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For ten years Catelyn Stark had put up with her husband’s bastard. She knew that the North had looser customs for dealing with bastards, and she did her best to respect Ned’s wishes. Her own children and the household of a Lord Paramount gave her plenty of more important business to attend to; John Snow was the furthest thing from her mind when a commotion arose in Winterfell’s courtyard.

She arrived to find a shed engulfed in flames. Panicked cries of “Hodor! Hodor!” came from within. Catelyn spotted Old Nan propped against the kitchen door, hands clenched tight in her apron. A crowd gathered; Ser Rodrik was roaring at the servants to form a bucket chain. Rob and John arrived at a run, wearing practice armor. Rob stopped short at the sight of the flames, but – Jon ran straight into the blaze. Maids cried out in horror; Catelyn gasped. She might not like the bastard, but she would not wish him dead.

The burning shed shook, and then the roof caved in, At the last possible moment, Jon stumbled out, hauling Hodor with him. Their clothing trailed smoke and embers.

“Are you all right?” asked Jon.

“Yes, m’Lord.” Which was the first thing other than ‘Hodor’ which the boy had said in years. Startled into motion, Catelyn stepped forward.

“Bring a bucket!” The two boys were quickly doused. Under the charred clothing, Hodor’s – or rather Walder’s, she supposed – skin was red and blistered in places; Jon, however, was unmarked.

Catelyn pursed her lips. It was beyond belief that anyone could pass through such a fire without harm, even when their clothes burned to cinders.

Fire cannot burn a Dragon.

“Both of you are going straight to the Maester,” she said. By now, Ned had arrived, and she looked him in the eye. “My Lord husband, we must speak.”

“Aye,” Ned rumbled, looking at Jon. “I must retrieve something first.” Catelyn followed him down into the Stark family crypt. At Lyana’s grave, he stopped and pulled out the engraved name plaque. Behind it was a second sealing block, and in the gap between the two rested a flat wooden box. Ned took it out and replaced the plaque.

How was Lyanna Stark involved with Jon Snow?

By the time they returned to Ned’s solar, Jon and Robb were already there, along with Maester Luwin. “You weren’t burned at all?” Robb was saying. “Are you magic or something?”

“I don’t know.” As ever, Jon was solemn for his age. Ned nodded to them both.

“That is what we must discuss. Luwin, how is young Walder?”

“He has burns in several places, my Lord, which will likely scar, and some damage to his lungs from the smoke. Also – his mind has returned to him, and he can now speak.” Remarkable; was that due to the shock, or was another force at work?

“Thank you; you may go,” said Ned. “And Arya, you and Sansa may as well come inside.” Their daughters slipped into the solar; Arya looked annoyed at being caught, while Sansa looked embarrassed. And well she should.

“What you’re going to hear now is a family secret,” Ned began. “I had hoped not to speak of this until you were much older, Jon, but after today I must.”

Jon straightened. “Is this about my mother?”

“Yes, Jon.” Ned took a breath, as if bracing himself. “Your mother – was my sister Lyanna. She is your Stark parent, not I.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. “Then – my father?”

There was only one person it could be, thought Catelyn. Fire cannot burn a dragon. “Your father,” said Ned, “Was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Truly, Catelyn understood why her husband had kept his silence. Better to claim Jon as his bastard than to see him slain like Rhaegar’s other children, and Lyanna dishonoured. It still stung that he’d kept it even from her. “And the box?” she asked.

“This contains letters from Lyanna, Rhaegar and Elia Martell.”

Catelyn blinked. “Elia as well?”

“Yes, well, it seems the phrase ‘Dornish arrangement’ is more than a crude figure of speech.”

***

Robert had raged about the Crown Prince ‘stealing’ Lyanna, but – Ned knew his sister. Lyanna would hardly be taken anywhere against her will. So Ned rode South not to bring her back, but to hear the tale from her mouth.

What happened instead was that he and Howland Reed were faced with the task of tending an infant while travelling the length of Westeros. “Lyanna, how am I to raise your child?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” said Howland. He tickled the baby’s belly. “Isn’t that right, your Grace?”

Ned’s blood ran cold. Lyanna’s son, his nephew, was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. “Robert cannot know.” He would see Jon dead alongside his siblings. At the Red Keep, Ned had seen a side of his friend he hadn’t known about, and didn’t much like. “No one must know.” The war had cost too much already; Westeros did not need another.

“You’ll leave the crown to Baratheon?” asked Howland.

“Jon would need a regent in any case. It may as well be Robert.”

***

“I’m … trueborn?” whispered Jon, wide-eyed.

