19

Chapter 18: Life goes on, fanatics

Beor Mormont wasn't fond of horse riding. It was not that he wasn't good at it. Most people that knew him said he was a fine rider. No, his issue with the activity was more down-to-earth.

He was too big for most horses and felt terrible about letting the poor animal carry all three hundred and twenty pounds of him for a long period.

He had long outgrown his previous horse, a chestnut mare. The last time he was physically able to ride it was two years ago, before his latest growth spurt which turned him into a veritable giant.

Thankfully, he had lucked out. The horse he now rode was a massive Shire-like beast, dark as night, and with an attitude straight from hell.

The monster of a horse was a mix between a large Essossi breed crossed with more muscular and sturdy northern steeds. As such, it retained the best of both worlds. It was large, larger than most horses in the North, tall and muscular. It was unsuited for speed but made up for it by being a beast both in terms of power and endurance.

Along with these attributes, came the vilest of all characters. The horse was known to go out of its way to bully and even kill others horses, almost for sport. Evidently, Beor made it his goal to tame the beast unto a docile and obedient steed, despite his mother's adamant refusal.

It did take a while, but with enough gift-giving and outright brawls, the two had created a bond of mutual respect. 'I did beat the shit out of a horse', Beor thought himself, smiling at the absurd thought.

His retinue and he were trekking along the new Winter Road, accompanying lord Stark back to Winterfell. The long roman-inspired road connected the still-unnamed Sea Dragon Point town to Deepwood Motte, before linking with House Forrester. It then crossed the Wolfswood until it finally reached Winterfell, linking the northwestern coast of Westeros to the Kingsroad.

It had been a colossal achievement. The North was large, and sparsely populated, besides the large centers of power. It took the common efforts of the Mormonts, Forresters, Glover, and Stark to build the large way. Of course, the Mormont had fine a way to make coin from the enterprise, providing stones and cement to aid the construction, at a fair and reasonable price of course.

It was very similar to Roman concrete, which was more durable than the normal Portland concrete, a useful feature in a world like the one he now lived in, where upkeep usually equates to an afterthought. Ultimately, it was best for the Mormont treasury, as word of the concrete quality was spreading across the realm, making it another valuable source of income.

Beor was brought out of his reverie by the gentle huff of his horse. He looked around him. A large carriage went ahead of him, carrying Lady Stark and some of the other highborn women. Directly to his left rode the Lord Paramount himself, honor oozing from all his pores.

In the wake of the westward crossing of the Sunset Sea, both Lord and Lady had decided that Beor Mormont was more than a suitable match for their daughter, seeing as he had made himself the de facto master of the trade in the Far East of Essos. Lady Stark did have some reservations about the betrothal, but after being to realize the magnitude of the feat and the possibilities it presented for the North, she was more than happy to oblige.

Thus, they headed to Winterfell, where the Mormont would spend a few days until the match was announced. He would then ride back to his lands alongside the two oldest sons of Eddard Stark, Robb Stark and Jon Snow, where they would foster for a few years.

"The Winter Road is coming along fine, don't you think, my boy?" Lord Stark said to the Mormont, attempted to strike a conversation. Ever since the talks of betrothal, the Lord Paramount had been doing his best to be warmer towards his vassal, but they had little in common, though Beor did his best to reciprocate the feelings of his liege lord.

"Indeed, my lord", Beor answered. disregarding being called a boy. As the man was his liege lord and future good father, he decided against retaliating with his words and not his actions. "This will be one more great achievement of those lands under your leadership." He finished, smiling warmly, towards the man.

Lord Stark merely chuckled, shaking his head. "You have the guts of a Mormont, Lord Beor, I'll give you that. Even if you seldom seem to think like one."

"According to mother, the first words spoken of me were about how strange I looked.", the Mormont answered, smiling slightly, "I believe it stands to reason that I keep up with the expectations."

"Which would be?" The Stark asked.

"Not to make sense, when you think about my life." The younger man answered a mysterious smile on his face as if he was telling a joke until he understood.

" Well, let me tell you, you've been doing great work at that."

