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The warning horn from the gatehouse echoed across Winterfell's courtyard, three long blasts that announced the arrival of an important lord. Jon looked up from where he'd been helping Arthur practice his climbing stance on a low wall, wiping chalk dust from his hands.
"That'll be Grandfather," he said, feeling excited. Lord Anden Flint's visits were always significant events—the man commanded attention simply by existing.
"I've only met him once," Arthur admitted, his Dustin-grey eyes wide. "Mother says he's the tallest man in the North."
"I would say the tallest men in the Seven Kingdoms," Jon confirmed, already moving toward the main courtyard. "Come on, we should be there to greet him properly."
By the time they arrived, half of Winterfell had already gathered. The massive ironwood gates swung open to admit the Breakstone Hill party, and Jon felt his breath catch as it always did when confronted with his great-grandfather's sheer presence.
Lord Anden Flint rode at the head of the column on a horse that would have seemed enormous for anyone else but barely managed to carry his bulk. At three meters tall, Lord Anden Flint made everyone else look like children playing at being adults. His beard was even longer now, reaching his collarbone; his beard alone was bigger than Bran.
Derek rode beside him, and Jon was pleased to see his old instructor looking well. The master-at-arms caught his eye and winked.
The household had assembled in proper order—Father stood at the center with Lady Stark beside him holding baby Rickon, while Lyarra waited slightly forward of them all. As Anden's daughter, she held the right of first greeting.
Jon watched as his great-grandfather dismounted. The giant northerner's boots hit the cobblestones with a sound like thunder, and then he was striding toward Lyarra with arms spread wide.
"Daughter," Anden rumbled, his voice like distant mountains. "You look well."
"Father," Lyarra replied warmly. "Welcome home."
They embraced, though Anden had to bend considerably to manage it. When they separated, he turned to Ned and Benjen.
"Ned. Still keeping the North civilized, I see." Anden clasped his grandson's forearm in a warrior's greeting. "Though from what I hear, young Jon's doing more for prosperity than all your lordly justice combined."
Father smiled, clearly used to his grandfather's blunt assessments. "The North needs both, Grandfather."
"Hmm." Anden turned to Benjen, his expression growing more serious. "Benjen. Is the throat better?"
Benjen touched his scar briefly, then managed a raspy, "Some... better. Still... sounds like... gravel."
"But you're alive, which is what matters." Anden squeezed his shoulder gently—or what passed for gentle when you had hands the size of dinner plates. "Scars remind us we survived."
The children came next, and Jon watched with amusement as each reacted differently to their towering great-grandfather.
Robb stepped forward with proper lordly courtesy, though Jon could see him resisting the urge to crane his neck back to meet Anden's eyes. "Great-grandfather. It's good to see you."
"You've grown, boy," Anden observed. "Got your father's build. Good shoulders for sword work."
Arya pushed forward before anyone could stop her, staring up at Anden with open wonder. "You're so tall! Can you see over the castle walls from here?"
Anden's laugh boomed across the courtyard. "Just about, fierce one. Though I'd need to stand on my toes for the higher towers."
Sansa hung back, clearly intimidated by the sheer size of the man. When Anden noticed her hesitation, he knelt—a process that took several seconds and still left him taller than most men standing.
"And you must be Sansa," he said more gently. "Your grandmother tells me you're the finest seamstress Winterfell has seen in years."
"I... I try, my lord," Sansa managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Trying is how we become good at things," Anden replied, then stood again with a series of joint-popping sounds that made several onlookers wince.
Bran stepped forward next, his grey eyes bright with curiosity rather than fear. "Great-grandfather, if you stood on your tiptoes, could you touch the moon?"
The question drew laughter from the assembled crowd, and even Anden's weathered face creased in amusement. "Not quite, little lord. Though I once climbed high enough in the mountains that I swore I could touch the stars."
"Really?" Bran's face lit up. "Can you teach me? Jon's been teaching me to climb, but he says I'm too young for the really high parts."
"Jon's right to be cautious," Anden said, then his eyes found Jon in the crowd. "Speaking of which—there's my heir. Come here, boy, let me look at you."
