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Chapter Text

Long before the winter. Just before Rickon’s birth.

“Lady Stark?”

She turned, facing down the long hall towards her maidservant.

“My lady, your husband is looking for you in the great hall,” she said hurriedly. “He received a raven from your sister.”

“Thank you, Tarya,” she nodded, pulling her cloak over the growing mound of her stomach.

Ned greeted her at the doorway of the great hallway, and her eyes roved across his face as they always did, reading his silence the way few could read even his words. His jaw was tense, his shoulders squared, and his eyes dark, but his lips curved into a smile when he saw her. “My lady,” he said softly, reaching for her, and she walked into his arms.

“Ned,” she said softly. “What news?”

“Your sister is coming to visit with her child and her husband,” he said. “And with them, the king.”

She stiffened in his arms. “The king? Does he come with Cersei and the little ones?”

“Yes, my love,” he answered. “And I believe he comes to ask me to be his general.”

Her face hardened. “And what is the need?” she asked sharply. “What war does he have to fight, what army to slay? He has conquered and brought peace. And you—you are Lord of Winterfell, of a people who look to you, a family who needs you. You have a son soon to be born.”

“I will tell King Robert no when he asks,” Ned said gently. “But what will you say, love, when he comes to me with true need one day? What if there was a war? Would you tell me to stay?”

“That depends on who Robert was fighting,” Catelyn said coolly.

“And if it was a real threat? A threat to Winterfell and to our children?”

“Then I would not ask you to stay, Ned Stark.”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, and then bent and kissed her, the stubble of his jaw scraping across her cheek. “I love you, Lady Stark,” he murmured, his lips ravaging hers in the way that always sent a flood of heat through her body.

“My lord,” she whispered, her voice a low hiss in his ear. “We have an hour until supper.”

She felt his lips, still on her skin, curve into a smile. “Yes, my lady,” he said softly, lifting her easily and carrying her a few strides down the hall and into their bedroom. “I think we do.”

It was over an hour later when they emerged, and they found the children and advisors already in the dining room.

“Where were you, Fa?” Bran, who was nearing four, piped up innocently.

Ned looked down at her, and she smiled wolfishly up at him. “What will you tell your son, Lord Stark?” she whispered mischievously.

“They were fucking,” Arya, who was barely six, stated nonchalantly, pulling back her chair and climbing in.

Catelyn’s eyebrows shot up, and Sansa, who was eight, opened her eyes wide in horror.

“I told her not to say that word, Mother,” she said primly.

“I’m more interested in where she learned it,” Ned said pointedly, his sharp gaze falling on Robb. He pulled out his chair at the head of the table and addressed the eleven-year-old. “Why does Arya speak this way?”

“Must have been that stable boy Adran,” Robb said quickly, lifting his fork and shoving food in his mouth in an obvious attempt to avoid further questions. “You know how he talks.”

Arya jumped down from her chair and ran down the long table to climb up onto Ned’s lap. For a moment Catelyn thought he would reprove the child for her behavior at the supper table, but he smiled slightly.

“Was I naughty, Fa?” she asked, looking up at him concernedly. “I’m naughty by accident almost every day.”

“And you’re naughty on purpose, too,” Sansa interjected. “Today she stole a bow from the guardroom and shot an arrow through one of my dolls.”

“Is that so?” Ned asked, and Catelyn saw that he was trying to hide the smile that twinkled behind his eyes. “Arya?”

She wriggled off of his lap and went back to her place at the table. “It wasn’t one of Sansa’s nice dolls,” she said defensively, a pout on her lips. “It was ugly anyway.”

“Arya, you’ll apologize to your sister,” Catelyn said firmly. “And you’ll help me sew the rip you caused with the arrow.”

“I don’t want the doll back,” Sansa sniffed. “It’s ruined.”

“Very well,” Catelyn said. “Arya, I still expect you to apologize to your sister.”

Arya crossed her arms, pouting.

“Arya,” Ned said softly.

“I’m sorry for shooting an arrow through your ugly doll, Sansa,” Arya said, jabbing her meat with her fork a little harder than normal.

Sansa lifted her head, tossing her red hair and looking pointedly away from her sister, and Catelyn exchanged an exasperated look with Ned.

“Women,” Robb shook his head sagely. “Always trouble.”

Ned raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Catelyn.

“I mean sisters,” he corrected.

Arya stuck out her tongue.

Bran banged his spoon on the table. “So what’s fucking?” he asked, and Ned sighed.

“Not a word to say in front of ladies,” Sansa told him primly.

“You can say it in front of me, though,” Arya added, glaring at her older sister. “Because I’m not a lady.”

“Why can’t ladies talk about fucking”—Bran began, and Robb snickered.

“That’s enough,” Ned said sharply. “I don’t want any of you saying that word at my table again, understand?”

The children were quiet for a long moment, and then Bran piped up once more.

“Is Robb in trouble?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ned said, and when Robb winced, his tone softened slightly. “We’ll talk after supper.”

Robb dropped his head, and the other three children stared openly.

“I have news,” Catelyn said quickly, her bright tone sounding a little forced as she attempted to redirect the attention off of her eldest son. “We will have visitors from King’s Landing in less than a month’s time. What do you say to that, my loves? My sister’s son and the king’s children, all coming to visit.”

“Will I have to room with Sansa?” Arya asked, wrinkling her nose.

“No, my darling, we have plenty of rooms,” Catelyn said. “Aren’t you excited to see your cousin, and the princes and princess?”

“No,” Arya said.

“Yes,” Sansa said.

“They’re all little,” Robb shrugged.

“Yea,” Bran said, looking up at his older brother and trying to imitate the shrug. “They’re all too little.”

Catelyn smiled, and nodded to Ned. “My love, I should begin making arrangements for their arrival,” she rose, and he rose, too. “There is much to do.”

“Others can make the preparations,” he said. “You should do no heavy work.”

“I will refrain from the heavy work, Lord Stark,” she said playfully, but he didn’t smile.

“Catelyn,” he said softly. “There are others who can do the work. You must take care of yourself. And take care of our child.”