Beor Mormont chuckled dryly. "You would understand, wouldn't you? The weight of expectations?", he asked, gaze lost far away somewhere on the horizon.

The mood quickly grew somber, as the Lord Paramount looked at the young lord with inquisitive eyes. "Aye, I do. Those expectations were hoisted upon me, as is duty. You, however, seem to go out of your way to gather said expectations. Why is that?"

Beor looked at his good father-to-be, dark grey eyes meeting golden amber. "What is a man to do, but to shoulder the burdens of his choice, if he may? Nothing is sweeter than accomplishing what one has put in one's mind to do, be it great or small. Isn't that what honorable men do?

Eddard Stark stayed silent for a while, the ambient noise quickly filling the gap of their silence. After what felt like an eternity, the man spoke up.

" The first time I've ever met you, I did not like you, Beor Mormont. I thought you were a boy, way out his depth, who took playing knight too far. I even asked your cousin to send you back. I was surprised when he refused Jorah Mormont believed you were born for this.", he said chuckling somberly.

"At the time, I thought he was referring to the war, thinking you a crazed beast, cursed with the gift of fighting, like the Mountain, or his brother." Beor couldn't help but frown at that.

"And for a while, I did believe it with the stories of you, breaking the Ironborn like waves upon a shore, each tales more absurd than the other."

"Where are you going with this, Lord Stark?" Beor asked, slightly incensed.

"What I'm saying, young Mormont, is that I now get what your cousin meant. He feared you, you know? Feared what you could become. I thought he feared you'd grow up to be a rabid dog, controllable only when directed at my enemies.

But he meant something else when he said you were made for this. Here you are, barely a man, and already you've made a name for yourself, managed to climb your way to the heights of riches, and now you're about to be betrothed to the daughter of the Lord Paramount in the North." He finished, giving Beor the side-eye.

"My lord, I don't..." Beor began, before being interrupted by the Stark Patriarch.

"I don't know why, or what your end goal is, Beor Mormont", the older man said, looking at the young lord, grey eyes darkening almost dangerously. "but you are working towards something. I would not attempt to dissuade you. as we both know how futile this would be. You might be born for... whatever this is" he said vaguely gesticulating, " but know that it won't happen without bloodshed. As your cousin did, others will fear you and unlike him, they will have no qualms about getting rid of you, no matter the cost."

Beor looked at the man, who was normally so quiet and sullen. Eddard Stark might not have been made to play the game of thrones, but he surely wasn't blind to it, just unwilling to sacrifice his principles for power.

A smile crept on the lips of the Mormont, as he contemplated the words of the Warden of the North. 'How interesting, he thought to himself.

"You warn me of my ambition, yet here we are, riding towards Winterfell. Why are you going along with it?" Beor asked the man.

"Two reasons, mostly. One, for all the power you have accumulated and despite your young age, you have not made excess or acted in the way one would expect a young man with too much coin to act. Your Lannister friend comes to mind, for example.", the older man said, a hint of disapproval in his tone, eliciting a slight wince from Beor.

"Secondly," the lord Paramount continued as he glanced at the men at arms who were silently riding beside them, "Though many would be loathed to admit it, you are the best thing that has happened to the North in ages. Even I can recognize that. House Umber, Karstark, and Glover are staunch supporters of yours. It is my duty as a Stark to do what is good for my people."

"So it comes to that, uh? Duty?"

" Aye, lad. There is no place for emotion when it comes to duty, though it might come later. One learns to live with it, as will you."

Now tell, me Beor Mormont", Ned said. turning fully towards his interlocutor, a serious look on his face, "What drives you to go to such length?"

Beor, without skipping a beat, replied, a somber look etched on his features, "Lord Stark, you know it, as well I do."

The Stark looked at him in the eye, seeing nothing but conviction and sheer, dogged stubbornness. He knew that look, he's often seen it in his face, in his reflection in the Godswood pond. And he knew what thought always brought that look to him.

"Winter is coming."

The ancestral castle of House Stark was a massive castle complex spanning many an acre and surrounded by two massive granite walls. The sheer size of the things reminded Beor of the absurd sizes castles could be in this world. It was almost as if GRRM had a skewed sense of scale.

