(Location: Winterfell)

2 moons later

Ned Stark

Dinner was quiet. It has been this way for a while now. The table, for the most part, was reticent and if someone had to say something it was in hush tones and they would fall back into silence. Arya had a dark scowl on her face as she looked at her plate. Bran looked pensive as he picked at his food with a fork. Robb was taking small bites of his food, face set in a hard line. Sansa was eating her food with her usual courteous of a lady as Rickon who sat to her right was smashing his carrots into small fragments. Catelyn has the appearance of her normal self as she helped Rickon eat his food. Theon was the sole person missing at the table.

"Where is joywn?" Rickon asked at no one in particular as he looked around the table to find his cou-brother.

"Stop asking that. He is not here," Arya snapped, still looking at her plate.

Rickon looked at her in curiosity. "Bu-"

"Stop asking!"

Rickon looked hurt, tears filling his eyes. Sansa looked to her little brother before looking at Arya and said, "Don't talk to him in that way. He is only a baby!"

Arya looked up from her plate to glowering at her sister. "He has been asking the same question too much. It's annoying me."

"Everything is annoying to you, like sewing dresses which is a requirement for being a lady."

Arya stood up from her seat and slammed her hands on the table, causing the utensils on the table to rise in the air and fall back on the table and making a slight ringing sound.

"Arya Stark!" Catelyn called out. "Sit back down!"

Arya sat back down and crossed her arms, scowling. "I don't like sewing," She muttered.

Bran stopped picking at his food and glanced at her. "It's something you have to be good at."

"Not if I don't want to." Arya glared at her younger brother until he shied away from her gaze.

"You have too." Catelyn gave her daughter a strict look. "It's proper for a lady to excel at sewing."

Sansa placed her fork on her plate and clapped her hands together. "If I can sew well enough, there's a chance that I will be able to make dresses with princess Rhaenys." Her eyes were glowing with enthusiastic dreams.

Arya looked at her sister with incredulous clear on her long face. "You sound stupid."

Sansa blinked and glared at her. "What are you talking about?"

Arya rolled her eyes as if it was simple. "You keep going on and on about this. It's never going to happen. It's like saying I'm going to marry prince Aegon."

Bran chuckled and Arya slapped his arm.

"It is possible!" Sansa hedged herself. "I can sew with the princess and talk about all types of enjoyable things!"

"A Stark is never, ever again going south," Ned said, seriousness coating his voice. "We Starks are not going to be subjected to their abominable games again." His father tried to play the game, and his brother and sister died for it. If Ned could, his children are never going to see the King or any other southerners.

The table descended into silence with Sansa seeming to be downhearted at his will. Ned saw that Arya was fidgeting in her seat, and her lips trembled as if she wanted to shout out something.

He was right as Arya leaned on the table and shouted, "Why are we talking about stupid sewing and the stupid south?! Jon is missing!"

Everyone turned to Ned and he can see the fire in Arya's, Bran's and Robb's eyes. Catelyn also looked worried. Ned knew she didn't like Jon's presence, but that didn't mean she wished for him to die. A 14-year-old who is all alone in the world is not favorable.

"The search party was not successful," Ned admitted. His childrens face soured as he continued. "I sent every raven to every house in the north. They did not see him I'm afraid. He is still mis-"

To everyone's shock, Arya grabbed her plate and hurled it to the wall behind her. The plate shattered as it made contact and the broken pieces crashed to the floor that made Rickon whimper at the sound it had.

Arya had her back facing them, shoulders shuddering. The table was too benumbed from shock to react immediately and they all stared at the youngest Stark girl.

"Arya?" It was Catelyn's whisper that broke the dome of silence.

There were now sniffing to be heard and a few deep hiccups that jerked her body. Arya slowly turned, instead of showing her face to them like Ned thought she would, she ran out of the room.

Robb and Catelyn stood to go after her, only for Ned to signal for them to sit back down and they did it falteringly. I should be the one to comfort her. It is my fault that Jon is gone. He was not a person that would balk at conceding when he was wrong. He was wrong now, and he would say that to the faces of every one of his bannermen without having to think twice. Ned took the responsibility to take care of Jon, to teach him his sums and make him feel that he has a family. But he failed. He failed as a father and a brother.

