After riding from Last Hearth to Queenscrown withe the Wandering Wolf and his grandson Eddard Stark Jon Umber had come to know two things. The little Starkling was fucking intense. Also, he obviously had an ass made of pure steel. An eight-year-old should not be able to ride for days at a pace that set your rear skin on blistering fire. Not a word of complaint from the little pup while Jon himself was picking up more and more curse words each day from uncle Hother's infinite repertoire. Actually, nary a word at all passed the little one's word and Jon might have thought him mute if not for the rare sentences passed between the two Starks.

The Wandering Wolf was everything uncle Mors had painted him as and more, an insurmountable fighter and dashing horseman, a keen strategist and an overall monster. He was also jovial, a good guy to share ale and a laugh with and the apparently only person that could make uncle Hother blush with his cussing. Then again, the man, the legend, would turn five and fourty this year, so he had had decades to cultivate his skills. Impressive still, but like everyone in the camp, Jon was more astounded by Eddard fucking Stark, an eight-year-old boy. Not just his riding skills were impressive and his silence and stare intimidating (something no man younger or smaller than him had any right to be), the guy rose earlier than anyone else at camp to train dodging and to spar with his grandfather in a disturbing amount of weapons with a disturbing amount of proficiency. Not that the little boy would best him with a sword, far from it, but the eight-year-old Eddard would have easily been able to beat up eleven-year-old Jon with a hand behind his back. And with his skills with bow and arrow and his throwing knives, a prepared Eddard was already a deadly Eddard now. No wonder the Starks held the North for 8.000 years, Jon had to wonder if all of them were as impressive as the two he now knew. The others in the party were giving the boy a wide berth, especially after he asked if he could help 'question the next wildling animal they captured'. Mors adored him, though, and Karl and Erik were already treating the little man like a brother. He might be that to them someday, a brother, Mors had already offered his daughter as a betrothed if he helped rescue Anya.

That had been the only time Jon had seen Eddard Stark speechless instead of silent, then the little man went scarlet red and started stammering. It was good to see that there was a piece of a normal eight-year-old in the young Stark. Before Eddard could answer properly Rodrik Stark had cut in, told uncle Mors off for embarrassing his grandson and then declined the proposal as he had been charged with securing an advantageous match with some southern lass to further Lord Stark's ambition in the south.

The most curious and adorable thing had been Eddard Stark seeking out uncle Mors later that day, telling him if it was his choice he would marry for love like his parents and his mother's parents and if he fell in love with Anya he would beleaguer Rodrik to help him, with the support of his sister Lyanna. The two things Jon understood from that conversation was that, one, Eddard Stark would grow up to be the best man he would ever know and, two, Mors and his sons would follow him until their death no matter who sat reigning in Winterfell. More than Lord Stark now, more than Lord Brandon when he inherited the position. Also, Rodrik Stark, the most fearsome men in the North and maybe all of Westeros, was a big softie that could not deny anything to his granddaughter. If she wasn't only four years old at the moment and Jon was supposed to marry within the next five years and start having children, she would have been a good candidate for a wife just from that fact.

Karl and Erik would not leave Eddard alone after that, clinging to his heels like puppies. Due to that they were the first that Rodrik invited to through pebbles at Eddard during his dodging training. Timid in their throws at first, they quickly started throwing in earnest when Rodrik threw a few rocks their way after they were very obviously not making an effort of hitting Eddard. Still the Starkling proved a marvel and the rock throwers increased to include him the day they reached Queenscrown. It had only been a scant ten days after leaving Last Hearth, and that with several detours to check on villages and holdfasts in the area.

Traveling the New Gift was saddening like always. Fertile lands, as far as the eye could see, lying fallow as people were driven south. How many people this place could have fed, how many old ones could have been spared from going hunting in the depth of winter. Fucking wildling cunts. They were truly a plague, Eddard Stark had the right of that.