The scientist in him couldn't help but wonder what absurd magic helped a bronze age society achieve such an impressive feat of engineering.

The setting was also a lot greener than Bear Island, whose landscape was more rocky, dotted with small forests and rivers. Winterfell, however, was carved out of the Wolfswood, with great expanses of trees which were still seen between the castle proper and the Winter Town.

"Lord Beor!" the Lord Paramount called to him, from further ahead of the convoy, "Ride with me."

It was a great honor that was being awarded to him, he thought. Lord Stark was letting it be known to the world, that the Mormont was at least someone he respected and approved of.

The large portcullis raised to led the convoy in, as rows of guards and servants lined up to greet the lord and the lady of the keep.

It was then that Beor got to meet the Stark brood. Rob was much younger than in the show, only just becoming a teen. There was however a spark of intelligence in his blue eyes, and boyish strength in the way he squared his shoulders to appear taller and bigger than he was. It clearly showed a proud child eager to impress and emulate his father.

He held little Bran's hand as the seven-year boy looked in awe at the procession entering the courtyard.

Then came Sansa Stark. She was still a child on the cusp of puberty, but whether it be natural or true training, she didn't have the awkwardness of a person stuck between childhood and maturity.

Though Beor didn't feel any attraction to her, he could see in her hints of the woman that would become the Flower of the North. She wore a lavender dress, whilst her long fiery red hair hung down to the small of her back. Her bright blue eyes smiled when she saw her father atop his horse, followed by a look of confusion at the massive horse that followed him, carrying an equally massive man.

Arya Stark was fidgeting around, clearly uncomfortable in such a formal setting. She looked like she was just about to sprint to the advancing caravan, only held back by a stone-faced Septa Mordane. The little Wolf mirrored her father completely, carrying the same dark brown hair and grey eyes. " Who's that?" She asked excitedly, pointing at the large man who was riding near her father.

"Shut up, Arya", the young Sansa whispered through, as she rolled her eyes in annoyance. " And please, don't be a pest, unless you want Mother to scold you again."

Raspberries blown in her general directions were the only response the redhaired received, causing Sansa to huff in exasperation.

"You're such a child.", Sansa said to her sister.

" I am a child, you tart!", Arya retorted, not skipping a bit.

"Enough of this, Arya. You will behave in the presence of your Lord Father's guests.", the septa snapped at them, her voice cold and unforgiving.

That shut up the little girl, but not before she threw one last parting shot, sticking her tongue at her older sister, wiping the smug look she was now sporting.

Further down, was Theon Greyjoy. He was just standing there, nonchalant, clad in leather and furs, his lean features and tall stature making him stand out from the group.

Jon Snow, however. was nowhere to be found. 'Figures', Beor thought to himself, as he followed lord Stark's lead and dismounted his horse.

Ever the kind husband, the Northman walked to the carriage and offering a hand, helped his wife get off the carriage which had protected her from the elements.

"Rob", Lord Stark said, shaking his son's hand as a greeting. He seldom showed affection in public, but one could see how his eyes shone when surrounded by his loved ones.

"I trust everything went well in my absence", he continued, addressing both his son and the old Maester who was just now arriving to greet his lord, going as fast as his old bones would carry him. Each step he took echoed the clinking of the long necklace that hung off his neck. 'Much longer than Lowry's, Beor thought, amused. He knew how sensitive the man was for not being the most learned maester around.

"Everything went well, Father.", Rob said, the wind rustling through his hair as he look up at his father.

"Aye, my lord", maester Luwin said as he warmly shook Ned's hand. "Young Rob will make a fine lord himself when his time comes."

"Well done, son", the lord of Winterfell said, patting Rob on the shoulder, as he smiled. The boy could do little to hide the blush that colored his face crimson.

After walking down the line and greeting his family, Ned turned and motioned Beor to approach.

The Stark pack turned to him, waiting for their father to introduce the stranger.

"Children", he said, "this is Beor Mormont, Lord of Bear Island and Sea Dragon Point." The announcement was meant with different reactions. Rob straightened his back, looking at the young man, a hint of fear in his eyes. Arya just stared at the giant, already fascinated.