I'm so sorry Lyanna. Ned mentally lamented. This was his entire fault; the blame couldn't be aimed at anyone else besides him. If only I hadn't taken Jon from that tower…

Years ago, Rhaegar winning the battle of the trident was well known as was the death of Robbert Baratheon who Ned considered to be his brother in all but name. Lyanna passed away in her bed that was full of winter roses and full of scarlet blood that seemed to stick to her clothes. Amongst all the blood was a baby wrapped up in a red and black bundle. All of these deaths served him as a reminder and Ned took the baby away...because...be-

I did what needed to be done, Ned thought determinedly. For his safety. I promised...

"Promise me," a voice said in his ear, so long ago.

Ned traveled through the castle to arrive at Arya's door. The sounds of sobbing behind the door made him pause and press his ear on the wooden surface. He just stood there, listing to the way she let out her sorrow in the collective sound of gasps and more cries. Ned's shoulders slumped. I'm only good at causing other people to pain it seems. His child was hurting, and Jon was hurting all because of him.

When he couldn't stand hearing his daughter's cries anymore he conservatively opened the door in order to not disturb the poor girl and entered. Arya continued to bawl on her bed with her face down on her pillow, oblivious of his intrusion.

"Arya?" Ned closed the door behind him and barred it to have privacy that he did not want to be disrupted.

Arya ceased her sobs and hiccups in her pillow and shouted, "Go away!" She hiccups again and continued to sob.

Ned tiredly sighed. Consoling his daughter will not be easy as some people may think. Arya is wild, almost as wild as Lyanna in her days. She was a passionate and loving girl. She was nicknamed 'Arya underfoot' because of her tendencies to roam around the castle night and day despite her mother's complaints. She can be headstrong at the wrong time, like the argument she had with her sister earlier. Though, Arya can sometimes be too lured in her emotions. Out of all his children, Arya took Jon's disappearance the hardest, with Robb following close at second place and Bran at the third spot.

"Arya, look at me." Ned sat on the bed, giving Arya his outmost attention.

Arya sniffed, wiping her nose as she picked up her head from her pillow to look at him. Without her stuffing her head into the pillow Ned can properly see her face. Arya's eyes were the color of red from the shiniest of rubies, and tears of grief flowed down her pale cheeks like the unruliest of rivers. Her breath came out uneven and her braided hair was in shambles, though it was always a mess, to begin with.

"You made a raucous at supper tonight," Ned casually said, stroking her hair.

Arya flinched as if she was going to get punished, but he had no intention of doing so. "I didn't mean to," She murmured. "I don't know what came over me. It's just…"

"You miss your brother," Ned finished for her.

Arya nodded slowly, a choke coming out of her throat as tears re-entered her eyes. Ned hastily shifted closer to her and wrapped her in his chest as tears drenched his cloak.

"Jon is gone!" Arya cried from his chest. "Why did he leave?"

Because of me. Ned thought instantly but he said, "I don't know."

Arya gripped his cloak and looked at him, a scowl crossing her face. "It's because of mother isn't it?"

That is most likely a part of the reason. Ned admitted. His wife never loved Jon like how she loved her children or even liked him like how she did Theon. It was understandable. Ned did claim Jon as his bastard. She did not like Jon since the day he carried him through the gates.

Ned forced out, "Maybe."

Arya wrinkled her nose. "She always hated Jon! She always treated him unfairly. If I was him I would run away too!"

"The matter about Jon is…complicated. Don't be too harsh on your mother. There are other problems that drove him away too."

"It's because he is not hers. And because he is a bastard." There was anger in her reply.

Ned inclined his head. "Aye, you have the right of it." Her words stuck true. He didn't like how Catelyn treated Jon. She mostly ignored the boy or scolded him. But it had to be this way. If he told his wife the truth she would treat the boy like he was her own, in which it was not a good thing. Keeping appearances for disguise was gold. Though he was now reconsidering the decision about everything.