She felt the child in her womb kick, and she placed a hand to her stomach, smiling slightly. “Our son recognizes your voice,” she said, and Ned smiled this time.

“Come, my love,” he nodded to the door. “Come sit by the fire with me. The preparations can wait.”

It was a cool summer night, and the fire was a welcome warmth. She sat, and Ned wrapped his fur over her shoulders before taking a seat beside her.

“You don’t need to coddle me, Ned,” she said softly, curling close to him.

He wrapped an arm over her, pulling her close.

“This isn’t my first time carrying your children,” she said. “I have never lost one, my love, and I don’t plan on starting now. I may not be one of these Northern girls, but I am every bit as strong.”

“You are as fierce as a direwolf, Catelyn Stark,” he said, a smile touching his lips. “And believe me when I say that it is not weakness I see when I look at you.”

She smiled at his words, her finger tracing a pattern across his lips. “You speak the words I wish to hear,” she said.

Ned opened his mouth to respond, but a small voice interrupted them.

“It’s true,” Arya said, climbing onto Ned’s lap. “He was bragging to the captain of his guard that his lady is the fiercest in the seven kingdoms.”

“And beautiful?” Catelyn teased, kissing Ned’s jaw. “Did he mention beautiful?”

Arya nodded seriously. “But he wouldn’t let the men talk about you,” she said. “He told them only he has that privilege.”

Catelyn smiled up at him. “Oh, did he?”

Ned smiled, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “I’m a fortunate man, Catelyn,” he said.

“Aye,” Catelyn said. “It is said that the Tully women bring good fortune with them wherever they go.”

“Robb,” Ned called suddenly, and Catelyn saw that the boy had been trying to slip through the room unnoticed.

“Be gentle with him,” she whispered as Ned moved Arya to her lap.

“I’m sorry I taught her that word”—Robb began nervously.

“That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about,” Ned cut him off. “Come here.”

Robb obeyed, standing before them, head down.

“Look at me.”

He looked up reluctantly.

“Tonight you blamed the stable boy,” Ned said, and Robb hung his head again. “A good lord never lays the blame for his actions on someone else, especially someone who has no voice to defend themselves. A good man faces the consequences of his own actions.”

“Yes, sir,” Robb whispered.

“As for the words, I do not pretend to care what words you use as long as you treat your mother and sisters and brothers with respect,” Ned continued. “And for now that means your sister Arya is young, and she does not need to hear or understand coarser language. There is time enough for that. And Robb? That means Bran is too young, too. He’s barely more than a babe.”

Robb nodded. “Yes, sir,” he repeated.

Ned’s face softened, and he stood, clapping a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Come with me,” he said. “I’m going to make a round with the captain of my guard on the outer wall.” Robb’s face lit up, and Ned smiled and then turned to Catelyn. “I’ll be back in an hour, love. Will you see to it that a raven is sent to your sister asking for the date of their expected arrival?”

She nodded and stood, setting Arya on the ground. “I’ll send it tonight, Ned.”

He nodded, and she could see his eyes were already distant with thoughts of his guard and of the upcoming visit, but he leaned in and kissed her before departing with Robb at his side.

She watched as they went, and as she ruffled Arya’s messy brown hair and sent her off to bed, Catelyn thanked every god she knew that Winterfell was not only ruled by a good lord, but that her children were born to a good man.

Chapter Text

“That’s Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard,” he hears them say, and he trains harder than all of them, late into the night when the wind is icy and his fingers feel numb around the handle of the sword.

He is only eleven, and he holds a sword better than Ned Stark’s own boy.

(Some would say that he, too, is Ned Stark’s boy, but he is a Snow, and he knows enough to know that if he is not Catelyn’s boy, he is not Ned’s boy, not really).

Bastard.

The word shouldn’t bother him like it does.

Because he dreams of her, sometimes, and he does not know why.

His mother.

He does not know her name, does not see her face, but he hears her voice, and it is gentle.

She was not just a woman his father took idly.

She was someone Ned Stark adored, this much Jon Snow knows.

“Jon Snow!”

The voice that calls him is stern, and he wheels around to find Lord Stark standing behind him.

“You were summoned,” his father said sharply. “Why did you not come?”

“My lord?” By now he knows better than to say ‘Father’ or, gods forbid, Robb’s more familiar ‘Fa.’ “I received no summons.”

“I sent Robb an hour ago,” Lord Stark said, his eyes narrowing. “Theon, where is Robb?”

“He left to find Lady Sansa, Lord Stark,” Theon said, shifting uneasily, and when Lord Stark raised his eyebrows, he added, “He said Jon Snow could find his own way, my lord.”

“Is that so?” Lord Stark’s lips tightened into a thin line, and Jon guesses that Robb will not get off easy on this.

“No, sir,” Jon lied quickly. “He found me. I didn’t come because I—I wanted to finish practicing, my lord.”

“And what did Robb tell you?” Lord Stark asked.

“Err”—

“As I thought,” Lord Stark turned away. “Theon, find Robb and tell him I want to have a word with him immediately. Jon, I summoned you to talk about the visitors. The king and the Lannisters will be coming to Winterfell within a fortnight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jon nodded.

“Cersei has asked that you are not part of the greeting party when she and her children arrive,” his father called the queen by her name, and for a moment Jon sees resentment in the sharp lines of his face. “I have agreed.”

Jon Snow looked away, across the courtyard at the men practicing and a home that was not truly his. “Yes, sir.”

“However, she has no right to ask you to remain apart from the family outside of the day that she and her children arrive in the courtyard,” Ned Stark continued.

“She is the queen,” Jon Snow said sharply, and Ned’s face darkened at his impudence. “Of course she has the right.”

“There is only one queen in Winterfell,” a small voice piped up, and they turned to find Arya standing shivering behind them, dressed only in her nightdress. “That’s Mother.”

Ned’s face, which had softened momentarily when he saw his daughter, tightened imperceptibly. “Arya,” he said sharply. “I will not hear you speak in such a way. Lady Cersei Lannister is King Robert’s queen, and you will not forget that.”

Arya pouted, and Lord Stark pulled off his cloak and wrapped it over her shoulders.