Sansa let out a little "eep" and started quietly fussing with her dress and hair as if to make sure she was presentable.

Bran just seemed just content to be there, not particularly understanding what was happening. Theon Greyjoy, however, seethed. The boy who always had a façade of nonchalance now looked like he was on the brink of committing murder. His dark gaze stood fixed on the Northman, until golden eyes turned to look at him, with a bit of a smug smile before turning back to the Stark.

All the Greyjoy could do was grit his teeth as he looked on at the man who had brought ruin to his family, killed his brothers and uncle, and caused his father to be condemned to the Wall.

The rage he thought long buried, shook him to his core as the Butcher of Old Wyk and his captors laughed and mingled, oblivious to his pain

"I hate them.", he thought, seething. "I hate them all. I hate this frozen pile of shit they call home."

Silently, he walked away from the Starks, slipping out of the courtyard. They wouldn't miss him. He was the unruly Greyjoy ward. after all.

His legs led him towards the Winter Town pleasure house, where he was intent on drowning his rage and pain no matter what it took.

Obviously to the development, Lord Stark was simply happy to see his family again.

"Let us go inside and feast, children. Your father has great news to tell you all." Lady Stark said, a wide smile on her face, as she ushered her brood home, happy to be back where she belonged.

Little Arya Stark was fascinated with the large man that was sitting next to her father. He looked like a man with a lot of stories. she had decided.

Lord Beor Mormont, as the adults called him seemed to believe he was the second coming of Bran the Builder or something. Why she did not quite know. No one told her anything.

The point of the matter was, Beor Mormont was interesting, and Arya made it her mission to figure out why. She had begged her mother to be allowed to be sat next to him until she relented. Cue the little girl bombarding her father's guest with questions.

"Have you killed a man, already?", she asked the chestnut-haired man. "Rob said you've killed five hundred men on your own. Is it true?"

The question caught Rob off guard, as he choked on his watered-down wine, a few seats further to their left.

"Arya!" spat an annoyed Sansa, ashamed at her sister's lack of decorum.

"What?" she asked, almost selling the innocent look. "Rob said so..."

"Sweetling, we do not talk of such things during dinner", lady Stark said, nipping the incoming argument in the bud. "It is unbecoming of a lady."

"Ugh", retorted the little girl, a dejected look on her face.

Beor Mormont could only smile at their interactions. For all their bickering, the Starks were as functional a family as you would get in this wretched world. Being in their presence and sharing a meal in their dining hall was truly a breath of fresh air, away from politics and ruling a fief or kingdoms.

Alas, he knew it wouldn't last forever. Lord Stark cleared his throat. putting all the attention on himself.

"Rob, my son. You did well in my absence. Maester Luwin only had good things to say about your actions as Lord of Winterfell." the man said, the candlelight dancing in his dark grey eyes

The boy choked again in his drink, this time, passing it through his nose, to the laughter of the small audience.

"Thank you, father. I only did as you taught me," he said, after recovering enough to talk. His face was still tomato red, and he suddenly found the hem of his tunic worthy of the deepest interest.

"Aye, my son. You did, and you made your father proud." He said in his deep, honorable voice, with a warmth that Beor had heard in the tone only proud fathers could affect.

As they spoke, the door opened, letting a dark-haired boy in. He was about as tall as Rob and looked to be about the same age. "Jon Snow", Beor mind's clicked, as the child gingerly made his way towards the table, clearly feeling out of place.

He focused on the family's behavior, taking everything he could from the coming interaction

Lady Stark's gaze turned frosty immediately, just as her posture stiffened. Ned Stark could only sigh at her reaction. 'I had hoped that she would've come to tolerate him, at least, after all these years. The poor boy'

Adopting a smile, he waved the boy to come closer. "Ah, Jon. You're finally here. We almost started without you."

"I'm sorry, my lord. I did not see the time fly by," he said, barely loud enough to not be a whisper. He seemed terrified of being here, though he was doing his best to hide it, under the veneer of uncomfortability.

