A Long Way From Home
Jon and the Starks separated again for the night, spending it in houses at all four corners of the Wintertown. When he returned to his Winterfell, he would have to tell his father what the people here had done. They couldn’t be rewarded here, nor in his world, but his father needed to know.
In the morning, the man who ran the house brought him a plate of bread and eggs, along with a mug of water. “Best we can spare.”
“It’s perfect, thank you.”
Anything much richer, and he might throw it all up again. Jon was nervous it was making him feel ill. He kept thinking this was an insane idea. They were going to sneak into Winterfell and be caught by the Baratheon men. They’d have their heads smashed in just like Robert and Edwyle.
Jon didn’t know what else to try. He supposed if this failed, they’d have to go north to the Wall and find Uncle Benjen. Either that, or without the dragons, they could flee to Essos and find a new life there. He’d never see his family again.
He forced himself to swallow the food and drink all the water. It sat like a weight in his stomach. Once he was finished, he returned the wooden bowl, washing it clean in the family’s bucket of water.
“You sure you want to try this, lad?” asked the father.
“I’m sure,” Jon said, though his voice still trembled. This was a tremendous risk, and they could all be killed. He had to try it though. If he didn’t, he’d live while forever wondering whether he could have made it back.
He met with Lyarra and her sisters on a street close to the castle. They had all been brought a change of clothes and cut their tell-tale hair, which was now a muddy brown.
“Food dye,” Lyarra explained.
“Smart.” Jon himself had borrowed a blunt knife from the family he'd spent the night with and hacked his hair as short as he could, the way Aegon the Unlikely did in the stories Old Nan told. The Baratheons and staff of Winterfell expected Joni; they expected a girl. Him being a boy was already the perfect disguise.
“Do you really think this will work?” whispered Minisa.
“It's worth a try,” Jon replied.
Lyarra bid them to wait, and so they did. Jon didn't like it; they felt far too vulnerable. At last, a woman in an apron appeared to meet them. She was old and stooped, with deep creases across her face. A stained apron was tied around her waist.
“Lady Stark,” she croaked, bowing her head to Lyarra.
“Maggie,” Lyarra said warmly.
Jon only vaguely recognized this woman. He'd seen her tottering around Winterfell when he was young. She worked as women staff; he’d never thought about her much.
“Can you get us into Winterfell?”
“Aye, though it's a fool’s mission.” Maggie dug scarves from her bag. “Cover your pretty heads.”
Minisa and Berena were too small to pass as maids, but other members of the Winterfell staff had brought their children to the castle with them as they worked. Often enough they were running around underfoot. Lyarra kept his head down and Lyarra kept her sisters close as they entered the castle gates. Everything was hung in Baratheon colors and Jon’s heart rebelled against it. Wrong; it was all wrong.
Berena scowled at the flags, her blue eyes dark with distress, while Minisa was trembling. Lyarra kept her head high until Maggie shoved her.
“What you looking so proud for? You're staff, lassie!”
Lyarra blushed and bowed her head.
Maggie led them through to the laundry room, with its great wooden tubs. “Far as I’ll get you. You're on your own from here.”
“Thank you for your help,” Lyarra whispered.
“May the gods bless you, little ladies.”
The girls waited around the corner while Jon peered through the door at the hall outside. Finding it empty, he waved for them to follow.
Traversing the halls was still terrifying. Every time they passed someone, he expected to be stopped and interrogated. Fortunately, staff were invisible, and so long as they kept their heads down, they could go unseen.
The mirror, when they reached it, looked perfectly normal.
“Stay close,” Jon muttered. He didn't know how this worked. They might not have time to get through if they were too far away.
Shakily, he pressed his hand to the glass.
It was cold and solid.
Jon pushed against it. When that didn't work, he banged his hand against the surface.
Nothing.
It was just a mirror.
“What is it?” Lyarra whispered.
“It's not working.”
Fear choked him. This had to work. It had to. If he couldn't get through to the other side, he'd be lost. He'd never see his own family again.
“This worked! Why isn't it working?”
“Lya?”
It was a whispered, terrified question.
Jon spun round, ready to fight, only to find himself facing Beth Cassel. She’d cut her curly hair and wore the plain brown clothing common to the maids, but it was still her.
“What are you doing back here?”
“Jon thought he could see us safe.”
“Joni?” Beth squinted at him. “You look taller.”
“It's complicated.”
“Does this mean we can't go through?” asked Minisa.
“I think so.” Jon stared into the mirror. He must be so close, and yet here he was, so firmly locked out.
“Come on, this way.” Beth beckoned for them. “You can't stay out here too long.”
Beth led them through the castle and not to the chambers she had once been assigned but up to the staff quarters. If any of the other maids recognized them, they said nothing.
“Jeyne shares my room. But you'll be safe here, so long as you're quiet. The Baratheon men already searched the staff area.”
“Thank you,” Lyarra murmured, sinking onto Beth’s bed.
“What was it you were trying to do?” asked Beth.
“Return to my Winterfell on the other side,” said Jon.
They'd failed.
And now he didn't know what to do.