“You should be in bed, little one,” he said more gently, and Arya moved comfortably into the circle of his arms.

“Why is Cersei”—

“The queen,” Lord Stark corrected her, lifting her in his arms.

“Why is the queen treating Jon like that?” Arya was still pouting. “He’s my brother.”

“I’m not your brother”—he burst out.

“Yes you are!” she scowled at him, sticking out her tongue. “I’m his daughter, and you’re his son just like Robb is”—

“Not like Robb,” Jon Snow corrected her sharply. “I’m not his son. I’m his bastard.”

He turned and walked away quickly, not caring if Arya would be angry with him later, not caring if Lord Stark would punish him later for his disrespect.

Jon did not turn back, but surprisingly enough, Lord Stark did not call for him; instead, the man turned and carried Arya back inside.

Jon Snow slept in the guest room at the far north corner of the castle that night, and he dreamed of her again.

His mother.

It was always here, close to the wild, icy wind that blew down from the north, that he felt her presence the most.

It was said that Lord Stark brought him back from the war as a babe, and so he had assumed his mother was of the south, but he never felt her presence there.

The wind of the north sang her song.

And tonight is special.

Tonight he sees her face.

She is dark-haired and grey-eyed and as wild as the Northern Sea in a storm.  And tonight she smiles, stretches out her hand.

“My son,” she calls softly, and he knows her, he knows her and he must have always carried her voice with him.

“Who are you?” he asks, and she just smiles.

“I am your mother.” Her hand brushes his, and for half a wild moment he sees the wolf in her eyes, keen and dark and beautiful.

And then she is leaving—mounting a horse the way the northmen do, riding away from him into the fierce, cold wind, and her dark hair swirls behind her.

“Don’t go!” he calls, but she does not turn, this wolf-maiden who rides the wind.

“Who am I, then?” he demands, and she does turn, now, her voice far-off and cold.

“Jon Stark,” she calls, and the words reach him vaguely, torn and battered by the wind.

“I am not the son of Ned Stark!” he shouts angrily, and he wants her to deny it, to tell him that he is Ned’s son and that she is more than the mother of a bastard—

She is gone, now, but though she is gone, he hears her voice in the wind that blows back to him from the north.

“Oh no, my love,” she whispers. “You are the son of the dragon.”

Jon Snow woke with tears streaming down his face.

He slipped out of bed and pulled on a shirt, his hands shaking as he tried to cling to the fading memory of the dream.

Perhaps his mother was a northern girl, after all. And in one sickening, blinding moment Jon Snow guesses exactly who she is.

It is midnight when Ned Stark finds him in the crypts, standing before Lady Lyanna Stark’s tomb.

“What are you doing here?” Lord Stark asked gruffly, folding his cloak closer around him.

Jon Snow turned to face this man who was not his father. “I am Lyanna’s son,” he said confidently, waiting to feel the back of Ned Stark’s hand. “I am not a bastard. I am the son of Lyanna Stark the she-wolf and Rhaegar Targaryen the dragon.”

Ned Stark’s eyes flamed, and he stepped forward, pushing Jon roughly against the wall.

Jon Snow did not flinch. “Tell me I am mistaken,” he said quietly. “You have said I am your blood. You have not said I am your son.”

Ned’s face hardened. “You must never speak those words,” he hissed. “If anyone hears, King Robert would have your head on a spike, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him.”

“So it’s true?” Jon asked fiercely. “Rhaegar loved her, didn’t he? They always said he was a monster, but he loved her. I know it. And she’s happy now.”

For a moment, he thought Ned would grow angrier, but instead his face softened. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Lyanna loved him. She could have had any man in the land—including King Robert—and she chose the dragon.”

“He chose her, too,” Jon Snow said. “And he rescued her from King Robert, and had no thought of what they would say of him.”

“He could have had any gentle lady in the seven kingdoms,” Ned said distantly, a small smile on his lips. “And he may have crowned Lyanna as the queen of Love and Beauty that day, but it was the day he saw her riding across the plain like a northman, her hair as wild as the north wind, that he loved her. He was the dragon, but she was the fiercest of the two. And he loved her for all that she was, which is something Robert could never have done.”

“When I am older, they will all know,” Jon said, and Ned Stark gripped his shoulder.

“They must never know,” he said. “It was Lyanna’s secret, and she died keeping it safe.”

“Then I will guard it,” he said. “And every day that they call me bastard, I will learn to fight them like a dragon.”

“No, lad,” Ned Stark smiled wryly. “You would do better to fight them like a wolf.”

Chapter Text

It was late when Catelyn woke to find that the other side of the bed was empty. She was cold without him at her side, and worry pricked the edge of her mind. Was there some security threat that needed his attention? Or was it simply Theon’s sleepwalking again? The boy had been found asleep in various corners of the castle since he had arrived, even in the stable once, much to Robb’s mischievous delight.

Catelyn slipped out of bed and pulled her furs over her thin nightdress, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold floor. She left her room—strapping a knife to her thigh under her nightdress, just in case—and walked softly down the long corridor. A lit torch was hanging on the wall near the stairs that led to the crypt, and, curious Catelyn descended.

She heard the sound of Ned’s voice.

“It was Lyanna’s secret, and she died keeping it safe,” he was saying, and Catelyn froze.

Lyanna’s secret?

What was Lyanna’s secret?

“Then I will guard it,” a determined young voice said, and Catelyn stiffened angrily when she realized that it was Jon Snow. “And every day that they call me bastard, I will learn to fight them like a dragon.”

“No lad,” she heard Ned say. “You would do better to fight them like a wolf.”

Catelyn stood rooted in place. “Ned,” she called out sharply, stepping forward to join them before Lyanna’s crypt.

Ned’s eyes widened when he saw her, and then anger sparked in them. “What are you doing down here?”

“I could ask you the same,” she said sharply. “And I could ask why you kept that secret even from me.”

“What did you hear?” he asked sharply, and Jon looked nervously back and forth between them.

“I heard you tell him to guard Lyanna’s secret,” she said. “And I heard him say he would fight like a dragon. I am no idiot, Ned Stark. This boy may be your blood, but he is not your son.”