“Aye. Some of those papers witness it.” Ned laid his hand on the box from the crypt. “It’s not something you need to think about just yet, lad. If you would rather hold your tongue and become Rob’s bannerman, or take the Black, or go adventuring in Essos – all those roads are open to you.” Robert was holding the Throne well enough, and though it was cowardly, Ned had no wish to choose between his nephew and his friend.

“I find it remarkable,” Cat said tartly, “That a man as honest as yourself could maintain such a deception.” Ned winced; he was in for a scolding.

“Aye, well, I did ride the length of Westeros in the company of Howland Reed.”

“Then summon him here, so he can help sort this out.”

***

Naturally, all of Winterfell knew within a month. The spectacle of Jon charging into a burning building was hard to forget. Young Walder, once he recovered, attached himself to Jon’s side and was seldom seen without him. Seeing this, Ser Rodrik started training Walder as a man-at-arms.

Howland Reed became a frequent visitor, and Winterfell gained a small cadre of Crannogmen, who taught the Stark children the arts of secrecy. Arya took to them with enthusiasm, much to Catelyn’s despair, while Sansa grew fond of the spoken games of the Crannogmaids. Bran became fast friends with Howland’s son Jojen.

Jon already a serious boy, became ever more solemn and driven. He sought out Septa Mordane to learn of the Seven, Old Nan for tales of the Old Gods; the Maester, to hear more about the lands of Westeros. He was, Ned thought, weighing his options.

The Stark children turned Jon’s bloodline into a jape. When he fell into a mud puddle: “You’re looking quite regal today, your Grace.” When he shot a scrawny pheasant on a hunt: “A feast fit for a King!” When he slipped on a patch of ice: “Is that the latest dance from King’s Landing?”

Jon replied with solemn dignity, yet Ned often caught a glint of mischief in his eye – Lyanna’s child indeed.

***

Once they were older, Ned took his eldest son and nephew to see the Wall. A future Warden of the North should know it – a future King of Westeros too, if Jon took that path. Both boys gaped up at it.

“What enemy would need a wall that big to?” mused Robb.

“Not just snarks and grumpkins, to be sure,” replied Jon.

“Maybe grumpkins are bigger than we thought.”

Castle Black was in worse repair than Ned remembered. “Coin has been scarce,” his brother Benjen commented as he showed them to the guesthouse.

“I’ll be sure to discuss it with the Lord Commander,” said Ned. He noted some of the Black Brothers directing foul looks at them. “There looks to be some ill feeling towards Starks.”

“Targaryen loyalists,” Benjen shrugged. Many had taken the Black rather than bend knee to Robert. “Ser Allister Thorne and I stay out of each other’s way, and make the best of it.”

Ned should, perhaps, have seen it coming. While he spoke with Lord Mormont, the boys passed their time in the practice yard. Ser Allister paired them with his roughest recruits, and took some glee in yelling a tthem as harshly as the other men. And then Jon’s opponent shoved him into a bonfire.

Jon rolled through it and onto his feet, brushing coals off. “Sansa is going to kill me, this was a new shirt.”

“To hell with your shirt, what about your hide?” roared Allister. He seized Jon’s elbow. “Straight to the Maester with you.”

“I’m all right,” Jon protested as Thorne hauled him into one of the towers.

“Horseshit. I may not be fond of Starks, but I don’t need the trouble of one of you coming to harm – ” He waved at Jon’s charred sleeve, and paused when he saw the unmarked skin beneath.

Jon said, “It’s strange that no one ever asks who my other parent was.”

Eyes wide, Thorne led him onward to the Maester’s study. “Maester Aemon!” The elderly man turned towards his voice. “Ser Allister, and?”

“Jon … Snow. Came in with Lord Stark’s party. He fell in a fire pit, but … he wasn’t burned.” Aemon’s eyebrows went up, and he reached his hands out to Jon, and examined him by touch.

“Either you are remarkably lucky, young man, or – hmm.” Aemon was well known to be a Targaryen himself. He turned to his hearth and picked up a hot coal. “Hold out your hand, please.” He found Jon’s hand and laid the coal in it. Jon didn’t even flinch. After a moment, he stepped across and dropped the coal back into the fire. “Ser Allister, do you see any marks on Jon’s hand?”

“None,” he answered, awestruck. “Who are you?”

“I am Jon Snow.” Is voice was quiet, “Son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Allister stared at him as though he was a mythical creature. His jaw opened and closed, and finally, he dropped to one knee. “Your Grace.”

***

Robb had, of course, run to find Ned; he and Mormont reached the Maester’s chamber as Jon was saying, “Right now I’m just a boy, Ser Allister.”