The men turned in for an early rest at Queenscrown, well deserved after the harsh riding. They had arrived already at noon after rising early but an exhausted host could fail even against outnumbered wildlings. Jon would have hit the sack early as well, had it not been for the sound of sparring in the yard that showed, once again, that the Starks were intense. With asses made of steel. They also had to have a good dose of insanity somewhere in their heads.

Looking over to the courtyard of the old inn on the shore he could see his cousins and uncles emulating the Starks, training beside them. At one point all his four relatives attacked Rodrik together while Eddard was training a little of with a truly vicious looking contraption of mace, chain and blade. While the young Stark was twirling the chains in faster and more complicated figures the older one was handily trouncing Mors, Hother, Karl and Erik. Usually Mors was able to cover his blind spot but not today, not against the Wandering Wolf. So entranced was Jon in the display of masterful blade work, Rodrik fighting with a sword and dagger combination against an onset of two great swords, an axe and a mace, that he did not notice Eddard changing his training weapon to bow and arrows until a blunt tipped arrow hit the stony window frame above his face and dropped harmlessly onto his head.

All four Umber men instantly stopped mid-spar, a mistake that Rodrik punished without mercy, as Eddard addressed him from the courtyard.
"Lord Jon, seeing as my grandfather will not leave me with any sparring partners, are you willing to go for a bout?"

Right he was, the little lordling, the Wandering Wolf was unlikely to leave his cousins and uncles in fighting or sparring fit when he was through with them. Also, for that little scare Eddard Stark deserved a beating and he practically asked for it. Snapping the offending arrow, Jon went down and crossed the winding causeway to the abandoned village were Eddard was waiting in the on the open ground. Mors, Hother, Erik and Karl were groaning on the ground as Rodrik was lecturing Eddard.

"Lord Jon, I apologize for shooting at the window frame above your head with only my poor archery skills, that are now suddenly in doubt by my noble mentor. I did not mean to startle you."
The second part sounded sincere. For the first part, Eddard Stark wore such a faked expression of looking chastised that all Rodrik could do was grumbling about an 'insolent whelp' while ruffling his head.

Jon laughed. Loud, booming as all his friends told him he did. He laughed truly for the first time since Anya had been taken, and after a second his cousins joined him with uncle Hother, before, finally, even uncle Mors could not hold it anymore. Neither of them had seen, nor even expected, a spunky side to Eddard Stark before. Their laughter would not abate for some time, Jon sat down to join the others lying on the ground who were tossing and turning in mirth.

Rising again after the final chuckles had ceased, Jon grabbed a blunted great sword that Mors had taken along on Rodrik's instruction and turned to regard his opponent.
"You know, Lord Eddard, I'm much more comfortable with people calling me Jon. Lord Jon is my father."
"Call me Ned." With that Eddard Stark – Ned – brandished two blunted daggers and charged in a half crouch towards him, keeping his feet apart to allow for quick movement to the sides.

Jon was aiming for a bisecting swing but was only used to dealing with people of Umber or normal proportion so he immediately saw that the young boy could easily duck under his swing. He awkwardly changed his weapon's course mid swing while retreating backwards, his larger steps allowing him to widen the distance again. Little bugger was fast, too. The size was a problem, overhead swings would be practically useless in this fight as Ned could see the sword coming from far away and Jon needed to overextend on those strikes to threaten his diminutive sparring partner. So Jon opted for low sweeping striges while steadily advancing, targeting a Ned's legs in a full on crouch. It was not a comfortable position to fight in, Jon discovered.

Ned was a vision, too, the little boy bouncing around at the edge of his reach, weaving left to right and right to left, falling in a roll and bobbing up and down in his half crouch. Not for a single second did both of his feet leave the ground at the same time. His footwork was good, his perception of Jon's reach was impeccable and Jon had no idea how good he was with those two knives of his. Not a single clash of weapons had occurred yet both his cousins were watching with rapt attention and his even his uncles and Rodrik had stopped to observe them.