Ned’s face tightened. “You will never speak of this,” he said, his eyes flashing. “This was Lyanna’s secret, and you will not breathe a word of it. Neither of you.”

Catelyn drew herself to her full height. “Jon, go up to bed,” she said, her voice a deadly quiet. When the boy hesitated, she added, “Now.”

The boy did as he was bade, and she turned back to Ned, her eyes blazing.

“I would never have breathed a word of it,” she snarled, stepping close and leaning into his space. “You should have trusted me, and still you bid me keep silent as if I were a child who cannot keep her mouth shut.”

Ned looked chastened. “Lyanna begged me not to let King Robert know,” he began apologetically. “It is a secret that brings death, Cat, and I did not want you hurt.”

“Hurt?” she asked disbelievingly. “You let me believe that you had loved another woman for eleven years. You know nothing of the hurt that did, my love. Nothing at all.”

His face tightened with emotion. “Cat, believe me, I did what I thought was best”—

“Lyanna would have told me,” Catelyn said fiercely. “She would have wanted me to know. And then I would have loved her boy the way he should have been loved and cared for. What have you let me do all these years? What have you let me become, in my jealousy and my hurt? Oh, Ned Stark, do you know nothing of women?”

He let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, my love,” he said softly. “I trusted that your coldness to the boy would clear any suspicion about his origin away, because King Robert assumed I would hide nothing from you.”

“Robert is a fool, then,” she said sharply, and Ned’s expression looked pained.

He reached for her, his calloused hands gentle on her shoulders. “Oh, my Catelyn,” he said gently. “I have kept silent for eleven years, and I have seen the hurt in your eyes every time you see Jon Snow, and always I have reminded myself that I must not tell you. Yet by all the gods, I have longed for the day when I could tell you that you are and always will be the only woman I could ever love.” He pulled her closer, his arms comfortably tight around her shoulders, his face buried in her long brown hair. “Do you believe me, Catelyn Stark?”

“Aye,” she murmured, pulling him closer to her. She could feel her son kick against the walls of her womb in protest to the pressure, and she smiled against her husband’s shoulder. “I believe you, Ned.” Her hands slid down his side, over his hips, and his breath hitched under her hands.

He moved his hand beneath her furs, sliding down her body and stopping at her thigh. He smiled and drew back, looking at her with a slight grin on his serious face. “A knife, my love?” he asked. “Do you always sleep with a knife strapped to your thigh?”

She smiled wryly. “When I awoke to find you gone, I was worried,” she said simply, and there was a note of pride in his smile.

“Do you know that my brother once worried that Catelyn Tully would not survive the wild North?” Ned said ruefully, wrapping her furs close around her again and slipping his arm around her as they began walking back up the stairs. “But you were born to be a part of this land, my love. Lyanna saw the direwolf in you when she met you, and I think it was your strength she was drawn to more than anything.”

Catelyn found herself smiling. “Was she?” she asked softly. “I never could tell if she liked me.”

“She said she was glad to finally have a sister,” Ned smiled. “She had half a dozen rude names to describe her brothers, and she always said she would have traded all of us for a sister instead.”

Catelyn smiled. “I’m glad Sansa and Arya have each other,” she commented. “Despite the way they fight.”

“They will not always fight like this,” Ned said, nodding in agreement. “They will learn someday that family is more important than their squabbles.”

“Aye,” Catelyn said. “And in the meantime, we try to keep them from killing each other.”

Ned smiled ruefully. “I had to punish Arya today for spearing one of Sansa’s dolls with that little sword Robb and Jon have been teaching her to spar with,” he told her. “And I had to practically drag Sansa off of Arya. She was pulling her by the hair, and Theon was doing his best to pull her away from him. It was a mess. Fighting Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion was easier than daughters.”

Catelyn grinned wryly as they climbed the last step to the main floor. “Speaking of Theon, how is the child doing?”

Ned’s face sobered. “He is slow to trust,” he said. “Obviously. When he came to us, he was covered in bruises. And if nothing better came out of that rebellion, at least this child no longer lives in the same house as that madman.”

Catelyn sighed. “Men who love war like he did are always madmen,” she said, and at Ned’s sharp look, her face hardened. “And yes, my love, I did mean to include King Robert,” she added quietly, in case anyone should be listening. “Men like you are more suited to lead.”

Ned leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I think my wife just knows the words I like best to hear,” he said playfully as they neared the long hallway attached to their chambers.

As they approached, Catelyn suddenly heard the faint sound of a scuffle, and she quickened her pace.

The sight that greeted them when they rounded the corner could be described as chaotic at best. Robb, Theon and Jon were all on the ground, rolling in a mass of flying fists and muffled curses, and Sansa was pulling Arya—by the hair no less—away from the scuffle, and Bran was hovering at the outside of the circle of children, crying at the top of his lungs.

When he saw Ned and Catelyn, he dodged under Sansa’s arm and ran to them, throwing himself against Ned and wrapping his arms around his father’s leg. “Fa,” he cried, and Ned detached his arms gently and guided him into Catelyn’s waiting arms.  

“Robb! Jon! Theon!” Ned called out sternly, and when the three older boys did not break apart, he strode forward and hauled Robb to his feet first, and then dragged Jon and Theon apart.

Sansa released Arya, who promptly kicked her in the shins, and Catelyn grabbed Arya’s arm with her free hand, pulling her away.

Ned crossed his arms, his face hard. “Robb,” he said sternly. “What happened?”

A few servants were beginning to converge, woken by the noise, and Catelyn waived them off, moving to stand beside Ned. Bran was nestled snugly in her arm, his sobs subsiding, and the three older boys stood still at last, their heads hung.

“Jon was out of bed,” Robb said, anger still lacing his tone. “Theon and I woke when he went back into his chamber.”

“And why were you fighting?”

“He wouldn’t tell us where he was when we asked,” Robb said, shifting uncomfortably. “He told Theon he didn’t have to answer to prisoners, and Theon said that at least he wasn’t a bastard, and then Jon said he wasn’t a bastard”—

Ned wheeled on Jon, his eyes flaming. “Is that so?” he snapped, and when Jon looked away, Ned turned back to Robb. “And why are you involved?”

