"Get back here!"
It was an ordinary day in Winterfell. Or at least, it should have been for Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was supposed to fetch a sword from Mikken in Winter Town. A simple errand there, then he can go back to his training with Ser Jory Cassel. Being a bastard of Eddard Stark, there can only be few things he can enjoy. When his father gave him permission to train the sword, he poured himself into it to distracted himself from the people's whisper of his bastardy or the glares and insults from Lady Catelyn. When he's not with his siblings, he found comfort in Ser Jory's lessons.
"Thief! Help me stop him!"
Distractions aside, he kept his pursuit of the thief who stole a mirror from a merchant in the street. He was just about to return from Mikken's smithy when he saw a pickpocket steal a mirror from a man satchel. They were in Winter Town, under the protection of Starks. A crime committed so close to Winterfell is unacceptable. However, the thief was slippery as an eel, and as much knowledgeable of the alleys as him. Thank the Old Gods for Ser Jory and his hellish trainings. He won't complain anymore after this.
As he chased after the boy, an idea suddenly popped into his mind. They were almost at a dead end, and there is only one street they can run to after this. Without hesitating, he climbed above one of the smaller houses and cut straight into the other road. Good thing too since he can hear the thief running himself to exhaustion. As the thief approached Jon's spot, he immediately tackled the thief on the ground. Their fall was a bit bad with the thief banging his head on the floor, giving him a concussion. But that was enough for Jon. At least the thief won't struggle much.
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He returned to Mikken's smithy after a long walk from the guard house. The familiar scent of iron and heat from the forges greeted him as he went inside.
"You got the thief then?" Asked Mikken while hammering a stubborn steel before quenching in cold water. The old smith's back looked firm despite his advanced age. Jon has known him almost all his life. When the castle needs its arms and armors, it was always Mikken that answered and served the Starks. When his father was called to war during the rebellion, it was his steel that won the North its victory.
"I got the mirror too." Jon said as he showed Mikken a beautiful looking handheld mirror. He was both fascinated and shocked as he inspected the mirror. It looked fancy, as if it was owned by the royal failmily in King's Landing. A pure silver with blue and red gems embedded around the mirror. The small gems shone brilliantly that he was sure it could feed a small family through the winter. He saw his reflection in the mirror with perfect clarity, brighter and clearer than the waters of a lake. No wonder the thief was so eager to steal it. After all, life is harsh on Westeros, and winter is always coming.
"What are you going to do about ?" Mikken asked. His eyes also widened as he admired the mirror.
"I'm going to return it of course." Jon replied. It was only proper. He won't tarnish the Stark name by keeping what was stolen. He's a bastard, not a thief.
"Have you seen the merchant somewhere? Someone that sells mirrors?" Jon asked the old smith.
"If you're looking for merchants, you should go to Ysolda's tavern near the well. That's where they all stay." The old man suggested. Being a natural born, Jon was afforded with certain freedom that his sibling were not able to enjoy. For one, he can step out of Winterfell after training and roam the town. Naturally, the people knew about him being their Lord's bastard. But instead of being treated a pariah or ostracized, as what was common in the south, the northern people see him as someone they still respect, but not as much as they respect their Lord and his trueborn family. Jon learned from Maester Luwin how different the North and the South treat their bastard children. Bastards were treated as fruits of lust and sin according to the Seven Pointed Star, but since the North follows the Old Gods, they don't treat their bastards harshly. Still, the scars of the Blackfyre rebellions—the Targaryen line that rebelled against the former royal family— are still there, so the people are still wary of bastard children. He knows he's lucky to be taken in by his father knowing the values of his Southern wife, even without being able to claim the Stark name. That's why he guards it fiercely and is very firm in upholding his father's lessons.
Without waiting any further, Jon stepped out of the smithy and followed Mikken's advice. He continued his walk towards Ysolda's tavern to find the mirror's owner.
Stepping inside, Jon was greeted with different scents all at once. Roasted meat gone greasy with time, stale ale, sweat, and the salt-grimed musk of men who lived by the docks. Sailors, dockhands, and merchants filled the room in restless clusters. Some drank deep and loud, others hunched over dice and cards, their voices low and sharp. In the shadows, a few lingered apart, watchful eyes tracking every movement, as if the next bit of coin or trouble might reveal itself at any moment.
He made his way to the counter and found behind it, the tavern's owner in both name and bearing. At the sight of her, Jon could not help but pause a moment, his gaze lingering in quiet appraisal. There was a sharpness to her eyes, a knowing look that spoke of coin counted carefully and trouble spotted long before it stirred. In a place thick with noise and vice, she stood composed, as if the chaos bent itself around her rather than the other way around. The girl was orphaned at a young age, her grandfather stepping outside to 'hunt' for food during winter. A common tradition by greybeards who willingly step into the cold so there were fewer mouths to feed. Her parents fared no better, dying from the sudden chill during a false spring that struck the town. With no other family to claim her, she stood at her own feet and carving out a place for herself until, in time, she raised this tavern from little more than will and stubborn resolve.
Jon regarded Ysolda with quiet respect and admiration. While she was a couple namedays older than him, he can feel familiarity in her story. Bastard and orphan were not the same, yet they walked roads that often ran side by side. Both learned early what it meant to stand alone among others, to carve a place in a world that is too willing to cast them down. In that, he found a quiet kinship with her, not in shared circumstance, but in the strength it took to endure it.
P
"Snow, good to see you today. Back from Mikken I see," Her words shook Jon out of his thoughts, suddenly aware that Ysolda has already noticed him.