Arya slammed her hand on her bed and shouted, "It's not fair! He did not choose to be born this way. He did not choose who he wanted for a father or a mother. So why is he treated like this?"

"I do not know my little wolf. It's just the way it works in this world." Ned sighed and gently rubbed his daughter's hair.

"The world is stupid," Arya muttered bitterly. "Jon ran away and is probably dead somewhere." Her voice caught in her throat as she said those last words.

"Don't speak that way," Ned said, lightly chastening. "Jon is a smart boy and more than capable of taking care of himself." Am I trying to reassure her or I'm trying to reassure myself?

Arya glared up at him through her watery gaze. "But he is alone out there! He can't survive by himself! 'The lone wolf dies but the pack survives'. He is the lone wolf! He has no pack, father!"

Ned swallowed as Arya resumed her sobs in the place of his arms. For a moment he listened to her gasps and her rattled hiccups and then looked outside the small window to see snow falling to the ground.

Oh, Jon. Where are you? Ned thought with despair as the snow continued to blow.

Jon

The sea was a tumultuous expanse of fury, its dark waves crashing against the sturdy hull of the vessel. Jon clung to the rail, his face pallid and sickly as he expelled the contents of his stomach over the side. The wretched journey to Braavos had proven to be torturous, for the turbulent waters danced with the essence of his misery.

To his dismay, Jon discovered he was not alone in his wretched state. Men and women alike, their faces contorted in anguish, clung to any semblance of hope amidst the churning sea. They sang soothing lullabies to their wailing infants, their melodic strains lost amidst the howling winds. Desperation loomed, as some, driven to dire straits, resorted to emptying their stomachs into wine barrels, repurposing them as makeshift vessels of relief.

After Jon had finished retching, his gaze wandered across the deck. It was then that he spotted a man, clad in rough attire, leaning nonchalantly against the railing, nursing a draught of wine. Bronn, they called him. A crude and impudent man, who, it was said, cursed more than most seasoned sailors. His very presence exuded a devil-may-care attitude.

Bronn, upon noticing Jon's gaze, offered a wry smile. "A shit day for a shit vessel," he remarked, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Curiosity piqued, Jon approached the man and inquired, "How so?"

Bronn let out a raucous laugh, his eyes glinting with mirth. "You ask how this is not a shit day? Look around, lad!" he gestured to the forlorn passengers, their faces twisted in torment. "I complain about everything you say? Nay, not everything," he chuckled, taking another sip from his wine, undeterred by the vessel's erratic motions.

With a grumble, Jon retorted, "You complain about enough."

Bronn's laughter rang out once more, carrying a tone of amusement. As he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, he posed a question, "So, who are you? I don't believe I caught your name."

Realizing their paths had not yet crossed, Jon extended a hand in introduction. "Jon Snow," he said, "and I wish to join the Golden Company in Essos."

Bronn's laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a look of incredulity. "The Golden Company?" he sneered. "What makes a lad like you think you're fit for that lot?"

Indignation surged within Jon's chest. "Are you questioning my skill?" he challenged, his voice edged with defiance.

Bronn chuckled darkly, his gaze roaming over Jon's youthful features. "Nay, lad. I'm questioning your balls."

A mix of offence and anger ignited within Jon, his eyes narrowing. "You dare question my courage?"

Bronn merely shrugged, his manners stubborn. "Courage ain't worth a copper when it comes to facing the Golden Company. They're a different breed, lad. But if you've got the balls to try, I won't stop you."

Jon's resolve hardened; his gaze locked with Bronn's. "I'll show you and everyone else what I'm made of," he declared, determination burning brightly within his eyes.

Bronn grinned, a gleam of approval glinting in his eyes. "That's the spirit, Snow. Let's see what you're truly capable of when we reach Essos."

Bronn's gaze turned stern, his voice laden with a mix of warning and concern. "Listen, Jon Snow," he began, his tone gruff. "Joining the Golden Company is a fool's errand. A green boy like you will die before you even have the chance to kill your first man."