Ned clapped his palm over his face. “Jon, how do you get into these situations?”

***

As they rode South some days later, Jon looked over his shoulder thoughtfully. “He was so happy to meet me – I’m not his kin, I haven’t done anything noteworthy – ”

“That’s loyalty, lad.” For his own part, Ned had quietly suggested that Ser Allister might accompany Brother Yoren the next time he went on a recruiting tour. He had long been stumped on how to safely deliver Elia’s papers to the Martells; if he could not send a raven, perhaps he could send a Crow.

“Hail King Jon, first of his name,” said Robb, only half in jest.

Some months later, one Sarella Sand joined Winderfell’s household, without fuss or comment. She quickly became Arya’s favourite, to Catelyn’s continuing despair.

***

One by one, Ned pulled the dire wolf pups out of their den. Their mother lay nearby, watching him intently; she could barely raise her head because of her wounds. As Ned set each cub beside her, she sniffed it, then turned to stare at the den again. Ned almost missed the last one, which had rolled under a bush; its fur was white as snow.

“A cub for each Stark child,” Ned commented.

“And a whitecloak for Jon,” added Robb. Jon snorted, but held out his hand to the white cub, who slobbered on him. The young men were building a travois to carry the mother wolf to Winterfell – it seemed ill-omened to leave her in the forest to die. Bran had insisted that they ride in the Wolfswood today, prompted by a greendream.

Bran was waiting inside Winterfell’s gate for them, along with Maester Luwin. One of the cubs squirmed off the sledge and bumbled up to him, yipping. “That one’s made his choice,” said Ned. “Now let’s see to their mother.”

***

The mother direwolf was quickly dubbed the Grey Lady by the servants, which annoyed Sansa, who wanted to name her cub Lady. She decided on Star instead. The other cubs were Greywind, Ghost, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggy. With shelter and good food, Grey Lady recovered well; Ned gave orders to the gate guards to let her pass as she pleased.

Soon after the direwolf was up and about, a messenger came South from the Wall. Benjen sent a rider ahead, saying only that Ned needed to hear the man’s account in person. As soon as he laid eyes on him, Ned knew that he had encountered something too much for his mind to bear.

“Lord Stark. I must – you must know what I s-saw. The D-dragonwolf too.”

“I am here,” Jon said quietly. He sat at the side of the solar with Ghost in his lap. Robb and Greywind were present as well, and Robb poured the Crow a cup of mead.

“Steady yourself, man.”

The Crow gulped. “Terrible – terrible things beyond the wall …” His tale was fantastical, and Ned would have called him mad, had he not a household of direwolves, greenseers and a hidden Dragon.

“Bran has seen such things in his dreams,” Jon said. “Walder, too.” And many of the greenseers among the Crannogmen, as Howland had reported. Greendreams were vague at best, but when so many dreamed of the same signs, it might as well be a sentry’s horn. Now here was a scout, reporting the same thing.

“I thank you for your tidings, Black Brother. You are a guest of Winterfell while you recover from your ordeal. It will take some time to compose a reply to the Lord Commander.”

***

Robert wanted Ned to be his Hand. He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse, and the worst of it was that to avoid questions, he would have to go along with it.

“You should already be used to acting as King’s Hand,” Catelyn told him drolly.

“Aye, well, that’s a rather different sort of king,” Ned answered. Loyalty to one was treason to the other; it was a hard place, no matter that he had made his choice long ago. “We must ensure there is no such talk while Robert is here, from either family or servants.”

Catelyn nodded sharply. “I shall have a word with Miss Sand to help me remind them.” It was too much to hope that the Sarella would stay out of Robert’s bed, but at least she understood discretion.

“We must also keep Jon away from any fires, just to be sure.”

***

“And this must be Jon Snow!” Robert clapped him on the shoulder. “You take after your father, lad.”

“I try my best, your Grace.”

“And you have a direwolf to match your name,” Robert guffawed.

“I do, your Grace.”

Luckily, as a ‘bastard,’ Jon could be excused from the high table. Instead he sat the feast among the cadre of Crannogmen, who, it appeared, were daring him to eat frogs’ legs

Chapter Text

Robert died never knowing of Ned’s true loyalties. His body was not even cold when when Joffrey summoned Ned before the Iron Throne, demanding his oath of fealty.

“I beg of you, your Grace, allow me a short time to grieve. Once Robert is laid to rest, then I may give you my oath with proper ceremony and witness.”

Joffrey, he noted, seemed not at all troubled by the loss of his father. “Very well. What else could I expect from an emotional Northerner? We will return here after the funeral and you will give your oath. And I don’t want to see that bastard of yours there; you will send him home at once.”