Jon moved forward, aware of everyone watching. It had been nearly a year since he'd seen his great-grandfather, and he wondered what the old warrior would think of the changes.
"Taller," Anden observed, looking him up and down with a critical eye. "Broader in the shoulders too. Your grandmother says you've kept up your training."
"Every day," Jon confirmed. "Though I'm looking forward to proper instruction again. Ser Rodrik's methods are... different from what I learned at Breakstone Hill."
"Different isn't wrong," Anden said, then pulled Jon into an embrace that lifted him completely off the ground. "Good to see you, grandson. We have much to discuss."
When Anden set him down, Jon noticed movement near the back of the Breakstone Hill column. Two women were dismounting from sturdy northern horses, and Jon's attention sharpened immediately.
Lady Maege Mormont was unmistakable—she wore practical riding leathers rather than a dress, her grey-streaked hair braided in the northern style. Her eyes, sharp as any blade, immediately fixed on Jon instead of Robb.
But it was the woman beside her who truly captured Jon's attention.
Dacey Mormont stood taller than Robb and Jon, with shoulders that suggested she could swing a morningstar without breaking a sweat. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical braid, and her face held a wild beauty that reminded Jon of storm-tossed seas and northern forests. She wore a combination of leather armor and fine wool. A Morningstar was attached to her hip, and Jon was sure from watching her that she knew how to swing that thing, it wasn't just for show.
She's evaluating me too, Jon realized as their eyes met across the courtyard. This whole visit is about more than just witnessing my climb.
Father stepped forward to greet the Mormonts formally. "Lady Maege, Lady Dacey. Welcome to Winterfell. Your journey was smooth, I hope?"
"Smooth enough, Lord Stark," Maege replied with a gruffness in her voice as she dismounted her horse. "Though your roads could use some work between here and Torrhen's Square."
"I'll mention it to Lord Tallhart," Father said with good humor. "May I present my mother, Lady Lyarra Stark, and my children."
There was no real need for an introduction; Lady Maege had met Lady Lyarra many times before.
The formal introductions proceeded, and Jon used the time to study both Mormonts more carefully. Lady Maege's eyes kept drifting back to him, and he could practically see her cataloging observations—his height, his bearing, how he stood among the other Stark children.
When it came time for Jon's formal introduction, he stepped forward. "Lady Maege, Lady Dacey. House Flint welcomes you to Winterfell."
Maege's handshake was firm, her hand full of calluses; it felt like shaking hands with a man, not a woman. "Jon Flint. I've heard interesting things about you. Quite the young merchant."
"Just trying to be useful, my lady," Jon replied evenly. "The North prospers when we all prosper."
"Hmm." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Pretty words."
Dacey stepped forward next, and Jon noticed she was studying him with the same careful attention her mother had shown. When she extended her hand, Jon took it—and immediately felt her grip tighten, testing his strength.
Jon didn't flinch or pull away. Instead, he met her grip with his own, not competing but not yielding either. After a moment, Dacey's lips curved in what might have been approval.
"Lady Dacey," Jon said, releasing her hand. "I hope the journey wasn't too tiresome. I imagine Winterfell must seem quite different from Bear Island."
"Different how?" she asked, her tone carrying a challenge. "You think we're all savages on our island, living in caves and eating raw fish?"
"Not at all," Jon replied smoothly. "I meant that Winterfell has grown... softer in recent years. Southern influences creeping north. Too much silk, not enough steel."
Dacey's eyebrow rose. "And which are you, Jon Flint? Silk or steel?"
"Depends on the day," Jon said with a slight smile. "Though I find the best blades have both—flexible enough not to shatter, hard enough to hold an edge."
"Clever answer," Dacey observed. "Though I prefer to test steel myself rather than trust pretty metaphors."
"The training yard is open every morning at dawn," Jon offered. "I'd welcome the chance to spar with someone from Bear Island. They say you train your warriors differently there."
"We train to survive," Dacey said bluntly. "Pretty forms and tournament rules don't matter much when wildlings come raiding or ironborn try landing on your shores."
"Then I look forward to learning," Jon said. "Tomorrow morning? Unless you need time to recover from your journey."
Dacey's eyes gleamed with what Jon recognized as genuine pleasure.