“I hit Jon Snow,” Robb said angrily. “I threw the first punch. Because if Jon Snow is not a bastard, what does that say about my mother?”

Ned swung around towards Sansa and Arya. “Catelyn, will you deal with these two?” he asked, and she shifted Bran in her arms, nodding. “Theon and Robb, I will speak with both of you in the morning. Jon Snow, come with me.”

Jon winced and turned slightly pale, and the anger faded slightly from Robb’s face.

“Fa, it wasn’t just Jon’s fault,” Robb said guiltily.

“That’s enough,” Ned told him sharply. “Go back to bed. Theon, you too.”

Catelyn stepped forward and touched his arm, and he turned to her. She shook her head slightly. “Be gentle with the boy,” she whispered, but Ned shook his head.

“You know I can’t be,” he returned softly, so quietly only she could hear. “If he says something like that in front of the royal family and the truth comes out, he loses his head.”

She sighed and nodded, relinquishing his arm, and Ned turned and strode down the hall. When Jon did not follow immediately, Ned called out sharply “Jon Snow!” without turning back, and the boy jumped nervously and hurried after him.

Robb looked up at her desperately. “You have to tell Fa not to be too hard on him,” he said pleadingly. “Please. I didn’t mean to get Jon in trouble.”

Beside him, Theon was silent.

“Would you rather I tell your Fa to punish you?”

Robb hesitated, and then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It isn’t fair this way. I started the fight.”

Catelyn’s lips tightened. “I think your Fa will have words with you about that tomorrow,” she told him. “Now you heard him. Get to bed. Robb, I want you to take Bran back to his bed.” She turned to Arya and Sansa. “You two, come with me.”

It was much later that night when Ned rejoined her, the stoop in his shoulders telling her just how exhausted he was. She looked up at him questioningly, and he slipped into bed beside her, shaking his head.

“Jon will know better than to speak of that again,” Ned said wearily, wrapping an arm over her and pulling her into the arc of his body. “And Robb and Theon I will have to deal with tomorrow.”

Catelyn rolled over so that she was facing him, and she reached a gentle hand up to his face, tracing the line of his jaw. “Oh my love,” she sighed softly. “I’m so sorry. And Jon… the poor child.”

“Aye,” Ned assented, closing his eyes wearily. “The boy deserves to be proud of his parents. The son of a dragon and a direwolf does not have it in him to be tame. But I will do what I have to do to protect him as Lyanna wanted.”

Catelyn moved closer and pressed her lips to his jaw and then to his lips. She pulled back, smiling just slightly. “It is a wild pack of little wolves we are raising, my love,” she said playfully, and he smiled, his eyes still closed. “Are you still so excited about adding one more?” She took his hand in hers and wrapped it over her growing stomach.

The babe kicked against their conjoined hands, and a slow smile spread across Ned’s tired face.

“And this one’s already fighting. He’ll fit right in,” Ned murmured sleepily. “Cat, my love, I could not be more excited to add to our little wolf pack.”

Chapter Text

By all counts, Jon Snow had received a thrashing to remember, but when we woke it was pride that he felt. There was a sharp knock at the door, and he sat up, wincing as more of his weight shifted onto his arse.

“Yes?”

“It’s Robb.” The other boy’s voice sounded subdued.

“Come in.”

Robb entered, shoulders stooped. When he looked up at Jon, his eyes were red. “You alright?”

Jon nodded. “You?”

Robb grimaced, and then grinned a little. “I think we both got our arses handed to us.”

Jon doubted that Ned Stark had been as hard on Robb—and he knew as he had known last night that it had pained Ned Stark to do what he had done. That he did what he did for his promise to keep Lyanna’s son safe, even from himself.

“Fa was hard on you,” Robb said.

Jon shrugged. “I earned it.”

“I told him,” Robb began uncertainly, and then hesitated. “This morning, I told him he should punish me the same, so that’s how I…how I know. I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

Jon looked at the boy with admiration. “Let’s forget it happened.”

“I may hit Theon Greyjoy if he says anything about it this morning,” Robb agreed, and Jon snorted.

“I’m sure hitting Theon will help a lot of things,” Jon said sarcastically. “Like earning yourself another thrashing.”

Robb grinned, and just like that, it was alright again. “Let’s go practice with Mallory then. He said he’d teach us some archery, and you know that bores Theon. We won’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“A day without Theon is a good day,” Jon said. “And I don’t want to sit on my arse ever again after last night.”

Robb winced. “Me either. Archery it is, then. Should we ask Arya to tag along?”

“Your mother might want to have words with us if she catches wind of that,” Jon grinned.

“She won’t have anything to say about it,” Robb said. “If she doesn’t find out about it.”

“You just got yourself a thrashing,” Jon teased him, shrugging on his coat. “I don’t think you want to earn another on the same day. Come on. Mallory’s probably already on range.”

///

“Theon Greyjoy.”

The sharpness in Ned Stark’s voice froze Theon as he walked the outer rim of the wall. Theon turned his head, forcing his body not to flinch.

Ned was alone, his firs wrapped around his shoulders. His face was unreadable. “You rose early this morning.”

You fool, Theon. You fool. As if slipping away early in the morning would make him forget.

“Yes, Sir.”

Ned tilted his head slightly, and then he folded his arms.

Theon shivered.

“Come here.”

Theon stepped forward slowly, warily. Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. It’ll make it worse.

Ned shrugged off his furs and wrapped them around Theon’s shoulders. “You want to catch your death?” he asked roughly. “Winter is coming.”

Theon stared at him in disbelief. “Sir” –

“I spoke with Robb this morning,” Lord Stark cut him off. “He told me he was at fault for what happened last night. Is that true?”

Brave, foolish Robb.

And Theon was such a damn coward, because he wanted to shout yes sir at the top of his lungs and if it had been even only a few weeks ago, he thinks he might’ve. “No, Sir,” he whispered.

Lord Stark’s face remained impassible, and he stood in silence as if waiting for more.

“It was mine,” Theon’s voice was barely a whisper. “It was my fault, Sir.”

