𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃. he had died for the watch, been butchered by men he had called brothers and left to die in crimson pool coloring snow. the last words uttered into the cold night a whisper of “ghost,” and a direwolf’s mournful howl. jon tries not to think about the marks on his body those knives had left. tries not to think about what his resurrection means beyond this mission to take back his family’s home and free the north from the bolton’s stranglehold.
their numbers were smaller than the boltons, it was a fact jon was painfully aware of and one these war council meetings could not help but bring up time and time again. battles had been won against greater odds. they didn’t have the luxury, the time to wait for more men. they’ve gone to all who would have them, with too many houses once loyal to the stark banner refusing assistance out of fear of the sigil of the flayed man.
his read doesn’t rise at the sound of the tent’s flap opening and closing; only when there’s a call of his name that turns his gaze from the plans in front of him on the table to the man before him. a familiar face despite the years it had been since dark eyes had laid upon it. they had both grown and changed since then, and yet corners of lips lift slightly into the form of a minuscule smile, back straightening as jon stands to full height.
❝ i know who you are, byrant. i remember you. ❞ he remembers the teenager that he had sparred with then, but in essence it was still the same person as the man he held a hand out to. jon had assumed byrant had fallen with his brother, a pleasant surprise he had not. there’s something to be said about the loyalty of northerners to their own, though he cannot fully fault byrant’s family for siding with the boltons. ❝ thank you, you’re more than welcome here in camp. we need every man we can get. ❞
“I’d thought to join you on the wall after the wedding. Seems as if the gods stayed my hand only to have me join you in another way.” The days and weeks after the wedding walking north in despair, he did not know where he was going, only that he was already North of the Twins, he might as well go back home, what ever home meant when he dared not show his face to his father, a man who was a traitor, who’d not only conspired to help kill his king but had been successful.
a man who was not likely to take him back at any rate Byrant thought not spearing a glance to the castle where his father was now dining. A Castle he had wonderful memories in. It was more than just who ought to rule the north that he and his father disagreed on. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d officially been taken out of the line of succession, not that he wanted anything to do with carrying on the Frost house at this point.
Byrant took his glove off before shaking the other man’s hand. He could not help but think that Jon was more a man than Robb ever had the chance to be. It seemed to wrong for anyone to call Robb a boy king. And yet, here was his brother, anyone would be hard pressed to call Jon a boy commander. Young perhaps, but not a boy.
“I brought a small force with me, well not so much a force, a few men, twenty not counting myself.” They’d all turned and nearly run their horses ragged when they’d heard Jon, Ned Stark’s son was massing an army to take back Winterfell, to take back the North. Just don’t ask where we got the horses Byrant thought. It would not do well to be hanged as soon as they got to camp. There was no question in Byrant’s mind that that was what would happen, if he is truly Ned Stark’s son I’d hang no matter how many men they need.
“We will join whom ever, we are here to serve House Stark, to serve You.” Byrant smiled as he looked Jon in the eye. He remembered the rush of fighting beside Robb, his wolf, tearing though men on Robb’s other side. He would love to fight beside Jon in this, but he had spoken true. He would go where he was told, he was a soldier, and a good one at that.
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