“I understand, your Grace.” Ned resolved to wash out his mouth once for every time he called Joffrey by that title. He wanted to spit in the princeling’s face, but he remembered the lessons of his ancestor Torren Stark. The King who knelt, to protect his land and people.

***

The Starks were not seen making ready to leave. When they arrived in King’s Landing, their travel gear was packed away and stored – the easier for their men-at-arms to carry away. Much of their court garb would have to be left behind, but it would not be suited to the North’s climate.

Jon, who was leaving openly, took their important papers with him. The most precious possessions of all, the Starks carried with them to Robert’s funeral. When the ceremony concluded, they mounted their horses but did not return to the Red Keep. Instead, they rode straight for the gates, and were through before Joffrey noticed their absence.

***

Jon, along with their men-at-arms, Sarella, and unexpectedly, Syrio Forel, were waiting for them in a patch of woods north of the city. “Syrio thinks the climate in the North will be more pleasant than this city, soon.”

“Good to have you with us.” Ned turned to Jon, who nodded at him solemnly.

“We’re doing this.”

“We are,” Ned answered. He took a knee. “Your Grace.” The rest of their entourage echoed the motion. Jon didn’t quite roll his eyes.

“Oh, get up. We should get moving before Joffrey sends the Redcloaks after us.”

***

Most pursuers would expect the Starks to head for the Neck – and the Crannogmen did lay a false trail that way – but Ned took them Northeast, towards Velaryon lands. The Velaryons were no friends to Wolf or Stag, but with a Dragon among them, Ned hoped to find shelter.

“This is an unexpected meeting,” Lord Velaryon said, looking askance at Ned, Jon and their wolves. “We have had ravens carrying wild accusations.”

“Yes, well, there are certain matters – ” That was as far as Ned got before Jon broke in.

“My Lord, there’s something in your fireplace.”

“That’s just a carving,” Velaryon said.

“It’s moving, though?” Before Ned could stop him, Jon pulled back his sleeves and reached into the fire. He came out what looked like a carved stone egg – save that, as he had said, it wobbled in his hands.

Then, the egg cracked and split into shards, revealing a tiny dragon. It chirped up at Jon, who stared back in wonder. Ghost sniffed at the new arrival, and then licked its whole face with one swipe of his tongue.

Ned briefly covered his eyes with his hand. “Lord Velaryon, I make known to you my nephew Jon, trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I had hoped to explain before we made a scene, but alas.”

“This is mockery,” Jon told the dragonet. “I’m being mocked.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts, your Grace.”

***

Ser Barristan Selmy, no longer a Kingsguard, left King’s Landing with a single trunk of belongings. He knew Prince Joffrey disliked him, though he had hoped for some respect for his long service. It was not to be.

Dismissed, if you please, with a sneer and a sack of coin; no doubt with drawn steel to follow if he objected. Barristan had been in his post for most of his life; he had served three kings, and left to his own devices he hardly knew what to do with himself. Perhaps he would take the Black, or seek out Daenerys in Esos; but first, he very much wanted to ask Eddard Stark the reasons for his desertion.

He took passage on a ship for White Harbor, and was surprised to learn that Lord Stark was already there. Had he not travelled though the Neck after all?

A servant brought Barristan to a garden where Stark was conferring with Lord White Harbor, and curiously, Lord Velaryon. “Well met, my Lords.”

“Ser Barristan.” Stark tactfully did not mention his lack of white cloak. “I take it that matters in King’s Landing are not improving.”

“I’m afraid not, my Lord.” Barristan got no further, because a small, but unmistakable dragon fluttered past them into the garden.

A moment later, Jon Snow and his direwolf followed it. “Good morrow, my lords! Ghost, which way did she go?”

The direwolf yipped and led the way to a bush which was rustling furtively. Jon reached in to retrieve the dragon; it chirped and nuzzled his face. “Rascal, I think you need a bath.”

Barristan stared. Stark just heaved a long-suffering sigh. Now Barristan noticed that Stark was still wearing the emblem of the King’s Hand, backed by a red-and-black ribbon. Barristan’s mind whirled. The boy had to be … “Prince Rhaegar – and Lyanna Stark?”

“Aye, and the worst-kept secret in Westeros,” Stark agreed. “It may be craven of me, but I’m thankful I never had to tell Robert.”

A right mess that would have been. “And if Joffrey had proved a worthy heir?”

“I’d have held my tongue still, and Jon would be Robb’s bannerman. I’ve raised him as best I could.”

