Before Spring - Chapter 4
Jon did not move much. He had wept there. He did not remember when he had begun. He did not remember how long it had lasted. He knew only that, at some point, he had been on his knees before the statue, his brow almost touching the stone and his hands clenched until they hurt. The tears had come with shameful force, soundless at first, then with sobs he had tried to hold between his teeth. He had not managed it. The crypt had heard. The dead kings had heard. The old Starks of stone and iron, lying beneath their worn swords, had heard the bastard of Winterfell sob like a child who had lost the way home. There were no tears now. His eyes burned. His throat felt scraped with salt. His chest ached, not only where the knives had gone through him, but somewhere deeper, a place no maester would know how to bandage. The wound in his arm throbbed beneath Luwin’s dressing. The one in his heart did not.
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