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Part I: The Boy
Starlight painted the snow on the godswood's ground a blue as pale as winter roses. Here and there it had already began to melt, revealing the blackish brown of rotten leaves. Maester Luwin had been heard to say that they could expect the white raven any day. Summer was finally coming. Tonight, though, winter still ruled.
Jon Snow rubbed his small hands, which had gone almost numb in the cold night air. Not only summer was awaited most anxiously in Winterfell. The Ironborn rebellion had ended and Lord Stark was coming home. A warm feeling filled Jon like every time he remembered that his father was returning. Less than a fortnight and he will be here.
He had been five, almost a whole year younger than now when the Ironborn rose in rebellion. Still a little boy, but old enough to understand the looks Lady Stark gave him every time she opened the messages from the Islands with trembling hands: If Lord Stark dies I will drop you as a beggar in front of gates of Winterfell and never let you back. She would do it and then he would starve and freeze, Jon Snow knew. He had no other place to go.
But father had lived and he was coming home. And maybe she will die herself, some ugly voice reminded him. She was great with child, her belly so big she could barely walk. The babe was too late coming, the castle folk whispered to each other in hushed voices. He saw the pitying looks women gave her behind her back. She will die, he often heard, they both will die. Jon understood what dead meant even if his brother didn't truly. When someone was dead you never ever saw them again. Jon's own mother had been dead since he could remember. He would not mind never seeing Lady Catelyn again, but it would make Robb and father and baby Sansa sad. Besides, it was not death he meant to pray for, but life.
He had woken in the middle of the night, awake as if it was a noon. Jon had taken a stool to look out to the deserted yard his chamber was facing. Growing quickly bored, he meant to go back to sleep, but then he remembered what Rysa from the kitchens had told him once. A night was the best time to pray. No one prays then, she had whispered, and with only one voice to hear, the gods were more likely to listen. So Jon dressed himself as well as he could, being able to do his own laces since before Lord Eddard left, and sneaked away from the castle.
At first, it had been father he meant to plead for, but father was big and strong and was going to come home anyway, he had said so in his letter. Instead, Jon decided to pray for the child who was going to be his little brother or sister. Jon did not understand how someone could die before being born, but he knew it would be very bad if it happened.
Walking carefully, he tried not to step on any snow. It was beautiful in the night and he would hate to spoil it. We are called the same, besides. He had all the time he needed, the godswood was empty and no one would care to see if a bastard was in his bed. He approached the huge heart tree from behind, slowly cycling it, only to freeze after few steps.
The godswood was not empty after all. In front of the tree's scary face sat a figure in a gray cloak. Her auburn hair appeared dark brown in the night. One of her hands was touching the trunk the other resting on her big belly. Even in the night he would recognize Lady Stark by a barest glance. He had learned to spot to her quickly so he could always run away before she noticed him.
What is she doing here? Jon bit his lip. Catelyn Stark barely ever came to the godswood—she hated it there. It was one of the reasons Jon loved the place so much. He watched her distraught, she hadn't seen him yet, he knew, because she hadn't sent him away. He clenched his fists and told himself to be brave like a son of Lord Stark should be. Once he walked close enough, he could see that her eyes were closed. Is she praying or has she fallen asleep?
He should leave, he knew, but something stopped him. He glanced at the hand resting on her stomach with longing. A moon turn past, when she had still smiled, even if she worried about Lord Eddard, the babe had moved and she went to Robb to let him feel it. His brother's eyes widened in wonder. She would never allow Jon to do the same, he knew better than to ask, yet…
She is asleep, he told himself, she will never know. Careful as a thief, he came closer. Her breaths were long and heavy, she had dozed off. He felt as if he was a hero from a song about to steal a princess from a sleeping dragon. She is no dragon, she is a fish. A huge horrible fish who eats bastard children. With her big belly and gray dress, she even looked like a whale in one of Maester Luwin's books. Nevertheless, holding the huge trunk, he put his other hand on her belly as far away from her own as possible. For the first time in his life, he felt her warmth. Nothing happened at first and Jon remembered a stablehand saying that the child had been already eaten by worms in its mother's womb and for a moment he wondered if it was true...
...but in that moment the child kicked - strongly, right under his palm. He could feel the movement under the fabric, under her skin. It felt like a tiny fist or foot —not at all like worms moving. It was the most amazing thing in the world. Let it live, you gods, he prayed. Let it live, let me love it and let it love me and I will always do what needs to be done. Lady Stark must have felt it too, however. Her hard, blue eyes opened and she looked right at Jon.
"Get away from me!" she screamed.
Jon took a hasty step back and slipped upon mud. He caught the white trunk in the last moment and didn't fall down. Somehow, just touching the huge old tree gave him courage, as if the old gods were truly there with him. He steadied himself and looked her in the eye.
"Begone!" she growled standing clumsily, her dress dirty with mud and melting snow. He could see how hard it was for her to get up. She had to use the tree for support, the same tree he was touching, but she tried to stay away from him as far as possible.