Lord Stark nodded once, briskly. “Very well,” he said. “I have punished Robb and I have punished Jon Snow. It is only fair that you face the same.”

Theon was trembling violently, and he cursed the weakness that betrayed itself in his body. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

Lord Stark had not laid a hand on him in the six weeks since he had come to live with them, but Theon had been a fool to believe that would last.

He drew in a sharp breath. He won’t throw you against the wall and he won’t call you names until you cry like a stupid child and he won’t hold a knife to your throat and he won’t beat you until you bleed, at least. The knowledge wasn’t all that comforting – mostly because he did not, in fact, know what Lord Ned Stark would do.

“Come,” Lord Stark instructed.

The walk back down the wall and into Lord Stark’s study was the longest one of Theon Greyjoy’s life.

“Sit down,” Lord Stark instructed.

Theon sat down gingerly, clenching his hands tightly.

“No son of mine brawls in the halls of this house over ill-spoken words,” Lord Stark said sharply. “And no son of mine ridicules someone over his birth.”

Son.

The last time he had been someone’s son –

Theon didn’t want to think about that other father.

“Do you understand me?” Lord Stark asked sharply.

“Yes, Sir,” Theon said miserably.

Lord Stark looked as if he wanted to say more; as if there was something he wanted Theon to understand – but then he stood and gestured for Theon to stand.

Theon did, shrugging off the furs Lord Stark had wrapped around his shoulders.

Lord Stark guided him over the large oak desk; rested one heavy hand on the small of Theon’s back. His other hand fell on Theon’s backside with a sudden sting, and Theon lurched forward, biting down hard on his tongue.

He tasted blood, and then braced himself; steeled himself for more – for a belt or a fist or god knew what else.

Lord Stark paused for a long moment. “I am not Balon Greyjoy,” he said finally, his voice firm. “This is all you have to fear from me.” And then his hand was falling again on Theon’s backside again, fast and heavy and hard – and it was painful, but it was a sting and nothing more, and it was perhaps relief that made Theon start to cry like a child.

It was over sooner – far sooner – than he had expected, and then Lord Stark pulled him upright, sat down in the chair, and looked at him intently.

“Lord Stark? May I go?” Theon asked shakily.

“No,” Lord Stark said flatly, and then he stood again and Theon felt as if he might be ill. And then – Lord Stark pulled him into his arms, and Theon nearly disappeared inside of them before he had time to register his utter shock.

“My lord” –

“Hush,” Lord Stark commanded. He released him, and then ruffled Theon’s hair with one hand. “Look at me, child.”

Theon hardly dared.

“There will be no more brawling in my house,” Lord Stark said firmly. “No more ridicule of Jon Snow for the circumstances of his birth. No, child, I said look at me. I take no pleasure in this, but I promise you I will raise you as my own sons, and that means doing what is necessary.”

“Yes, Sir.” Theon’s voice was barely a whisper.

The man stared at him for an unbearably long moment, looking as if he wanted to say more. Finally, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You may go.”

If Theon had been braver or stronger or any of the things Balon had always reminded him he was not, he would have walked out calmly. As it was – as he was – he nearly ran from Lord Stark’s study.

///

He thought about rejoining Robb and Jon – he could see them practicing archery with Mallory far below where he walked along the outer wall – but they were both braver; both stronger than he was.

They wouldn’t want to see him anyway.

Theon found himself wandering to the southern end. He rounded a corner and came face to face with Sansa, who was leaning on the guard rail, shaking with tears.

“Oh,” the sound escaped his mouth, and he debated turning and running.

She whirled on him, and then her hands flew to her face in embarrassment. “You,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I – I’m sorry,” he said feebly. “You – are you alright?”

Sansa raised her chin haughtily. “Yes,” she said, but her chin wobbled slightly. “I’m fine.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, and he half-expected her to slap him for even speaking to her; especially when she was like this.

But Sansa surprised him as all the Starks surprised him, and she stepped closer and linked her arm through his as she took a deep breath. “I think my brothers hate me,” she said.

“Oh,” Theon repeated. “Well. They hate me too.”

She smiled slightly. “No they don’t,” she said firmly. “Robb’s jealous of you. So is Jon, I think. But they don’t hate you. They do hate me. Arya’s the fun one. She’s brave and funny and likes swords and hates dolls and” – she stopped, and he could see the effort it took for her to hold back the emotion.

“They’re wrong then,” Theon attempted loyally. “It doesn’t matter if you like archery or swords or any of those things. I – I don’t think I do, not really. Don’t tell them,” he added quickly, and Sansa was actually smiling now. “And,” he added after a moment’s thought. “I think that you’re kind.”

She stared at him, her sharp eyes eerily reminiscent of her father for a moment, and then she raised her head high and released his arm. “Thank you,” she said regally, and he was reminded once again of who she was – this child a year younger than him who already stood like a queen.

All of the Starks – Robb with his talk and his swordsmanship and Arya with her ferocity and even Bran, the little Northman with the aptitude with his small bow – but it was Sansa who stood like a ruler.

It made Theon shiver. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sansa said, composed once again. Her look sharpened again – again he saw Lord Stark in that look – and she considered him carefully for a moment. “Are you?”

He stared back at her. “Um,” he said. “Yes?”

Sansa smiled and pulled her cloak closer around herself. “Good,” she said. “Have you talked to Jon and Robb since the…fight?”

Theon shook his head.

“You should,” Sansa said. “They don’t hate you,” she added again, and then she waved her hand to where they were practicing below. “Go,” she said imperiously.

Theon went, feeling still unsure what had just happened but entirely sure that Sansa Stark terrified him more than the rest of the Starks combined.

Chapter Text

Ned Stark reached the lower court just as Mallory had called for swords for Robb and Jon. He nodded to Mallory, and then his sharp eyes swept over the two boys, who had not yet caught sight of him. They were both back to their normal selves – laughing, a bit windswept, and looking none the worse for wear.

Theon was nowhere to be seen.

Ned sighed, and Jon looked up.

He stilled; nudged Robb.

“My Lord,” the child said deferentially, and usually the formality made Ned uncomfortable.

Today, however, he nodded.