"Don't be sorry, Snow", Lady Stark snapped, not quite rudely, but the softness Beor had come to associate her with was lacking. "Be better. One of your stature should not let his lord wait on him. This will not happen again, will it?"

"No, my lady. This won't happen again, you have my word."

"Very well", Lord Eddard said, cutting through the tension. "Have a seat my boy" he said, pointing to the empty seat next to Rob, to the annoyance of Catelyn Stark. "We have a lot to tell all of you, and my lady wife and I thought you ought to be there.

Jon made his way to the chair, a stunned look on his face, completely lost as to why even Lady Catelyn wanted him to be there. Rob patted his half-brother on the back as he sat down next to him, giving a smile, which Jon returned, albeit half-heartedly.

"Where's Theon" Lord Stark asked no one in particular.

"He said he wasn't feeling too well shortly after you came back to Winterfell", Robert answered, causing his father to nod, a pensive look on his face.

Then the meal properly started. Arya spent most of the time peppering the Mormont for answers and bickering with Sansa from across the table. Little Bran was playing with his food in between being scolded by his mother.

Sansa was stealing glances of the Mormont man that sat next to her father. She had hoped to be sat near him, but her pest of a little sister had nagged their mother into submission.

Like all young women in the Seven kingdoms, she, of course, had heard of Beor Mormont. He was different from the stories she had heard, however. Jeyne had heard that he was brown of hair with bright red eyes- thus his nickname, the Red Bear-. He was told to be a wild but gallant knight. So noble was he that the king himself knighted him despite not being of the Faith of the Seven when he was not yet a man even.

They said his enemies quaked in their boots at the sound of his name, as his name was so righteous no evil could stand to hear it.

The man she was spying however seemed much normal, much mundane than the larger-than-life image the tales relayed. He was sixteen apparently- he had "volunteered" the information after the little rat Arya bugged it out of him-, he looked wilder than she imagine.

He didn't look neat like the knights in the South. in the top of his head were locks of hair gathered together in a ponytail, whilst the sides were shaven short. He was also much bigger than she had realized, believing the stories about his height to be nothing but fanciful tales.

He however made the plate in front of him look positively tiny. His clothes were also peculiar. they look like the normal clothes a nobleman would wear, but the cut was straighter, the stitches neater. It was familiar yet stood out just enough to be of interest. It had to be a purposeful action, she thought to herself

Observing the gallant knight talk to Arya and Father, she could not help but admire his kind golden eyes, and the soft smile that seemed to always tug at his lips when she would've felt nothing but exasperation at the mere idea of being hounded by this beast of a child.

She had seen Maester Luwin act the same with Robert when he struggled with his numbers. He would smile softly and calmly guide him towards the correct result, never once losing patience.

At one point, he caught her staring at him. As she hurriedly busied herself with her plate, she did not miss the teasing smile that reached his eyes as he glanced back at her. She could not see her face, but she was certain that it was as red as her mane at that moment.

"Children, quiet down now. Your father has something to say." Catelyn said as she looked at her husband, a proud smile on her face

This was all that was needed. The Lord Paramount stood up, and, putting a hand on Beor's shoulder, began. " Since as far back as memory goes, House Mormont has always been our fiercest and most loyal friends."

Catelyn Stark nodded at that, turning to smile at Beor.

"Even when their numbers were small", he continued, "they never failed to answer the call, whether to celebrate or to grieve, to fight or to feast. House Stark and House Mormont are kin, through alliances and marriages. I have decided to once again tie the bonds of our families"

Sansa's eyes widened at that, her heart rate skyrocketing at her father's words.

"I have offered Lord Beor to foster Rob at First Light, in Bear Island. True to his roots, he eagerly accepted, albeit on one condition."

The redhead felt her world spinning. Could it be? Could father have arranged a betrothal between her and the greatest knight of this age? She felt perspiration pearling on her forehead, just at the thought of it.

"He insisted on also having Jon along with Rob."

Jon and Sansa, this time, both choked at the same time. The former because he was completely blindsided by the revelation, the latter because this was not quite what she was expecting to hear

Beor could not help but chuckle at the spectacle. It seems the Lord Paramount could be quite the jokester when in private quarters.

