Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 171: The Last of the Starks

King's Landing — The docks...

Three days had passed since the meeting of the Great Council had come to an end; by then, each of the gathering lords and ladies will soon return to their strongholds across Westeros – with the exception of a few who offered to stay a bit longer. Jon carried some of his belongings on a cart and had a few servants help him carry it with him to the docks. His escort to start his new life in lands north of the Neck, ones of his own choosing. Together, they walk along the battlements.

"Come on, boys! Move that plank over here! King's orders!" the harbormaster shouted.

Jon takes a moment to look down on Blackwater Bay, far beneath him. His breath catches involuntarily in his throat. From this vantage point, he sees numerous dock workers already on task with rebuilding the city's main ports; no doubt to get foreign goods imported so that trade would start flowing again. Of course, there would have to be a new Royal Fleet too. Nothing's ever simple in life at King's Landing.

Before his departure to the North, Jon had a moment to glance at the new armor he was wearing. He still retained the use of the Northmen's long linen cloak with a luxurious faux fur collar around his shoulders with faux leather straps buckling it together; hidden beneath the cloak, were two glorious sets of armor – ridged scales, tapering to points, with solid plate over key areas. The armor was matte black, accented in dark red. Curved back of the shoulders, the pauldrons were shaped to resemble stylized dragon wings. The red three-headed dragon sigil on his chest was picked out in red enamel with three gemstones inlaid, one for each dragon's eye.

But Jon's selection for a personal sigil, however, was a red dragon on black and a white wolf on grey field facing opposite of each other—giving equal standing to his father's and mother's respective heraldries, a mixture of the elements ice and fire.

"Liking the new armor?" asked one of the smiths.

Jon nodded. "It's... You're a very good blacksmith. Where did you get the money for this?" he asked.

"Queen Sansa commissioned the armor. She even paid for the rubies herself and gave them to us. As for the cloak, however, she said she knitted it herself."

"Haha. Yes, Septa Mordane always commented to Ned Stark and Lady Catelyn that her needlework and embroidering were always meticulous as it was delicate. Second to none. Always perfect. I should probably thank her for the gift when I see her next."

"Seems you might be getting a chance sooner than you think," he points off with his smiths' hammer.

The White Wolf glances over to see the gathered members of House Stark waiting for him down at the docks. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon, Catelyn, Talisa, Little Eddard... all of them in tow. Even Sansa had her little ones, Lyonel, Cassana and baby Torrhen with her. Jon nods and walks down the nearest flight of steps to greet them; the family who took him in and raised him as one of their own. The people he grew up with. Where his home truly laid. At sea level now, Jon passes by a couple dock workers carrying necessary supplies for their assignment and walks across the small beach, followed by his escort.

When he finally reaches them, each of the Stark siblings stood before Jon on the distant dock. Jon stands there in front of them. Robb wasn't too particularly pleased with the outcome, neither were Sansa and Arya – Bran appeared indifferent; his demeanor was difficult to read ever since he became the Three-Eyed Raven. Rickon kept his head lowered.

"Hard to imagine it's come down to this," Robb said grimly. "We argued about it for three days, but Daveth wouldn't relent. 'Right or wrong, there are too many people in the south who want him dead,' was what he told us. Said the only way to keep you safe was to bring you back to the lands north of Moat Cailin via a ship to White Harbor."