"Where did Jon go? Why did he leave me here? Is he going to King's Landing without me?!"
"It's not like that, Lady Arya. The lord will be back soon," Old York said, trying hard to sound soothing.
They were in a room high up in Harrenhal—a chamber Prince Daemon Targaryen had once used. The stone walls still bore the faint, weathered carvings he'd left behind. Old York's hand brushed across one of them, and he wondered if Daemon had felt the same uneasy anticipation here, before riding Caraxes to face Vhagar over the Gods Eye.
He honestly didn't understand why Jon had chosen to lead a mutiny that brought him no obvious benefit. With the glory Jon had already earned on the battlefield, a title and good lands in the future were all but guaranteed. He could have walked the safe road to power.
But just before everything began, Jon had insisted York stay behind in the Tower of Dread with Arya, away from the fighting that would erupt around the Tower of the Wailing.
Now that Arya's identity was known, no one in Harrenhal would dare touch her. In truth, York knew Jon was protecting him as much as her. York was over sixty, long past the age for charging into bloody halls and wrestling with armored men.
"Gods keep that lad," York thought, glancing toward the window and the towers beyond. "Let him see this through."
What sinister scheme could there be in a man who threw himself into danger to drag strangers off the battlefield alive? Jon had his reasons; of that, York was sure.
Just then a familiar face appeared in the doorway.
It was Mond, the young knight who had joined Jon's army alongside Martin.
"My lord," Mond said, face bright with excitement, "Lord Jon has everything under control."
York let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Arya, however, wasn't satisfied with such a vague report.
"What situation? What do you mean 'under control'? What happened to Jon? Tell me properly!"
---
Meanwhile, in the Tower of the Wailing, Jon stood at the head of the hall, facing a circle of Northern lords.
"Jon, will the Tyrells really unite with the Lannisters?" a Mormont asked, brow furrowed. "Joffrey's already a Lannister in all but name."
As a Bear Islander, he understood war and hardship well enough, but southern politics were another matter.
"As long as someone needs it," Jon said, "a prince can become a bastard, and a bastard can become a prince."
The Mormont scratched at his beard, rolling the sentence around in his mind. It sounded wrong, but he couldn't quite say how.
"And if you're wrong?" Wendel Manderly asked. Despite his bulk, there was a careful, weighing sharpness behind his eyes. Manderlys rarely gambled without thought.
Jon gave him a flat look.
"Since this war began," he asked calmly, "when have I been wrong?"
Silence answered him. Even Roose Bolton, standing to the side with a sword at his throat, could find nothing to say.
Jon softened his tone and continued, more slowly this time.
"You all know Margaery Tyrell," he said. "The little rose of Highgarden. She's about my age, and her good name runs from the Arbor to the Vale. The price for the Tyrells' support was simple: Renly would make her his queen.
"Now Renly is dead.
"At first, my sister Sansa was to wed Joffrey and be queen. But now Stark and Lannister are open enemies. If the Tyrells still want a crown for Margaery… tell me, where else can they get it?"
He let the question hang while lords exchanged troubled glances.
"Think it through," Jon pressed. "If Stannis falls at King's Landing while Tyrell and Lannister stand together, then the North becomes meat on a southern carving board. The only way to keep the war out of our homeland is to push south first and fight the battle away from our own fields. That, to me, is the best choice."
Heads began to nod, slowly at first, then more firmly—though someone still muttered:
"There is still King Robb."
"King Robb has already sealed a marriage alliance with House Frey," another voice said. A man with a short, narrow chin rose; he didn't bother naming himself. Nobody needed him to.
"Yes," Jon said at once, seizing the opening. "House Stark has allied with House Frey, and as Northerners, we keep our oaths. Don't we, my lord?"
The Frey gave a satisfied little nod and sat back down. No one else challenged that point.
"Jon," Meici Severn said at last, looking uneasily at Roose Bolton standing hostage beside the throne, "is all this truly necessary?"
Jon's grey eyes turned cold.
"If it were you," he asked, "would you trust your back to our Lord Bolton?"
Since Bolton had started calling him "bastard" to his face, Jon saw no reason to cloak his words.
Bolton's lips pulled taut; his eyes flashed. He wanted to bite back, but the stares from around the hall stopped him. His gaze swept the room—only to find most of the lords quietly nodding with Jon.