It continued this way for minutes. Jon had always been assured of his stamina yet this little boy was besting him in endurance, leading him around for a merry chase. Jon felt his arms grow heavy. This was not a fight, Jon realized, it was a dance to the little one. Not a game, but the dance between an agile predator and a hulking aurochs. Jon could not lose. He needed to pull Ned in to attack him and retaliate before the Starkling stepped too far into his range. Jon was not one for feints in fighting. He knew how to spot them of course, but as an Umber giant one did not need to resort to quick feints all that much because few fighters trained for mobility and dodging exclusively. This was the North, not Braavos, keeping warm alone necessitated restrictive clothing. This did not seem to apply for the two Starks, both cloaked in furs, but obviously for comfort and availability, not for necessity. Rodrik and Ned were wearing far too few furs in his opinion. Winter in their blood, truly the Kings of Winter. Jon had not understood when his father told him the Starks were of Winter. Not truly, but now he did, now he saw. Ned Stark, unperturbed by the cold and five years younger than him, led him around by the nose. It would have been disgraceful were it any other boy, no, man, but Jon would not feel ashamed. And he still had fight left in him, enough for gamble as well.

He did not stop his attacks. He got slower. His attacks lacked in vigor, losing strength at the pace of normal men. Ned had not fought an Umber before, and it showed. While Jon was getting exhausted, he was not as exhausted as he made himself look. Rodrik, standing behind his grandson, obviously noticed, a large grin stretching his face. Ned did not. After another overextended swing, Ned decided to charge. Head first into Jon's abruptly raised knee. A groan followed, along with a strike to his leg and a crumbling Ned.

"You lost, pup. Told you so." Rodrik was still smiling.
"I opened his the main artery in his leg. Jon would bleed out." Ned was groaning between the words.
"Yes. You'd still be dead. Only an idiot trades his life for his enemies. Better to life to kill another day. Killing each other does not make a tie out of losing."
The Wandering Wolf truly was strange at times. 'Kill another day', not fight another day. Truly a predator. Better to become good friends with his pup.

Jon stretched out his hand to the boy – the man – on the floor.
"You also wouldn't fight me with daggers against a great sword on an open field. Don't pretend to be daft, Ned, I won against you but it's not like I won the fight. Like you said, bleeding out."
Ned smiled at that. Huh. His smile really mirrored the wolf sigil stitched to his sleeve. Whoever did that must really like embroidery. And Ned. Probably his late mother.

With everyone exhausted or concussed after the sparring session, minus Rodrik, of course, who seemed as fit as before, Jon suggested convening under the stars on the top of Queenscrown with some nice, steaming spiced ale. The three old ones quickly agreed and pulled the three younger ones along.

Up on the tower most did not last long. Erik and Karl were the first to turn in for the night and at some point Mors, Rodrik and Hother started a drinking competition. Ned had a nice set of dice on him so they could liven it up but declined joining in the competition himself. , While Jon was tempted to compete, he knew Hother would still easily out-drink him even if the dice favored him. The other two were no match for his youngest uncle as well, as he came to see that night. It was the first time he saw Rodrik being bested, in any type of contest so far. By the look on Ned's face, the feeling was shared.

It was just the two of them now. Hother was the only one strong and sober enough to help Mors and Rodrik down the stairs and he did not bother to return. Ned was sitting on the rim, his legs dangling off the tower and looking up at the stars. He was quiet again, like most of the night, and for the first time Jon could say that the boy was not disconcerting in his silence but truly seemed comfortable and welcoming. Jon understood, suddenly, that Ned owned his silences and was not turning them against him anymore. That they had really become friends.

He sat down next to the Starkling and held up his cup, clinking together before they both nursed the hot ale. Jon knew he did not need to breach the quiet. It was something he seldom felt. His father called him boisterous, and he was right. He was surprised when Ned broke the silence, instead.
"Have you ever met a wildling that was a decent sort? A man of the free folk? I've read of them; I just can't picture one anymore. Not since I spoke with Tya."

