Though some bend more willingly than others."
Dany slipped into the cabin, noting how Alyss's gaze found her immediately, her violet eyes were filled with warmth, a warmth that Dany could feel around her like a hug.
"Come," Alyss said, gesturing to the bench beside her. "We were discussing the great houses."
For the next hour, Alyss wove stories of Westeros with a detail that seemed impossible for a simple septa. She spoke of the Red Keep's throne room as if she'd walked its length, described the way morning light caught on Blackwater Bay as if she'd watched it a thousand times. When she mentioned the Princess of Dorne, her voice changed, the same voice Dany used whenever she herself spoke for Ser Darry. A voice with longing.
"House Martell never bent the knee through conquest," Alyss explained, tracing Dorne's borders with one finger. "They came into the realm through marriage, maintaining their royal styling even now."
"Weak," Viserys declared, wine making his words loose. "They should have been brought to heel with fire and blood."
"Perhaps," Alyss said mildly. "Though Dorne has never been conquered, Your Grace. Even dragons found the desert inhospitable."
The door opened, admitting Arthur Dayne with a gust of salt air.
"Your Grace," he said to Viserys, then softer, "Princess. We need to discuss our destination."
Viserys straightened, trying to project kingliness despite the wine flush on his pale cheeks. "Where are you taking us?"
"Pentos," Arthur replied without hesitation. "We should arrive within a fortnight, weather permitting."
"Pentos?" Viserys's voice rose. "Why not Braavos? The Braavosi hate the Usurper."
"Braavos is cold," Arthur explained patiently. "Nearly as cold as the North of Westeros. The climate would be... uncomfortable for those raised in warmer lands. More importantly, we have no allies waiting there. Pentos offers both comfort and connections."
"What connections?" Viserys demanded, and Dany recognized the particular thread of paranoia that wine always wove through his voice.
"Magister Illyrio Mopatis. He served your father as a young man, before his exile from Westeros led him to seek fortune in Pentos." Arthur's lie came smooth as silk, though Dany filed away the slight tension in his shoulders. "He's maintained loyalty to your house, Your Grace. He offers shelter and support while we gather strength."
Viserys preened at the mention of loyalty, as Arthur had clearly known he would. "Good. It's time people remembered their true king."
"Indeed, Your Grace. Perhaps you should rest. Tomorrow we'll discuss the particulars of Pentoshi customs."
After Viserys departed, swaying slightly, Arthur studied the two women remaining. "Princess?"
"I'll help the princess prepare for bed," Alyss interjected quickly. "The sea air can be overwhelming at first."
Arthur's expression suggested he knew exactly what Alyss was doing, but he nodded. "Of course."
Alyss's cabin adjoined Dany's, small but meticulously organized. She moved through the space, gathering a brush and oils.
"You knew her," Dany said quietly as Alyss sat beside her. "Princess Elia. You speak of her differently than the others."
Alyss's hands stilled for just a moment. "Many knew the Princess of Dorne."
"But you knew her as more than a title." Dany turned slightly, catching Alyss's reflection in the small mirror. "When you mentioned her children earlier, your voice broke."
"They were beautiful children," Alyss whispered, resuming her brushing with deliberate care. "Rhaenys had her mother's grace and her father's imagination. She would have been sixteen now, nearly seventeen." Her voice caught. "She used to say she would ride a dragon one day, a great silver dragon that would take her to see all the wonders of the world."
The grief in those words was too raw, too personal for distant knowledge. Dany filed this away with all the other mysteries Alyss represented—her violet eyes, her intimate knowledge of court, the way Arthur Dayne looked at her.
"And the boy? Aegon?"
"Perfect," Alyss breathed, and tears tracked down her cheeks. "So small, but perfect. His eyes were just beginning to change color when—" She stopped abruptly, hands tightening in Dany's hair before consciously relaxing. "Forgive me, Princess. Old griefs sometimes surprise us."
Dany reached back, covering one of Alyss's hands with her own. "You don't need to hide your tears. Not from me."
Alyss pulled Dany back against her. Dany let herself be held, it felt like being held by Ser Darry.
"You have her kindness," Alyss whispered against Dany's hair. "Elia's kindness. The ability to see pain in others and offer comfort."
Later, alone in her cabin with the ship rocking her toward another uncertain future, Dany stared at the ceiling and assembled pieces of the puzzle that was Septa Alyss. A woman who knew court intimately. Who grieved Elia Martell's children like they were her own. Who had violet eyes in a face too beautiful for a septa's life. Who made Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning, look at her with recognition and regret.
Outside her porthole, stars wheeled across the night sky, the same stars that watched over all of Westeros. She wondered briefly if anyone there ever looked up and thought of the lost dragons across the sea. If anyone remembered that children had died for their fathers' wars.
The ship carried her toward Pentos, toward another magister's hospitality, toward whatever future Arthur Dayne and his mysterious companions were orchestrating.
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