"At the end of the fostering, of course," Lord Stark continued, seemingly oblivious of the effect on his small audience," It has been decided that a period of courtship be initiated between Lord Beor and my daughter Sansa Stark. However, as of now, the both of you shall be officially betrothed to each other, as decided by Lady Maege Mormont and myself, both respective heads or houses.

Thus once more will the destiny of our two families be tied together as we..."

Black dots swam in the field of view of the red-haired preteen, as she was now hyperventilating. Muffled calls to her were the last thing she could before she fell into the quiet embrace of unconsciousness

Jon Snow was at a loss for words. Even now, a few days later, as a servant packed some of his things, the thirteen-year-old was still staring dumbly out of the window, combing his fingers through his jet black hair.

Reminiscing about how much things had changed in the blink of an eye He couldn't quite bring himself to believe any of it. He was about to leave his home for the first time since he's been here, Arya was equally part excited and sad, and poor Sansa had barricaded herself into her room, threatening whoever would dare drag her out with a slow and painful death.

A week ago, he was just Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was the stain on his lord father's honor. The blemish on the beautiful family image Lady Stark wished and yearned for.

Then everything changed. His world, however tedious and oppressive it was, had flipped on its head, the moment that man stepped through the gates of Winterfell.

He had heard of him, of course. Every soul this side of the Narrow Sea had at least passing knowledge of Beor Mormont, The Red Bear in the North. It wasn't even the first time Jon had seen him, although he had not known his name then. No that had been about five or six years ago, he believed, when all the Northern Lords gathered at Winterfell to answer the call of Lord Stark in response to the Iron Islands rebelling against the Crown.

Beor Mormont had been the first and only child in the armor he had ever, though as he stood taller than most grown men in attendance, he could scarcely be called that. As the months passed, Jon started hearing rumors of a great warrior, sent by the Old Gods themselves to gift victory to the good king Robert.

Like all the boys, he was enthralled by the tales of bravery and courage accomplished by the Red Bear; the man had slain five thousand Ironborn with nothing but the bloody hind leg of a fallen steed, cracked open the walls of Castle Pyke like a nut, and dragged out the Lord Reaper of Pyke screaming and kicking.

Meeting his last surviving son, Theon Greyjoy, only cemented the man as a legend. The Greyjoy seemed to have equal measures of fear, rage, and a reluctant admiration for Beor Mormont. For the victor, he was the Red Bear, but to Theon, he was the Butcher of Old Wyk.

When Lord Stark left for First Light, he had wanted to go with him, so he could see the legend for himself. But now that the man was in front of him, he was at a loss for words. When he was told that Robb and he were to foster under him at Bear Island, he felt emotions he had never quite felt before: Elation, admiration, but, above all, crippling fear and terror.

Fear of the unknown, fear of not being enough, and terror in the face of leaving the one place he had called home.

He was terrified of leaving Winterfell. Here, he was the bastard son of Lord Stark, under whose watchful eye, no injustice could befall him. For all the odd looks and hushed insults, he was still the lord's son.

But if he ever left, what would he be? Just some bastard, the visible manifestation of the sin of his father. Was it Lady Stark's idea? To banish him from Winterfell? If he left, could he ever return?

That is without mentioning the fact that Lord Beor Mormont frightened him to no end. The man stood taller and larger than any man he'd ever seen. The way his golden eyes would seem to pierce him and gaze into his soul sent chills up his spine. It was really difficult to believe that he was only ten and six.

A gentle knock at the door drew the boy out of his thoughts. Mechanically, he moved and opened it, expecting to see one of his siblings, only to freeze at the sight that greeted him on the other side.

There stood Beor Mormont, in all of his grandeur. A soft smile was perpetually etched on his features. Jon could tell it was real. He could see the mischievousness behind his sharp golden gaze as if the man was always privy to some kind of joke only himself knew.

"Would you leave us, please?" he asked more than ordered the servant who hurriedly left the room after a quick bow.

"My lord", Jon said bowing slightly as the door closed, leaving them alone in his small room. It only helped to accentuate the sheer size difference between the two of them.