Robb looked more defeated; his shoulders slumped slightly. “We were going to practice some sparring, Sir,” he said, his voice a shade quieter than normal. “Unless we are needed elsewhere.”

Ah, there it was. It was Sir not Fa when Robb felt he had displeased his father, and Ned was hard pressed to keep from rolling his eyes. “Where is Theon?”

Robb and Jon exchanged a look.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Jon said. “Shall we go look for him?”

Ned waved a hand at them. “No,” he said. “You may continue.”

He turned on his heel and strode towards the doors, intending to seek out Catelyn and speak to her about arrangements for the Lannister’s visit before finding Theon himself.

Sansa met him before he reached the gate. She was wrapped tightly in her furs, and she looked as if she had been crying.

He pulled her close; pressed a kiss to her forehead. “What is wrong, little one?” he asked softly.

She leaned against him briefly. “I’m alright, Fa,” she said. “Do you – do you think I’m kind?” she asked unexpectedly.

He raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Not always to Arya, but yes.”

Sansa blushed. “Perhaps not always to Arya,” she conceded. “Do you think the boys like Arya better?”

The question surprised him, but he wrapped an arm over her shoulder and turned her towards the gate. “Walk with me, child,” he said. “Does it matter to a wolf what a common cur thinks?”

Sansa beamed. “Are you calling Robb” –

“No,” Ned said cut her off firmly, but his eyes twinkled down at her. “What I am saying, precious girl, is that you must never let the opinion of men change your opinion of yourself. Men are fools.”

She giggled and leaned in closer. “Should I care what you think?” she asked mischievously.

He shook his head at her and kissed her on the top of the head. “Have you talked to Arya since last night?” he asked her seriously.

Sansa looked down.

Ned reached out and tucked a strand of wild red hair behind her ear. “Then you know what you ought to do,” he said gently, shutting the main door behind them.

She nodded and leaned against him a second longer. Then she straightened, lifted her head in a gesture reminiscent of Catelyn, and walked in the direction of Arya’s room.

Ned sighed again – daughters were harder than war – and made his way to Catelyn. She stood at the window near her study, looking out over the courtyard where Robb and Jon were now sparring.

She smiled when she saw him. “My love,” she said, and he wrapped both arms around her. “How are you?”

He nodded. “Fine.”

“Lies,” she said, reaching up a hand that brushed his cheek gently. “You’re exhausted. These children of mine have worn you out.”

Ned smiled wryly. “Aye,” he said. “And the three boys worry me. Theon” – he stopped, shaking his head.

Catelyn’s hand tightened around his arm. “Were you hard on him?” she asked, and it was a sharp, almost protective note in her voice.

“Yes,” Ned answered wearily. “Though not as I was on Robb and Jon.”

“Where is the child now?” she asked, her hand still tight around his arm. “I would like to find him.”

“As would I,” Ned added. “I had other matters to attend to, but I think it is best if the boy is not left to himself today. He was…”

“Terrified?” Catelyn suggested, and he felt her nails in his arm now. “I wish Balon Greyjoy stood before me now,” she added fiercely, her hands straying beneath her cloak.

“Your knife, my love?” Ned asked wryly. “You carry it still?”

Her look was hard. “I will protect the children in this house,” she said. “As I wish I could have protected the boy from Balon Greyjoy. As I wish I could drive a knife through the heart of Balon as he stands.”

Ned encircled her with his arms. “I have put down rebellions and fought wars,” he said. “But you, Catelyn Stark, are more fearsome than any warrior I have met.”

She scoffed. “My husband speaks the words he thinks shall please me,” she said. “Come, my love. Let us look for the child together.” She froze suddenly; raised her hand and pointed.

Below them, Theon was crossing the courtyard towards Robb and Jon. Before Theon reached them – just as he turned to speak to Mallory, who seemed to have asked him a question – Robb and Jon slipped away.

Ned could see them laughing as they ran, clearly trying to put distance between themselves and the other child. When Theon looked around, the two boys were already gone, and even from that distance Ned could see the child’s dismay.

Ned sighed deeply, and exchanged a look with his wife.

Catelyn’s eyes were sharp, fierce as she looked at him. “I would have hoped they had learned their lesson, but I fear they have not,” she said. “For not only are they being basely unkind, that is no way for the sons of a lord to act. Speak to them, Ned.”

“Aye, my love,” he said. “But it is Theon I must attend to first.”

She nodded. “The boy has no love for the bow, but he has an affinity for the sword.”

“Aye,” he said. “Perhaps the lad would enjoy some sparring.”

She smiled slightly. “Aye,” she said. “He might. Well, send him in by dinner at least.”

///

Theon’s shoulders slumped when he saw that the courtyard was empty. Mallory said something about damn lads and then shrugged his shoulders. “The little lordling can do as he pleases, I suppose. And you? Will you be using the sword today, child?”

Theon opened his mouth to say no when another’s voice spoke.

“Yes.” Lord Stark had entered the courtyard quietly and he stood, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. “I was hoping to practice as well.”

Theon stared at him blankly. “Shall – shall I fetch Robb, My Lord?”

“No,” Lord Stark said evenly. “I thought I might practice with you.”

It was both anxiety and pride that welled inside Theon at Lord Stark’s words, and he ducked his head deferentially. “Of course, My Lord.”

“First, however, my wife wishes a word,” Lord Stark said, gesturing to the gate.

Lady Stark stood, Theon’s furs in her outstretched hand. “You forgot these this morning,” she said as Theon drew closer. “Wear them. Winter is coming, child, and do not let these wild northmen convince you otherwise.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “Thank you, My Lady,” he said, ducking his head.

“Well, go on,” she said, waving her hand. “Don’t let me husband work you too hard.”

Lord Stark was waiting for him, and he clapped a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “Mallory tells me you have been hard at work on your swordsmanship. Let’s see, then.”

///

Robb and Jon reappeared over an hour later as it neared lunch time, both immediately wearing matching expressions of consternation and disappointment as they realized that their absence had meant missing a training session with their father.

Lord Stark sheathed his sword as they approached. “Lady Stark bade us all come in to dine together,” he addressed Theon. “Come.”