"Dawn," she agreed. "Don't be late, silk boy."
"Wouldn't dream of it, steel lady."
Before either of them could say more, Father intervened.
"Come, let's get everyone settled. There will be time for sparring and conversation after you've had a chance to rest and refresh yourselves."
The household began dispersing, servants rushing to help with luggage and prepare the guest chambers. Jon found himself walking beside Derek as they headed toward the Great Keep.
"She's going to try to kill you tomorrow, you know," Derek said conversationally. "Nothing permanent, but Mormont women don't pull punches just because you're pretty."
"I noticed," Jon replied. "What do you know about her fighting style?"
"Those from House Mormont... They are direct, aggressive, stronger than most men their size." Derek glanced at him. "You'll need to use speed and technique."
"Any other advice?"
"Yes—don't let her bait you into fighting her fight. Make her adapt to yours." Derek paused, then added with a grin, "And try not to embarrass yourself too badly in front of your potential future wife."
"How do you know that?"
"Oh, come on," Derek laughed. "Why else would Lady Maege bring her daughter all the way to Winterfell just to watch you climb a wall?"
"Maybe she misses the wall, her brother is there after all," Jon suggested with a cheeky smile.
"Maybe I'm secretly the King of the Summer Isles," Derek countered. "This is about marriage, boy. The Mormonts are evaluating whether you'd make a suitable match for their heir."
"What if I fail?" he asked quietly.
"Then you fail," Derek said simply. "But I've trained you for years, Jon. You don't fail often, and when you do, you learn from it. Just be yourself—the clever, capable young man you've become. That's all anyone can ask."
.
.
That evening's feast was smaller than the grand celebrations Winterfell sometimes hosted, but no less important. Jon found himself seated between Arthur and Dacey, a placement that was clearly deliberate on someone's part.
Probably Grandmother's doing, he thought, catching Lyarra's knowing glance from the high table. She never leaves things to chance.
Arthur was regaling Dacey with an enthusiastic description of Jon's climbing techniques, his young voice carrying clear admiration. "—and then he went sideways across the tower face, using holds I couldn't even see! It was amazing!"
"Impressive," Dacey said, her dark eyes genuinely interested. "How long have you been climbing?"
"Since I could walk, basically," Jon said, pouring wine into her cup. "My great-grandfather used to say that Flints are born with mountain goat blood."
"Is that actually true?" Dacey asked with a slight smile. "The climbing from when you could walk part, not the goat blood."
Jon grinned. "Close enough. When I was six, I climbed from the very bottom of Breakstone Hill all the way to the highest tower. Took me most of the day, and I nearly gave Derek a heart attack."
"Derek's your master-at-arms?" Dacey asked.
"Was. He's with Grandfather Anden now." Jon's expression grew fond with the memory. "He found me about three-quarters of the way up, clinging to this tiny ledge about fifty feet above the rocks. I still remember him yelling up at me, asking what in the seven hells I thought I was doing."
"What did you say?" Dacey leaned forward, clearly entertained.
"I told him I was proving I could do it," Jon said. "Which didn't make him any less angry. He climbed up after me—took him twice as long because he kept cursing the whole way—and when he finally reached me, he was too exhausted to even yell properly. Just sat there breathing hard and looking at me like I was insane."
Dacey laughed, a warm genuine sound that made Jon smile wider. "Were you scared?"
"Terrified," Jon admitted. "About halfway up, I realized I'd made a terrible mistake. But I was more scared of climbing down than going up, so I just kept going. By the time I reached the top, my hands were bleeding and I couldn't stop shaking."
"But you made it," Dacey said.
"But I made it," Jon confirmed. "Derek carried me down through the stairs on his back because I was too exhausted to move. Grandfather Anden just looked at me, shook his head, and said 'Typical Flint.' Then he made me practice proper climbing techniques every day for a month."
"Sounds like good teaching," Dacey observed. "Turn recklessness into skill."
"What about you?" Jon asked, genuinely curious. "What's the most reckless thing you've done?"
Dacey's eyes gleamed with mischief. "When I was eight, I snuck out of Mormont Keep during a storm to go swimming in the bay."