Ah, the girl from the smallfolk. Poor lass. Jon did not have to think. He'd met raiders aplenty, of course, but no upstanding free folk until last year. It had been another of the raids and Jon had raged against the wildling vermin, the scum of Westeros, all the beasts beyond the Wall. He'd also had his Tya. Alys, her name had been. She had not been unspoiled, she'd been 16 already and married. No reason to keep her pure for the slavers. Jon had burst into the room while the raider was still rutting her, her husband sitting against the wall with his heart on his sleeve. Fucking scum had fancied himself another Bael the Bard.

That had been the first man Jon had killed. On his first foray against raiders. He'd tried to do something, after, he did not know what he tried anymore, but it obviously wasn't enough. Alys had seemed to return to normal, at times. They had taken her in at Last Hearth as the whole hamlet had been torched. Between her screaming fits and her night terrors Alys had been normal, only broken eyes hinting at her despair. Until she jumped from the walls of Last Hearth, her head shattering like overripe fruit when she had miscarried the baby her husband had left her. And Jon had raged like never before. He spat out over the towers edge at the memory, his mouth turning to ash.

"Aye. I've seen a lass that's been dealt like yours. Worse. I was angry, furious. Killed my first man the day I met her. The day she took her own life I was shattered. All the fucking cunts north of the wall could have died that day, women and children included, I'd have fucking celebrated. I'd read of the good ones, too. Wyllis is standard reading up here, lets us know there are humans up north as well, even when it's easy to forget sometimes.
Hother took me to Whitetree, a village just north of castle black. He wasn't the right sort for it, in my opinion. The Citadel taught him contempt. Mors hates 'em more though, spent his whole life fighting them. He'd rather spit than look at 'em. Now, I think it'll be worse. He'll never forgive the free folk for what the wildlings've done to him. However, I met folks just like us up there. Four families, nice people. They're also afraid of the raiders. Everyone is, free folk despise them, fucking slavers."

Jon Umber finished his ale with a deep gulp. Ned Stark did, too. Silence embraced them again. Jon took in his neighbor for a second. Realization washed over him, he finally placed those eyes.
But that was impossible, Ned had turned eight not too long ago. There was no denying the look though.
"You've killed, too." It was a statement. Confirmation followed as Ned looked at him and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Mine was a rapist, a wildling beast. I came upon him in the act and the blood that splattered when I split his skull drenched the torn bits of Alys' dress red. Never regretted killing him, only that I was too late. I'll never be able to forget it though."
Jon did not know why he shared that. Few knew, Alys asked him to keep it quiet. She did not want the pity. Jon had acquiesced. Much good it did her.

Ned stood up and returned with the rest of the ale, still warm from the canteen on the brazier, even though the fire had gone out some time ago. He filled both their cups, they shared a short 'To Alys' and finished their drinks straight away. Ned refilled the mugs once more, emptying the canteen.

"My mother died when a deserter of the Night's Watch slipped free from the block and tried to take me hostage, to kill me, I don't actually know. I was to witness my first execution. Mother stepped in front of me and took a knife to the neck."
People only knew Lady Stark was dead. These sordid details had not been shared. Even as Jon had accepted their friendship earlier he had not realized the amount of trust this implied for Ned. Now he did.
Jon had not heard people speak so tonelessly before. Alys had a hollow voice before her child died in her womb, despair and death tinging her tongue afterwards. Ned was quiet. Jon did not have to strain to listen, though. Once again, all was quiet as at Ned's command with only his whispers piercing through the night

"I slit the deserter's throat with his own knife and put him down like the rabid dog he was, telling him he was not worthy of my remembrance. I succeeded at that. I cannot for the life of me recall his face. Only his hand, his knife and his breaking eyes as he choked on his blood."
Ned finished his ale after clinking with cups with him and Jon found his hands trembling as he followed suit. There was no talking between them anymore and they retired soon after, not even saying good night to each other, simply giving each other a nod in understanding. Still Jon lay awake for a long time that night.

He started the day knowing two things, he ended the night knowing three.
The little Starkling was fucking intense. He had a body made of pure steel. And Jon Umber was glad that he was Ned Starks friend.