After the trial by combat, stories about Jon spread through almost every street, alley, tent, and campfire circle.
And the more the tale traveled, the stranger it got.
Some people swore Jon had stormed through Roose Bolton's camp single-handed with nothing but a wooden staff. Others claimed the old gods had blessed him, and that was why he fought like a demon.
Speculation about Jon's parentage also became a favorite pastime for soldiers and Winter Town locals alike.
Ned's public story was that Jon's mother had been an ordinary fisher girl.
Nobody believed it.
Some people whispered something "deeper"—that Jon's mother might have been from House Dayne. The rumor went that before Ned married Catelyn, he'd loved Lady Ashara Dayne… and that Ashara had died around the end of Robert's Rebellion.
No one agreed on the truth, but one thing was obvious: Jon's reputation had jumped.
Beating a fully armored heavy swordsman with a wooden staff was, frankly, outrageous.
And after that fight, even the great lords who'd still been itching to test Robb quieted down.
They'd assumed Jon was just Robb's tool—at most, a sharp spear.
Then the spear started "breathing blue fire."
That made things awkward.
If they stirred up trouble again and Jon demanded another trial by combat… they'd be finished. Legally and morally, they'd have nothing to stand on.
Of course, Jon wasn't about to start throwing his weight around just because he could fight.
Rules were rules. If he pushed too far and made too many enemies, someone would eventually ambush him with a club or put an arrow in his back.
So after the trial, both Jon and the bannermen settled into a tense, watchful calm.
A few lords tried to recruit Jon, hoping to pull him into their own service. But once their advisors reminded them Jon already had an assignment from Robb, they could only sigh and let it go.
With a little time still left before the march south, Jon began training his skinchanging ability.
For days now, soldiers often saw a raven perched on Jon's shoulder.
Training and feeding ravens was basic maester work, and Maester Luwin had plenty—adult and young, trained and untrained.
Jon picked one.
Choosing a raven as his "second skin" target wasn't random.
Ravens had excellent endurance. They were the standard messenger bird in Westeros for a reason—they could fly long distances without dropping.
If Jon could successfully skinchange into one, he'd gain a far more efficient way to scout.
Though with Gods'-Eye View, Jon didn't plan to rely on a raven for battlefield reconnaissance.
What mattered most was communication.
A normal raven could memorize a single delivery route. A clever one might remember three to five.
But if Jon could skinchange into a raven, he could essentially "route" himself—no fixed path, no limitation. A Westerosi version of an owl post, only better.
For now, though, he was still in the "getting it used to him" phase.
Even with the Northern host about to march, Jon still went out on patrol that day like usual.
Because his name carried weight now, even soldiers who hadn't done anything wrong still tended to avoid Jon and his patrol out of sheer instinct.
When Jon's group moved down a street, it was like a plow clearing a field—men dropped their eyes and slipped away.
But as Jon's patrol turned a corner, a group of townsfolk stepped out and blocked the way.
There were old and young, even women carrying infants.
Their clothes were plain, but noticeably clean.
Some of them had even washed their faces.
In an age where water and firewood were precious, that was clearly the best "formal respect" they could manage.
Each person carried a basket or a small bundle, their faces earnest.
The man in front looked vaguely familiar.
"My lord." He bowed to Jon, then said, "We heard you're marching out soon to rescue Lord Eddard. So we brought you some food and warm clothes. Please—accept them."
The Winterfell soldiers behind Jon had never seen anything like this.
They looked embarrassed, trading awkward glances, cheeks flushed.
They were Northerners too—Winterfell men—but they still saw smallfolk as beneath them.
Taking "fees," snatching food, demanding favors… that was normal.
Being treated with kindness like this?
They didn't know what to do with it.
They looked like they wanted the gifts and felt ashamed for wanting them, which was oddly funny to watch.
Jon looked at the smallfolk and felt something tighten in his chest.
He swung down from his horse and helped the middle-aged man up.
"Everyone—neighbors," Jon said, choosing the word carefully. "Winterfell provides our rations, and our cold-weather gear too."
"And besides," he added, trying to lighten it a little, "aren't we going south? It's warmer down there. You should keep these."
Westeros had its strange seasons—spring and autumn were brief, almost an afterthought. Scorching summers and brutal winters made up most of life.
Winter would arrive soon.
And with it—everyone feared it, even if they didn't say it out loud—the long night.
That was only the natural disaster.
There was human disaster too.
Jon knew what was coming. Theon would one day bring ironborn raiders to sack Winterfell.
Martin didn't linger on the smallfolk's suffering, but if even Bran and Rickon had barely escaped, what chance would these people have?
Seeing Jon refuse again and again, the middle-aged man pulled out a smaller bundle, pleading.
"My lord… if you won't take food, then please—take this."
He unfolded the cloth.
A black banner spread open, and in its center was a white direwolf.
In Westeros heraldry, a bastard's personal arms often used an inversion of the family colors.
There had even been the Blackfyres—an offshoot of House Targaryen.
The Targaryen banner was a black dragon on red.
The Blackfyre banner was a red dragon on black.
Heraldry was practically a science here, and plenty of people knew the conventions.
Taking Jon's bastard status into account, the townsfolk had made this banner together to cheer him on.
Jon accepted it and realized at once they'd used good cloth.
And the white direwolf wasn't painted—it was embroidered, stitch by stitch.
Proud. Detailed. Beautiful.
Even the Winterfell soldiers murmured in admiration.
"All right," Jon said. "I'll take this banner. Thank you—for all of it."
Robb had been recruiting knights willing to serve under Jon's command. Soon enough, Jon would have a use for it.
But along with the banner came something else—expected, maybe, yet still enough to sour Jon's mood.