"I only wanted... ...it's going to be my brother or sister."
"It's not going to be anything yours."
They stared at each other. Only whispers of branches swaying lightly in the wind were spoiling the bone chilling silence. And then, somewhere far, far away, almost as if in a different world, a wolf howled. It grew louder and louder, a long wild sound. When the grove finally quieted again, Jon saw that Lady Stark was pale as the moon, her hands were trembling and her eyes were huge with fear. Something in him snapped.
Suddenly, he felt as if twenty years had passed and he was not a little boy, but a man grown, hard and strong as his father, as old kings of the North, as Aegon the Dragon himself. Suddenly, he knew it was not him who should fear. When he spoke his voice was calm and cold and his words felt as if someone else was speaking through his own mouth.
"You are wrong. She is yours for now, but only till the moment she is born."
Lady Catelyn gaped at him shocked; he had never spoken to her like this, but Jon only turned and walked away wishing to be gone before whichever spirits possessed him fled away and he found himself crying in front of her.
He was yard away before she found her voice.
"It's going to be a boy."
He didn't answer, didn't even turn back, he knew she was wrong. A soft smile sneaked to his lips as he remembered the girl's laughter he had heard in the howling. Somehow, he knew that she would be slim and quick, gray-eyed and long faced, and wild and hard as North. And his.
Jon walked another yard before Lady Stark screamed.
"Maester Luwin! Call…Maester…Luwin!" she shrieked in voice strained in pain.
He ran to the castle and did as she had bid him.
His little sister was born even before the white bird came.
Part II: The Woman
Hers chamber was the warmest in Winterfell and summer was coming, yet tonight Catelyn Stark felt as if no warmth could reach her. She would have paced her room restlessly, but she was great with a child and could scarcely walk.
In the daylight, her room was the brightest and most lavish in the whole castle with deep red curtains and blue-red Myrish carpet—Tully colors everywhere. This was her room, never Ned's. At the beginning of their marriage, they used to share a chamber, but after Sansa's birth she never returned there. Ned was used to sleeping under the cold gaze of stars, she liked her nights ink-black, Ned ached for cold, she thrived in the warmth, Ned was a true Northman, she was a girl from Riverlands still. But there was no brightness here tonight. Only one candle was burning and darkness robbed the world of its colors.
She sighed and put a hand on her belly when she felt the child move. Life at its beginning. There wasn't a greater miracle in the world. The child was not dead, not yet, but it was too late coming and, with every passing hour, she could hear Stranger's breath clearer and closer.
She had pleaded for a healthy child in her every prayer since her blood had failed to come. Today, though, her prayer was even more fervent. Greeting the first morning sun in the small sept Ned had built for her, she had prayed to the Maiden. In the fresh early hours she had prayed to the Warrior and to the Smith as the day grew older. She prayed to the Mother, when the sun shone the brightest and to the Father when it was getting down. She prayed to the Crone in the first hours of dark. Lastly, before the day had ended, she had lit a sole candle for the Stranger and pleaded him to take her whenever he wished if only he let her babe live. Catelyn would have gladly went to a place worse than the seventh of the Seven Hells to save any of her children, but the gods seemed deaf to any promises noble or dark that she had sworn.
In the end Maester Luwin had found her and took her to her chambers. For her health and the health of the unborn child he had said, but she did not believe his words. She recognized the careful gentle tone the man used when speaking to dying. Still she went, not to sleep, but to wait.
And her wait was reaching its end. The hour of the wolf had arrived. Taking her warmest cloak she carefully slipped through the door.
Even in the noon of the brightest day the ancient godswood of Winterfell was a dark place. It oft seemed as if it kept a time of its own, flowing slowly preceding and outliving thousands of men's lives like if even the greatest of lords were no more than flies.
Catelyn had taken a torch with her, but it seemed as a violation to light a fire in this world made of pitch black darkness and cold blue light. In any other day, she would have stubbornly lit it anyway as her guide through this world she did not belong to, but today she came humbly. She could not count how many times she had seen her lord husband doing what she meant to do, praying to his strange ancient gods and every one time she had rued that there was a part of Ned that would be forever unreachable for her, no matter how much she loved him. You should have reached Moat Cailin by now, my love, she thought, so close after so many moons, yet maybe I should never see your face again.
The pale blue of the starlit snow skirted a trodden path leading along dark shapes of old trees and pools, which seemed to be made of stars. The heart tree was not hard to find with its white bark. In the dark, the tree's red eyes seemed black. They reminded Cat of the eyes of the Stranger in her little sept, but she put the thought aside.
Carefully, she knelt using the tree for support. The move disturbed the child and it kicked strongly. Mindlessly, she put one hand on her belly. She had thought that she knew well what being with a child meant after Robb and Sansa, but this one was proving her wrong again and again. She craved different dishes and different ones made her helplessly sick, and as the child grew, she often felt like she was carrying a little wolf pup rather than a sweet babe, so wild it seemed even in her womb. Yet, she loved it with all her heart already.