Abandoning the main force at the Green Fork had left a shadow that no clever report could erase. On the other hand, Jon had twice turned the tide: first, saving Meici Severn and Harrion from slaughter, and then riding to Darry to annihilate the Mountain and his elite, rescuing House Darry from extinction. Those deeds gleamed like nails hammered into the Northern memory, pinning Roose Bolton to a very public shame.
"I asked Lord Bolton already," Jon went on. "He refused to march on King's Landing. Robb's letter orders me to surrender my soldiers and go to Riverrun. So this"—he gestured to Roose, to the blood, to the hall—"is all that's left to me."
There was a short, heavy silence.
Then Harrion Karstark stepped forward.
"Jon," he said, "Karstark and Stark share the same blood. I will follow you. I'll go to King's Landing and avenge Lord Eddard."
"Then I thank you," Jon said, meeting his eyes. "Even if I've no right to, I'll thank you in Stark's name."
Harrion's open declaration turned every gaze to Meici Severn. He, too, owed Jon his life. Without Jon at the Green Fork, Meici knew he would've been either dead on the field or rotting away as a Lannister captive.
But King's Landing was far. Tywin was one thing; House Tyrell's full host was another. The thought of facing both with an army already worn by months of war made his gut tighten.
He rose slowly, as if the chair itself were reluctant to release him.
"Jon," he began, "I am… deeply grateful you saved my life. Had it not been for you, I would certainly be dead or chained in Casterly Rock. But now—"
"I understand," Jon cut in gently. "Then I'll leave Harrenhal in your care. Among all of us, you are one of those I trust most."
The count had come ready to protest that this mutiny was rebellion, a direct affront to Robb's orders. But hearing that, feeling that trust laid so plainly before him, he faltered.
He hesitated, then said, a bit gruffly, "But Jon… you do have a point. I still have thirteen hundred men. I… I'll give you half."
"Thank you," Jon said simply.
Once Meici had spoken, others followed.
"I'll send you half as well," said Wendel Manderly.
"The same for me," growled the Mormont lord.
Even the Frey representative nodded after a moment's thought. "Half," he conceded.
It fit perfectly with Frey logic: never bet everything on one horse. If Jon lost, they could say they'd been forced to divide their strength. If he won, they would have contributed and earned credit.
At last, Jon turned to Vargo Hoat.
The goat-like captain of the Brave Companions straightened under Jon's gaze. He had over two thousand men, and he knew every man here would be wondering whom he'd sell his spears to next.
"Lord Jon," Vargo began carefully, "this is not something I can decide alone. We are mercenaries, just looking to survive—"
"I don't need your soldiers," Jon said, cutting him off before he could twist the knife. "The Brave Companions delivered Harrenhal into Northern hands. That is your merit, and the North will not forget it."
He let his voice flatten, sharpening the edge of his warning.
"In the coming war, you can stay here and stand with the North. Or you can withdraw from the fighting entirely. But if you choose to run back to the Lannisters…" Jon leaned forward just slightly. "You already know what I'm capable of."
There was no outrage from Vargo Hoat—only a quick dip of the head and a crooked smile.
"Rest assured, my lord," he said. "A company that wavers too much ruins its own name. With a ruined name, our fee drops. We sell our lives for coin; we'd like them bought at a fair price, yes?"
When all the pledges were counted, Jon had scraped together a force of fifteen thousand.
In Harrenhal, that number barely filled its courtyards. Against the broken silhouette of its towers, the army was a thin scratch of movement, like smoke drifting up and vanishing into the cold autumn sky.
But with this army, Jon Snow was about to step onto the center stage of the Seven Kingdoms.
---
The carriage rattled along a muddy road, wheels thudding over ruts and stones.
Inside, Arya's angry shouts and pleading had eventually gone quiet. At some point, Old York realized he could no longer hear her voice at all.
A chill pricked his spine.
He yanked on the reins, bringing the horses to a stop, then scrambled down and flung open the carriage door.
"Arya?"
The carriage was empty.
At his feet, a plank in the floor had been pried up, leaving a dark opening straight to the dripping, churned road beneath. Cold air blew up through it, stinging his face.
The little wolf had slipped her leash.
Jon was marching to war—and Arya Stark was no longer on the road to Riverrun.
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