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JON
Their intentions had not the slightest prospect of success. At the moment, their army included no more than two thousand wildings. Men and women the northern Lords considered as invaders, thieves, rapers, and murderers. Jon could already tell that none of them would join their cause.
This desperation angered him, and he threw one of the stone Myriah had painted so thoroughly, on the table. Half of the council members flinched at that. The group seemed so randomly patched up that it almost made them appear ridiculous: An old knight, a witch, and a wilding, the tallest woman Jon had ever seen dressed in armor, a refugee lady, a brother of the Night's Watch, a disowned princess and her bastard lover. All of them pursuing the same goal out of different intentions. Might they be to gain power or safety, or they were of strategical nature. In Jon's case, it was all three of those reasons. He knew all too well what was waiting beyond the Wall and that he needed to prepare the people for this threat. However, he would never reach the people from Castle Black. Through Myriah as his wife, who had birthed a Stark heir, he could do just that. Another reason for him to take Winterfell was for his family. For Sansa, so that she would never need to fear for her life again and for Myriah and their children. Jon wanted to prove, only to himself seemingly, that he could care for them, not depending on whatever choice Doran Martell made for them if they had gone to Dorne after all. That much pride, he had left.
He listened while Sansa and Ser Davos discussed the loyalty of Houses Umber and Karstark. Their armies were already lost to them.
"There are more than three other houses in the in the North. Glover, Mormont, Cerwyn, Mazin, Hornwood." Jon listed them. "Two dozen more. Together they equal all the others. We can start small and built."
"The North remembers. They remember the Stark name. People will still risk everything for it, from White Harbor to Ramsay's own door." His sister added.
Jon noticed how Myriah moved uncomfortably in her seat at that. She hadn't told him what she and Sansa had talked about, and he hadn't asked about it any further. He only hoped that Sansa was smart enough not to mention Edrick in front of the others.
"I don't doubt it." Ser Davos answered her. "But Jon doesn't have the Stark name."
"No." She said and Myriah spun her head around to her, giving her a warning look. "But I do." At that, everyone looked up at her, so she quickly added: "Jon is ever bit Ned Stark's son as Ramsay is Roose Bolton's."
From behind, he saw how Myriah watched him out of the corner of her eye. It seemed like a surprise to both of them to hear Sansa say that. Through their childhood years, Sansa had referred to him as nothing but her half-brother, making it sound as though she wished him not to be her brother at all. Now, she had called him her father's son and had compared him to someone who had legitimized and made the heir to his father's house. Jon had always dreamed of being accepted by his family and especially by the King. But he had learned to carry his bastard-name. Maybe not with pride, maybe only with patience, and lately, he had forgotten about it altogether because his surname never mattered to Myriah. If he had only come to that realization ten years ago, it would have spared him an awful lot of sorrow.