The ancient eyes of the tree were watching her. For the longest time she just looked back unblinkingly. Finally, she closed her eyes, hoping the right words would come easier to her. A nightingale started to sing, branches creaked in the sudden gust of wind, and something small fell to one of the pools. She could hear nothing from beyond the borders of the grove, in that moment it almost seemed as if this dark forest was endless, covering the whole world.
Nameless gods of the North, I am not yours, I never will be, but this child is Ned's blood just as mine. This child is of the North, a Stark. Let it live and ... She hesitated. She still remembered a tale her septa had told her so long ago when she was just a little girl about a woman who promised her ill daughter to the Stranger and the girl miraculously recovered, but when the day came to give the girl to the silent sisters as she had promised, the woman refused. The Stranger took the girl anyway on the day of her first flowering along with the woman and all her blood kin. Have I gotten truly so foolish, to believe in such tales? But still, why would any gods listen if I am unwilling to make a sacrifice?
She hesitated for the last time. Let the child be born, she prayed again, let it live and it will be always yours, like Ned is. Forever belonging to North and never me and my faith, just let it be born, let it live, let it grow and love... The child kicked viciously, as if outraged for not having any say in it. It was only then that she came aware of a feather like touch on her belly. There seemed to be a little hand and its heat was the first warmth she had felt in days. Startled, she opened her eyes.
Looking back at her there stood a little boy who had haunted her days since she came to Winterfell six years ago—Jon Snow, Ned's bastard son. A child of the mysterious woman her lord husband loved during the war. Most days she thoughts that he looked too much like Ned, but his eyes were a darker shade of gray and, in the night, they seemed almost the same color as the eyes of weirwood. The same color as the eyes of Stranger.
"Get away from me!" she screamed, suddenly terrified.
Hastily, he retreated, scared by her wrath. He almost slipped and she told herself she was turning into a fool. He was just a child, not a curse made a flesh, no messenger from the gods or Stranger, she assured herself, but then his little face hardened and she felt unsettled. What is he doing there in the middle of the night? All children of godly folk should sleep at such an hour; her own Robb would never be walking through dark godswood in the night. There was something unnatural about this one.
"Begone!" she ordered him in tone, which she knew would send him running in tears to the opposite corner of the castle. Yet this time he remained.
With difficulty she stood up. She was a woman grown, he was just a little boy and he should not be staring her in the eye.
"I only wanted..." he began in his high childish voice, "...it's going to be my brother or sister."
The child kicked, as if agreeing with his words. It took all her willpower not to put her hand on her belly. "It's not going to be anything yours."
He just stood there staring at her and then a wolf howled. It was a faint, far away sound. Only it grew stronger and stronger. They cannot get so close so quickly, what dark magic is this? Yet the howling still grew louder and louder till she could hear nothing else. And for one mad moment it seemed as if she could understand what they were singing about.
A vision formed in her mind's eye, clearer than the world around her, and she could see a girl in a gray-white maiden's cloak as slight as a willow with the Stark long face and eyes as dark as Jon Snow's. The maid looked almost as if someone had brought Lyanna Stark's statue to life, but there was something in her face which Cat was seeing daily in her own mirror. This was no dead woman, but her own daughter not yet born, Cat knew. The girl smiled. She was very beautiful, though there was something wild and fierce, almost ruthless in her smile. Yet for a moment her eyes softened, looking the same as Ned's did when the most tender.
Cat turned, as if in a dream, to see what her daughter was seeing and there he was, Jon Snow. Not as a little boy, but as a man. However, five or fifteen or fifty, Cat would know him. He was dressed all in black, clean-shaven, but the scars on his cheek and hardness of his face make him look as fierce as any bearded Northman.
She blinked and the mirage disappeared, though his living doppelgänger remained unmercifully and, when he spoke his voice sent a chill as deep as to the marrow of her bones, because that voice belonged to the man and not to the child.
"You are wrong," the boy-man declared, "she is yours for now, but only till the moment she is born."
All the hair on her body stood up and she could not find her voice while he just calmly turned to leave her there, but the wolves quieted and finally she was able to reclaim the reason.
"It's going to be a boy," she called out of spite, but he didn't even look back. Harsher words formed on her tongue, but before she should utter them a terrible pain took hold of her and she screamed.
"Maester Luwin! Call…Maester…Luwin!" she managed to get out, she did not remember much after that.
When she fully regained her senses again it was middle off a bright day and she was in her own warm chamber. A huge white bird was pecking at the windowpane. She stared at it confused at first before she remembered. A white raven, a bird from the Citadel, summer has come.
Finally, the raven gave up and flew away in search of better entrance. Catelyn kept her eyes on the spot it had abandoned until she heard wood squeak nearby. She turned. To her left a wet nurse was bending to take a fussing newborn from her crib. In an instant, Catelyn's eyes filled with tears.