"During a storm?" Arthur's eyes went wide. "Why?"
"Because my sisters told me I was too scared," Dacey said simply. "They said I'd never be a true Bear Islander if I was afraid of rough water. So I waited until everyone was asleep, climbed out my window, and ran down to the shore."
"What happened?" Jon asked, already guessing it hadn't gone well.
"The waves were enormous," Dacey said with a tone as if she was reliving it right now in her head. "Bigger than our hall's ceiling. I got about waist-deep before one knocked me completely off my feet. Tumbled me around like I was in a washing barrel. I came up sputtering and gasping, salt water in my nose, sand in my hair, and absolutely no idea which way was shore."
"How did you get back?" Arthur asked.
"My mother," Dacey said with a rueful smile. "Turns out she'd seen me climb out the window and followed me down to the beach. She just stood there on the shore, arms crossed, watching me struggle. When I finally made it back—choking and half-drowned—she asked me if I'd learned anything."
"What did you tell her?" Jon asked.
"That rough water earns respect, not bravado," Dacey said. "She nodded, walked me back to the keep, and made me muck out the stables for a week. Said if I wanted to act like a stubborn mule, I could work with them."
Jon laughed. "I like your mother's teaching methods."
"She's practical," Dacey agreed. "Everything's a lesson with her. Even punishments." She paused, then asked, "Do you get along with Lady Stark? I know she's not your mother."
It was a delicate question, but Dacey asked it with genuine curiosity rather than prying.
"We're... cordial," Jon said carefully. "She's always been fair to me, especially after I became a Flint. But we're not close. My grandmother Lyarra is more of a maternal figure."
"That must be complicated," Dacey said.
"Sometimes," Jon admitted. "But it's better than it used to be. And I have Robb and the others. They're family in every way that matters."
"I can't imagine having brothers," Dacey said thoughtfully. "I have my younger sisters, but we're all daughters. No brothers to compete with or compare myself to."
"Is that hard?" Jon asked. "Being the oldest daughter on Bear Island?"
"It has its challenges," Dacey said. "People expect me to be like my mother—strong, fierce, uncompromising. But they also expect me to be soft enough to make a good marriage alliance, gentle enough to raise children. It's like being asked to be two different people at once."
Jon understood that feeling more than he could say. "What do you want to be?"
Dacey looked at him with surprise, as if no one had asked her that before. "Both, I think. I don't see why I can't be fierce and gentle. A good fighter and a good dancer. Someone who can defend her home and raise children who know they're loved."
"That sounds perfect," Jon said honestly. "Why would anyone think those things are opposites?"
"Because people like things simple," Dacey said. "Warrior or lady. Strong or soft. They don't understand that real people are complicated."
"Well, I think complicated is more interesting anyway," Jon said. He found himself relaxing, enjoying the conversation more than he'd expected.
"Do you sing?" Dacey asked suddenly. "Arthur mentioned earlier that you have a good voice."
Jon felt his face heat slightly. "Some. Lady Stark insisted we all learn music along with our other lessons."
"Will you sing tonight or tomorrow?" Dacey asked.
"Maybe," Jon said. "If people ask. I don't like to push it."
"That's surprisingly modest of you," Dacey teased.
"I'm modest about some things," Jon protested.
"Just not climbing impossible walls or starting business ventures," Dacey said with a grin.
"Those are different," Jon insisted. "Singing is personal. The other things are just... practical."
"Just practical," Dacey repeated. "You say that like creating an entire guild to help poor families is the same as choosing what to eat for breakfast."
"Isn't it?" Jon asked. "I mean, both are just decisions about how to use resources effectively."
Dacey shook her head, but she was smiling. "You really are an odd one, Jon Flint."
They continued chatting through the meal, and Jon found himself genuinely enjoying Dacey's company. She asked about his ice house project, and actually seemed interested in the technical details rather than just making conversation. When he explained how they'd built the underground storage chambers, she offered observations about how similar structures might work on Bear Island for preserving fish.
Jon made sure to divide his attention between Dacey and his cousins, not wanting anyone to feel ignored. When Joanna wandered over, demanding to know if Dacey could teach her to use a sword, Jon watched with amusement as the older woman explained why four was too young for real weapons.