"I'm actually here to ask you about something. Have you seen a merchant that sells mirrors?" Jon asked.
"Well I I know those types or merchants won't venture this far north to sell something expensive. You know almost no one the North is not wealthy enough to afford it, except Lord Stark of course," Ysolda shrugged. It makes sense since time is the most precious currency in the North. To survive winter means more time beneath the sun to till the frozen soil for farming. A time wasted could mean a bad harvest, or a failed hunt. Even the smallest moment carried weight, for in the North, a minute lost could be the thin line between life and death.
"But I hear from Mikael that a new merchant was in town, an odd one he said. He told me the stranger speaks in a foreign accent, maybe from Essos. Other people also told me that the he offers baubles and strange items for a small fee. Although knowing them, they don't trust the stranger considering he's too far inland. Most essosi merchants stay at the ports to trade, not bothering to travel into the mainland especially this far North," Ysolda added.
Maybe that was the merchant he was looking for. It's true that no one in Winterfell could afford the mirror aside from his father. The smallfolk can already barely afford to eat, much less buy trinkets that could help them live through winter.
"That must be the one," Jon said.
"Why are you looking for this man, Snow?" Ysolda narrowed her eyes as she focused on Jon.
"I got this mirror here, you see. Found it from a thief I chased earlier." Jon spoke as he took out the mirror from his satchel.
"By the gods! that is one expensive mirror," Ysolda exclaimed. She too was shocked by the elegance of the trinket, amazed that a mirror this beautiful could be created by the hands of a skillful craftsman. It was her first time seeing an object that could be owned by a proper noble. Jon suddenly noticed the suddent decrease in the noise as he looked around. Most patrons were looking at him, or more specifically the mirror. Most were enchanted by the majestic design and the glittering gems that adorned it.
"I intend to return this, Ysolda. I can't keep this even if it was stolen. Besides, this mirror will attract attention, most of all Lady Stark," Jon warned. He could see the tension in the tavern as he saw the patrons trying their hardest not to be obvious in their fascination of the mirror. He immediately tucked the mirror back into the satchel. Jon knows no one will dare rob him since he's of Stark blood, bastard or not. But it's still better to be careful.
Ysolda winced as she heard Jon's words. It is common knowledge that Lady Stark barely tolerates the bastard boy due to her Southern values. Adding fuel to the fire will not help the young man.
"If you really want to return it, he's right there by the corner if you must know. The others stay away from him like a plague. You'll see him quickly," Ysolda ppinted on one corner of the room. It struck him as strange that he had not noticed the man sooner. The figure sat alone in the far corner, unmistakably foreign in dress and bearing, yet what drew the eye more was the space around him. The smallfolk gave him a wide berth. Jon could not help but wonder how he had missed it.
"Thanks Ysolda. I owe you one." Jon finally said as he turn, eager to return the mirror and finish his duties for the day.
As he stepped closer to the man, he barely noticed that the background noise started to dim, too focused on the foreign merchant and his strange outfit.
The man cuts an a figure that could be easily overlooked. The sort of a man no once will pass a second thought, yet somehow will never forget. His build was very ordinary, clad in a modest fashion of a well-travelled merchant. He wore a courteous and polite smile that was meant to be assuring and disarming. But Jon could not help but feel something wrong, or uncertain within all the seemingly unassuming man outfit.
As Jon approaches the man, the man's smile did not shift, but a faint movement of his eyes showed him that he is not unaware. The strangest thing is the eyes that bore expectations and recognition as they focused on him. Jon did not know why he had the urge to hold his sword, but held back as it is beyond rude to draw arms in an unarmed visitor.
"May I help you, my Lord?" The merchant asked with his eyes intent on staring at him back. His eyes shone in anticipation, but of what?
"Good day, merchant," Jon said. "I have come to return this mirror to you. A thief had taken it. I gave chase and saw it reclaimed."
He rested a hand upon the table, his voice turning firm as winter. "Be at ease. So long as you stand beneath the protection of House Stark, such crimes will not be suffered."
"A fine thing, to see justice done so swiftly," he said, his tone warm, almost cordial. Yet there was a weight beneath it, something too deliberate to be chance. His dark eyes lifted, settling on Jon. "Tell me, my Lord… what name does such diligence answer to?"
"My name is Jon Snow, and I am no Lord. Merely a bastard of Lord Eddard Stark. The Lord Paramount of the North." Jon spoke with a hint of pride. His father had garnered a lot of support from the lords of the north, and his name is spoken with admiration. A good and honorable man who sought justice for his family, leading his armies to dismantle a long reigning dynasty of the Targaryen family.
The man then mouthed his name, his name tasted like a delicacy with his smile becoming more gleeful as if finding the most delicious food in the world.
"Jon Snow," He repeated as if tasting a particular dessert in his mouth. "A name given, but not quite owned. Still, a name carries history, a certain weight...and sometimes a touch of destiny," he grinned as if fascinated by him.
The merchant studied Jon's face while speaking. "Still, a son of Eddard Stark is no small thing, bastard or otherwise. Honor, it seems, runs deeper than titles."
At last, the merchant stood up from his chair in one swift motion. The chair did not even creak. "Forgive me," he went on smoothly, as if the lapse had only just occurred to him. "I have spoken much, yet given little in return."
Then he proceeded to bow, like it is more of a performance than a formal introduction. He settled into a smile.
"Gaunter O'Dimm," he said. "A simple merchant, and a man fond of repaying his debts… in ways most fitting."