He had always been of average size for his age, standing at five feet and three inches. Lord Mormont was three whole feet taller than him, with arms almost as wide as his torso.

"Hello, Jon.", the man said as he walked to the chair next to his desk in the corner, taking it as his seat. "Please, sit", he asked motioning to the bed. Jon was sitting before he realized what his body was doing.

"How may I be of service, my lord?", Jon asked, hoping his voice didn't shake too much.

"None of that, Snow, we will be good brothers one day. I only wanted to talk to you in private.", the Mormont said, in his deep, almost guttural voice.

" I talked to Lord Stark, and we will be leaving Winterfell in two days. I trust your affairs will be in order by then."

Jon could only nod at that. He had winced unconsciously when Lord Mormont had called him Snow, but he realized that there was no malice behind his usage of the name.

"That will not do", the man said, frowning slightly. "You are my squire now, you will use your words when you are addressing me."

Jon choked on his saliva at that, coughing uncontrollably. 'Squire? I thought Robb and I would foster with Lord Mormont?' he thought, his mind firing off questions faster than he could perceive them.

Lord Mormont chuckled at that, looking at the boy scrambling to regain his composure.

"I suppose you haven't been made privy of the arrangement. Being the heir to the North, your brother Robb Stark is to foster under me at Bear Island. There he will learn the ropes of leading and organizing, alongside other matters.

You, however, can't inherit due to your statute as a bastard."

Jon couldn't help but grit his teeth, looking away from the man. Of course, he was treated as the lesser. He was just a bastard, with no place in the world. He could only feel his fears being justified. Even Lord Beor Mormont, a man larger than life. could see him as anything more than what he was, a bastard, a mark of shame, and dishonor.

He caught a slight movement in the corner of his eyes. Lord Mormont had moved from his chair to the bed, sitting beside him. He felt a large, rough hand rest upon his shoulder. Jon raised his head to meet the gaze of the Mormont, finding it filled with sadness and conviction.

"My dear boy", the man said, in his rumbling voice, " This world has not been kind to you, has it?" Jon was never one to accept the pity of others, but it was the first time that someone directed their concern on the fact he was being unfairly treated rather than on himself. This was a new experience.

"You may not be able to become a lord, Jon Snow", he continued, gazing down at the boy, " you may never bear the name of Stark. But I do make one promise to you. We will make something out of you. A knight, if you so wish. A man, if you have the strength."

Jon could barely hold onto the tears that were welling in his eyes. He watched as the man stood up, towering over him, absorbing all the energy in the room.

"So I ask you, Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, will you help me make something out of you? Will you be my squire?

The young teen fell to his knees, and bowing his head, he barely held back a sob. "Yes, my lord. It will be my honor to serve as your squire."

"Good.", the man said, forcing Jon to his feet. Suddenly, he felt embraced by the man who was to be his mentor, his face buried in the man's surcoat.

"It's alright to cry for now. The hard work starts later."

Jon closed his eyes, unable to budge the arms that held on to him. He felt the stinging of the tears he was holding back. With no other option. he let go and cried. Tears of joy and anger, tears to a brighter future, and tears for a past that could have been.

'Villains, villains!

What shall you do?

What shall you do,

When the Red Bear comes for you?'

The catchy tune never failed to liven the mood and rally the crowd, Gordon thought, as he plucked the strings of his harp, and his small audience joined him for the chorus one final time.

'This one is a bigger hit than "The Rain of Castamere", even', he snickered, loving the sweet sound of coins piling in his bucket.

The bard has been traveling around the North for the better part of a year, selling his talents in taverns and feasts, wherever he could find work. The recent news of the Mormonts discovering some beautiful but mysterious lands West of the Sunset Sea reignited interest in the North, especially in one Beor Mormont, presumably the most famous man in Westeros.

This of course meant that songs about the man were all the rage, particularly in the newly trade-heavy parts of the North. The Lord seemed to be quite the celebrity in those parts. Gordon could understand that; the northern lord seemingly turned everything he touched into gold, and thanks to him, merchants from the and beyond were as rich as ever. And with that came a semblance of prosperity for the small folk, who couldn't be happier about the state of things.