***

He found Jon in the kitchens, where his dragonet was playing in the hearth. Jon had rolled his sleeves back and reached right into the flames to scratch her horns. There could be no doubt about his lineage. His direwolf sprawled at his side, and wuffed as Barristan approached.

“Ser Barristan,” Jon nodded to him.

“Your grace.” Barristan bent his knee.

“Come and sit,” Jon told him. The kitchen servants moved around them without paying them any mind. “I suppose Father explained what has been going on. There was a raven from King’s Landing about your dismissal. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m pleased that you think so, your Grace. I … came to offer a petition to resume my place as Kingsguard in your service.”

Jon’s eyes widened with surprise. “I would be honoured. My siblings would jape that that Ghost is my whitecloak, but he hasn’t much grasp of the finer points.” The direwolf shlorped his tongue up the side of Barristan’s face.

***

Barristan knew that Stark had retained the services of Syrio Forel, so it was no surprise to find the Braavosi swordsman at the practice ring.

“Well met, Ser Barristan. Syrio has heard much about your skills.”

“And I, yours.” It had been some time since Barristan had faced an equal in skill. He gestured at the ring. “Master Forel, may I have this dance?”

Forel laughed. “Syrio would be delighted.”

***

The King’s entourage was on the road to Winterfell once again. Barristan found the company much more pleasant this time, Jon, though solemn-faced, revealed a streak of mischief very reminiscent of Lyanna. Rascal was growing fast, and the men-at-arms were kept busy hunting to feed her. Jon’s direwold seemed to have accepted Barristan as part of the pack.

“A Kingsguard must ward the King with all his strength,” Barristan told Ghost. “You are to take no wife and hold no lands.” Ghost yipped in response, and Barristan gave him a piece of sausage. He did not, of course, expect the animal to understand the White Code. The point was for Ghost to recognise his voice and perhaps, take directions from him.

The quiet of the camp was broken by heavy hoofbeats on the road, approaching fast. Barristan stood; even from a distance he could recognise the Mountain. It seemed that Tywin Lannister was not waiting for Joffrey to get his business in order. Clegane didn’t slow his horse as he charged into the camp.

Barristan put himself between Jon and the attacker, drawing his sword. The direwolves fell on the Mountain’s horse and pulled it down; the man was not so easily thwarted. He rolled to his feet, roaring.

Forel darted in; though his blade was light, he was quick enough that Clegane couldn’t land a hit. Barristan stepped in when Syrio needed to breathe, and between them, they kept the Mountain occupied.

Then Stark came forward with Ice in his hands. The Valyrian steel blade sheared Clegane’s sword in half; when Clegane kept coming, Stark cut the rest of his blade from the hilt. Clegane threw it aside and charged at Stark bare-handed. Stark swung again, and parted the Mountain’s head from his body.

The camp was still as Clegane’s body toppled to the ground. Jon poked it with his boot. ‘What are we going to do with this?”

Stark said, “Pack the head in salt and send it to Dorne, with my compliments.”

***

Barristan rode through the gates of Castle Black with Ghost loping at one side, and his newest Kingsguard brother at the other. Theon had made the switch from grey to white with something much like relief. His fate was no longer bound to his father’s tenuous good behavior, and Barristan judged he would be loyal to his King.

Theon held the reins of both horses after they dismounted. Lord Mormont came out to the courtyard to greet them. A small crowd of Black Brothers gathered, curious about the Whitecloaks in their midst.

“Well met, Ser Barristan … Is his Grace with you?”

“He’ll be arriving in a moment,” Barristan said. Targaryens did like to make an entrance. A shadow passed over them, then the flapping of great wings. Rascal touched down in the courtyard and Jon vaulted from her back as casually as if she was a pony.

“Good morrow, Lord Mormont.”

“Castle Black welcomes you, your Grace.” Mormont’s eyes were still on the dragon behind him. Allister Thorne had fallen to his knees in awe. Jon called out to him. “Ser Allister, would you bring Maester Aemon?”

“Your Grace.” Thorne bowed his head and rushed off. Jon spoke quietly with Mormont while they waited. Barristan spared a moment for his horse; the beast was well used to Rascal by now, but still became skittish in her presence. Before long, Thorne returned, guiding the aged Maester on his arm.

“Jon?” called Aemon. “Allister says you have something I need to see. So to speak.”

“I do indeed,” Jon answered. “Rascal, come here.” He took Aemon’s hand and laid it on the dragon’s nose. Aemon’s eyebrows rose as he realised what he was feeling. Rascal’s nostrils flared, scenting him, and then – shlorp.

“My apologies,” said Jon. “She was raised by wolves, you see.”