"But I'm very mature for my age," Joanna insisted.
"I'm sure you are," Dacey said seriously. "Which is why you'll understand that swords are dangerous, and using them requires patience and discipline. Those are things you learn over years, not days."
"How many years?" Joanna asked.
"I started training when I was seven," Dacey said. "And I'm still learning new things every day."
"That's ten years!" Joanna looked horrified. "That's forever!"
"Some things worth doing take time," Dacey said, then glanced at Jon. "Your cousin has been teaching you to climb, hasn't he?"
"Yes!" Joanna brightened immediately. "And I'm getting very good. I can climb the wall by the kitchens all by myself now."
"That's a low wall," Arthur pointed out. "Barely taller than Father."
"It's still tall for me," Joanna said defensively. "And Jon says I'm a natural."
"She is," Jon confirmed. "Good instincts for finding holds, and she's fearless about heights."
"Fearless or reckless?" Dacey asked pointedly.
"There's a difference?" Jon replied with a grin.
"There better be, or you're going to end up splattered on the courtyard stones one of these days."
"That's what father always says," Jon laughed.
As the evening wore on and the feast began to wind down, Jon noticed servants clearing dishes and Maege Mormont stifling a yawn. Perfect timing.
He turned to Dacey. "Would you like to see more of Winterfell? The castle's quite beautiful at night, especially the godswood."
Dacey raised an eyebrow. "Is this where you try to seduce me with romantic scenery?"
Jon felt his face heat. "What? No! I just thought—you seemed interested in the castle earlier, and—"
"Relax," Dacey said, standing. "I'm teasing. A walk sounds nice. This feast hall is getting stuffy."
They excused themselves and headed toward the exit, and Jon was acutely aware of several sets of eyes watching their departure. Grandmother's gaze held knowing amusement, while Lady Maege's was more evaluating.
Great, Jon thought.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, Dacey took a deep breath and stretched her arms overhead. "Gods, that's better. I hate being cooped up indoors for too long."
"The North in general or just feast halls?" Jon asked, falling into step beside her.
"Both," Dacey admitted. "Bear Island is all open sky and sea air. Even our halls are built with wide windows and high ceilings. Winterfell feels... enclosed."
"It's built for winter," Jon explained. "When the snows come, you want thick walls and small windows to hold the heat. But I know what you mean—sometimes I climb just to get above everything, where the air feels less heavy."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, heading toward the godswood. The path was lit by Jon's candles in iron sconces, their steady light more reliable than the torches that used to flicker and smoke.
"Your candles?" Dacey asked, noticing his glance.
"Probably," Jon confirmed. "The household switched over almost completely last year. Better light, less smoke, longer burning time."
"They're good quality," Dacey observed. "We use mostly oil lamps on Bear Island. Candles are expensive when you have to ship them in."
"That's what I'm trying to change," Jon said. "Make them affordable enough that everyone can use them. Light shouldn't be a luxury."
Dacey glanced at him. "You really care about this, don't you? It's not just about profit."
"Of course I care," Jon said, surprised by the question. "Have you ever tried to work or read by poor light? It's miserable. And dangerous—more fires start from bad candles and unstable lamps than anything else."
"I hadn't thought about it that way," Dacey admitted.
They reached the godswood gate, and Jon pushed it open. The ancient heart tree loomed before them, its blood-red leaves rustling in the night breeze. The carved face seemed to watch them with eternal patience.
"Do you believe in the old gods?" Dacey asked quietly.
"Sometimes," Jon admitted. "When I'm alone in the mountains or standing before a heart tree like this, I can almost feel... something. Like the world is watching, paying attention."
"My mother says the old gods see everything," Dacey said. "That they judge us by our actions, not our words."
"Then I hope my actions have been good enough," Jon said.
She moved closer, and Jon found himself very aware of her height. "I like you, Jon Flint. You're interesting to talk to."
"I like you too," Jon said. "You're direct in a way most people aren't. It's refreshing."
"We'll see if you still think that after I knock you on your ass tomorrow," Dacey said with a grin.
"Looking forward to it," Jon replied with a grin that made her giggle.
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