Jon stood his ground, his eyes steely and resolute. "I will bear that burden, Bronn," he asserted. "I am not afraid to face the perils that await me."

Curiosity tinged with skepticism danced in Bronn's eyes as he questioned Jon further. "Why do you wish to leave the North, boy? What drives you to seek the Golden Company?"

A solemn expression settled upon Jon's face, his voice tinged with a hint of sorrow. "I have to, Bronn," he replied, his words weighed down by an unspoken burden. "There are things I must do, debts to repay."

Their voyage persisted, carrying them through treacherous waters until they reached the bustling city of Braavos. As Jon stepped onto the docks, his eyes were drawn to the immense figure of the titan that stood guard over the city, its imposing presence commanding awe and reverence. The majesty of the sight struck him deeply, momentarily eclipsing the weariness that clung to his bones.

Walking amidst the commotion of Braavos, Jon bid farewell to Bronn, feeling a pang of gratitude for the unorthodox companion who had guided him thus far. Yet, as he wandered, a sudden commotion drew his attention. A thief, emboldened by chance, attempted to pilfer Jon's money pouch. In a swift and fluid motion, Jon drew his blade, ending the thief's life before the astonished fishermen. Their momentary shock soon faded, their gazes averted as if such sights were not uncommon in these parts.

With his pouch secure once more, Jon inquired about the whereabouts of the Golden Company. Disheartened by the news that they were stationed in Myr, he cursed his luck, realizing he would have to endure yet another voyage across the treacherous sea.

Finally, they arrived in Myr, where the sun beat down mercilessly upon a field of thick grass. Jon wiped the sweat from his brow, grumbling about the searing heat, while his direwolf companion, Ghost, whimpered in agreement. They pressed forward, their feet carrying them closer to the camp of the renowned sellsword company.

Approaching the camp, Jon noticed a wary sentry, his hand resting firmly on his sword's hilt. Undeterred, Jon informed him of his intentions to join the company. The sentry, eyes scanning him with suspicion, escorted him to the tent of Harry Strickland, the commander of the Golden Company.

Outside the tent, a spear adorned with the skulls of past commanders caught Jon's attention. Even the malformed head of Maelys the Monstrous, the last of the Blackfyre pretenders, hung among them. Jon's gaze lingered on the macabre display, his mind momentarily drifting to thoughts of his family in the North, wondering what his father or his abandoned siblings would think of his choices.

Shaking off those unsettling thoughts, Jon entered the tent. The interior was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of parchment and ink. Harry Strickland, a weathered veteran, welcomed him with a knowing smile as if he had anticipated Jon's arrival.

"I know why you've come, Jon Snow," Harry said, sliding a parchment across the table. "You wish to join the Golden Company."

Jon's eyes scanned the contract before him, finding its terms fair. Questions about his past, his choices, and the consequences weighed on him, but the allure of purpose drew him forward. Determination etched itself into his features as he set the quill to parchment, signing his name with a resolute stroke.

As Jon finished signing, Harry's expression turned grave. "Know this, Jon Snow," he said, leaning closer. "The Warden of the North is searching for you. Your true identity is not hidden from me."

A spark of hope and elation ignited within Jon's heart, but before he could utter a word, Harry interrupted him. "But fear not lad," he continued, a wry smile playing upon his lips. "I will not send you home. Your destiny lies with the Golden Company now."

Jon nodded, a mix of emotions swirling within him. "Tell me, Harry, what lies beneath the gold?" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice.

A glint of admiration gleamed in Harry's eyes. "The Bittersteel," he replied, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and reverence.

And with that, Jon departed from Harry's tent, the weight of his decision pressing upon him. He was directed to find his tent and armor as he now embarked on a new chapter of his life. The journey had only begun, and the challenges ahead would test him in ways he could scarcely imagine. But as he walked through the Myrish camp, Jon clung to the flicker of hope and purpose that burned within him, unaware of the intricacies of fate that awaited him in the coming days.