"I've seen him, you know", an older man said, addressing his companions. He was a tad drunk, by the way, his speech slurred.

"The man is a monster, I tell you.", he continued, getting noticeably angry. "What he did to the Ironborn, only a beast could."

"Edric, I think you've had enough." one of his friends said, as he noticed the looks they were getting from the other patrons. He put a hand on his friend's shoulder, in an attempt to calm him down.

"Fuck off!", he blurted out, as he pushed the hand away. "Those bastards all sing songs about him like he was some saint! They wouldn't know what the saint was as if he was fucking them in the arse!

Gordon got noticeably nervous as some of the onlookers slowly raised from their seats, no doubt, itching to break of few teeth from the unfortunate drunkard.

"Your friend ought to watch how he speaks of his betters,". A tall man said, probably some kind of soldier by the way he carried himself. A small group also followed him, as they menacingly walked across the tavern to stand near the drunk Edric.

" I'm sorry, my good man", the same man replied, "he is not used to drinking so much. We'll be on our way, now, so no need for trouble."

The group left the tavern under the heavy glare of the other patrons, all of them nervous that a fight might break out whilst they were outnumbered. Luckily they were left alone as they exited the establishment.

"I saw him rip a man's head clean off from his shoulders. That thing is a beast masquerading as a man, nothing but a beast I tell ya", Edric was mumbling to himself as he more stumbled than walked back to the room he was renting with his fellow sailors.

"We told you already, you should watch how you speak of your better, stranger."

He swiveled around, almost falling due to the sudden movement. Behind him were three men from the bar, the same who came up to him.

"The fuck do you want?" Edric asked, slightly on guard.

"His name is not one for you to spout. You dirty it just by saying it.

"Whaa...?" Even through his inebriated mind, Edric could still feel the danger in which he now found himself. He looked around, searching for some help in some onlookers. only to find the street conveniently empty.

The men slowly closed off on him, grim looks on their faces, as they readied themselves to avenge the name of their lord.

Glancing up, Edric saw a younger woman looking down at the scene from her window, a judging look on her face.

"Wo- woman!", he yelled, panic slipping through, " Those men have lost their minds! Get help, I beg of you!"

The woman looked at the scene, glanced at the group of men slowly inching towards the blasphemous drunkard.

She frowned deeply, before spitting on him from the heights where she stood. " I hope you fucking die for what you said, you scum.", she retorted before harshly shutting her window, extinguishing all hope for the foreigner

Edric felt dread built up in his core. his heart beating faster, preparing him for the fight of his life.

He unsheathed a dagger from his belt, pointing it at his would-be assailants who had slowed down, seemingly at the sight of the weapon.

"Not so brave now, how we?" He snickered. "Have at me then, if you have the balls, I'll gut ya like the fucking fish you are!"

The man then watched his hand release the weapon, the one lifeline he had. A deafening sound and pain bloomed on the back of his head. Bringing his hand to his nape, he found it drenched his blood. His, maybe? He wasn't sure anymore.

He concluded that he had lost his wits, barely keeping his balance as he swayed precariously. Turning slowly, he saw the young woman he had asked for help standing behind him, a hammer in hand, the object marred in blood.

"Oh..." he thought simply, before collapsing.

The group stood over him, crazed fanaticism in their eyes, watching Edric bleed to death for his sins.

"He has painted the world red,", the woman muttered, watching the man slowly die, "As the weirwood cries red. For our sins, for our deliverance.

"Praise to the old gods", the men said, solemnly, as life left the eyes of the poor man on the ground.

There it is. Sorry for the delay, but I didn't feel like writing for a little while. I have more time now, so expect a few more chapters in the coming weeks.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I like writing it. I also never wrote a teen before so if teen Jon Snow feels weird, my bad. I don't know to convey brooding/ emo-ness in words.

Some people pointed out how weird it was that Jon was calling Beor young master. I know, lol.

Put a super being with world-altering ideas in one of the most superstitious parts of Westeros( especially one with an animistic-like religion like "The old Gods"), guess what's gonna happen?