Theon sheathed his sword, too, and followed Lord Stark, struggling to keep up with the man’s long strides.

Robb and Jon followed, not speaking a word as they fell into step beside Theon.

“Go and wash up,” Lord Stark instructed, taking a sharp turn down the hall that led away from them.

The three boys washed up in silence, but just as they neared the great hall, Robb’s hand caught Theon’s shoulder and spun him around. There was anger simmering in his eyes, and Theon thought he knew what to expect from, as Mallory had called him, the little lordling.

“What are you playing at?” Robb demanded. “Why were you training with our father? Without us?”

Beside him, Jon rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “I told you this wouldn’t end well. Robb” –

“You both ran off when I came to train with you,” Theon shot back with sudden bitterness, shrugging Robb’s hand off his arm. “It’s not my fault you missed training with Lord Stark.”

Jon out a hand on Robb’s arm. “He’s right,” Jon said in a low, urgent voice. “What did I say, Robb? Fighting with him won’t do any good.”

“Not your fault?” Robb sneered, ignoring Jon’s words entirely. He raised his hands and pushed Theon backwards. “Is that what you told our father this morning, too? Did you weasel your way out of punishment by saying the fight last night wasn’t your fault?”

“Well,” Jon said reasonably, pushing between Theon and Robb. “It really wasn’t.”

“I believe the words Theon used,” Lord Stark interrupted icily from behind them, and Robb’s face paled dramatically. “Were ‘It was my fault, Sir.’ Does that satisfy your curiosity, Robb?”

“Yes, Sir,” Robb whispered.

Lord Stark stepped closer, his eyes hard. “Do you think me a fool?” he asked Robb.

Theon had not thought it possible for Robb to grow any paler, but the other boy blanched again.

“Sir?”

“Answer me, Robb,” Lord Stark. “Do you think me a fool?”

“No, Sir,” Robb said weakly.

“I am very aware of where the bulk of the blame for last night’s incident lies,” Lord Stark continued sternly, his gaze flicking to Jon, who looked down at the ground. “And if you think a child could change my thoughts on the matter by weaseling his way out of punishment, then you think me a fool.”

Robb looked as if he might cry, and Theon felt sympathy for the other boy replacing his anger. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Robb attempted.

“Aye,” Lord Stark said harshly. “At least in front of me.”

Theon could see the words strike Robb as physically as a blow, and he exchanged a look with Jon, who also looked pale.

Lord Stark moved past them towards the great hall. “Robb, you will take your meal in your own chambers tonight,” he said sharply without turning back. “And you will come to my study as soon as you are finished.”

“Yes, Sir,” Robb said miserably, his shoulders slumping.

Through the door, Theon could see Sansa sitting down beside her mother and he thought of her admonition today. The little queen, he thought unbidden, and then he spoke up. “Lord Stark?” his voice sounded loud. The hammering of his heart sounded even louder. “Then I – I ought to take my meal in my chambers as well,” he said. “If Robb is at fault, then so am I.”

Lord Stark turned at the door, his eyes narrow.

Both Robb and Jon were staring at him in utter shock.

“And I,” Jon interjected desperately before Lord Stark could speak.

And – was that a hint of a smile on Lord Stark’s face? It was gone before Theon could decide. “Very well,” he said. “All three of you will take your meals alone in your own chambers tonight.” And then he was gone through the double doors into the hall and the three boys were left standing in the hallway together.

“Um,” Robb said, turning to Theon. “I’ve been an arse” –

Theon pushed him playfully. “And you’re about to have a sore one,” he said. “Shall we raid the kitchen for our food?” he continued. “Your father didn’t specify where we should get the meals.”

Robb laughed – the first Theon had seen that day. “To the kitchen, then,” he said, throwing an arm across Theon’s shoulders and an arm across Jon’s. “My last meal before another legendary arse-kicking.”

Jon jostled Robb. “Our last meal,” he said. “I think we all chose to stand where you’re standing on this one, Robb.”

Robb’s face fell slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Theon, I – I am sorry. For being an arse.”

“You know, Theon,” Jon said. “It’s not often he admits it. I say we savor this moment, even if the aftermath is” – he shook his head. “Well. Savor it while we can.”

Theon laughed, too, jostling them back. “At least,” he said. “After this it will all be behind us.”

///

“Where are the boys?” Sansa asked as Ned sat down.

“Eating in their rooms,” Ned answered, and Catelyn looked at him sharply. “I sent Robb,” he explained to her in a lower voice. “The other two chose solidarity.”

She smiled slightly. “Good,” she said. “It’s about time. Very well, I shall send a servant with a meal to each of their rooms.”

“No,” Sansa said, and both Catelyn and Ned turned to her. “They’ll all be in Robb’s room.”

Ned stared at her in amazement. “Your daughter has sharp ears, my lady,” he said to Catelyn, and then he leaned forward and kissed Sansa on the forehead. “And a sharp mind,” he added.

Sansa beamed up at him. “Mother says you speak the words she likes best to hear,” she said, and Ned could not help his laugh.

“Ah, you are your mother’s daughter,” he said lightly. “Did no one warn us that Tully and Stark would be a dangerous combination?”

Catelyn’s look was fierce with pride as she looked down at Sansa. “Aye,” she said. “Your mother and mine.”

Ned smiled and then looked over at Arya, who was watching them closely. “Are you alright, little one?”

She nodded seriously. “Fa?” she asked. “When Mama looks at you like that, I think it means she wants to kiss you.”

Ned choked on the bite he had been swallowing, and opposite him Catelyn was coughing, her face red.

Sansa smirked, but she elbowed Arya. “Not at the table,” she said. “It’s not polite to talk about kissing at the table.”

Ned exchanged a look with Catelyn, who shook her head, mirth in her eyes.

“I do believe we shall only have a peaceful meal if they are all sent to their chambers, my love,” she said lightly, and then she turned to Arya. “Come, my love. Focus on the fine supper prepared for you. We can speak of this later.”

“We can?” Arya said. “When will it be polite to talk about kissing?”

Ned groaned and closed his eyes.

Beside him, Bran shook his head sagely. “Women,” he lisped Robb’s words from a few days before. “Always trouble.”