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The air is cold, biting at his nose and reddening his cheeks. Inside doesn’t help much, even with the walls his Lord Uncle claims are heated somehow.
The North is cold. Snow everywhere, crunching under his boots with every step and piling at his skirts. Another thing, he has to wear skirts. Like Rhaenys and Dany. As if he’s some pretty little thing needing to be protected.
‘It’s what’s expected here,’ Lord Eddard had said to him, kneeling to his height with the gown in hand. ‘Omegas dress accordingly, no matter if they’re boy or girl. This one belonged to your mother.’
It was an ugly gown. Purple and far too long, with butterflies badly embroidered along the front. His mother had been taller at this age, that he’d been told enough, but seeing it is different.
There are portraits here. Large, detailed portraits of Starks through the ages. Many feature her, but one in particular catches his eye.
There, in creams and blushes, is a mirror of himself. Jon had never seen his mother before, had not known what she looked like past grey eyes and dark hair.
In the one by his bedroom she is young, likely around the age he is now, and smiling politely. Each time he says a portrait, of which there are many, he has to stop. Wonder if he’ll look like that as he grows. To ten, to twelve, to fifteen. The portraits stop there.
There are no delicately painted portraits of her at home. Not of her as a child or before she’d had him. No elegant tapestries by her hand were displayed on the walls, no embroidered pillows by his bed.
It is princess Elia who haunts that castle, the wife of his father. The woman who bore the prince two trueborn children and died of a fever that almost claimed her youngest. Jon’s told the realm wept at her death, though he does not remember it.
“Are you going to stand there forever?”
Jon startles at the voice, turning on his heel to face the young lordling. Winterfell’s heir stands before him, red curls fussed and freckled cheeks flushed. A bitter feeling flutters in his belly as he takes in the boy.
How can he, looking less Stark than Jon looks Targaryen, be heir to such a vast land while Jon has nothing. No claim, no name, no trousers. It’s not fair.
“I have no idea what you mean, cousin.”
The boy points at him with the wooden sword in his hand, the blunt tip inches from his face. He takes a moment before speaking and this is when Jon realises he’s out of breath, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“You’re watching me train. It’s distracting.”
Jon shrugs, the thick fur cloak over his shoulders ticking his cheeks as he does. It’s only really good for one thing and that’s hiding whatever monstrosity his septa has him wear during the days. Warmth as well, but that’s less important.
Robb’s blue eyes narrow at him, an expression of both annoyance and disbelief crossing his features.
“I’m not stupid.”
“Debtable.”
A frown now, small face twisted into anger.
“I’m not. I know you’re watching me.”
“Stop accusing me of things!”
“Stop watching me!”
Jon, ever the elegant little thing, tackles the boy to the ground. Robb fights back, attempting to pull his hair as Jon climbs atop him and punches his stupid face.
They’re pulled apart quickly, separated quicker. Lord Eddard has them both brought to his study, Robb nursing a broken lip and Jon’s headpiece broken and dress torn.
“I hate this,” Robb complains as he scrubs the stone floor of the kitchens. “I hate you.”
“Likewise.” Jon agrees, unable to feel any true anger at the moment.
He’s wearing trousers. It would be unseemly to clean in one of his gowns, his septa had said. A rare moment of leniency in this frigid wasteland. It’s only as he cleans, but Jon can certainly think of more ways to cause trouble if this is his punishment.
“You’re insufferable. Why were you watching me?”
Jon ignores the question just until he thinks Robb will ask again and then speaks, eyes locked on the stone as he scrubs.
“I wasn’t.”
A noise of frustration leaves the other boy’s throat, his brush tossed to the ground with a hard clack. Smaller ones follow as it bounces.
“You were! You were and it’s annoying!”
Jon almost tosses his own brush. He knows he could hit the annoying boy in the face. He knows he could.
“Why does it matter?”
“It’s distracting!”
“How?”
The staff should be able to hear them by now, should be able to sense another fight about to break loose. This time around weaponry and water, which he doubts either would use but could come in handy if any kinslaying were to happen.
“It just is! Don’t look at me anymore. Don’t even stand on that balcony!”
Jon crosses his arms, rage burning in his belly and threatening to spill up out of his mouth.
“If you were better at swords I wouldn’t have to!”
The boy takes a deep, measured breath through his nose. Little hands clench by his sides. Jon smirks, realising he’d been told not to hit. Well, this will be fun.
“I’m much better,” Jon gloats, brushing dark hair behind his ear. “And I use a real one.”
“Shut up!”
“No!”
Robb pushes himself to stand.
“I said shut up! I’m the heir to Winterfell so you have to listen to me!”
“No I don’t.”
Robb huffs, looking as though he wants to pull Jon’s hair again. After a moment, a determined look replaces his anger.
“I’m going to marry you,” he crosses his arms. “Then you can’t disobey me.”
Jon scoffs, shaking his head. Years later, he regrets that. Robb only became more and more determined to marry him as they got older, taking it into his own hands after his sixteenth nameday.
A man grown able to choose any wife, able to lure his tipsy cousin into the godswood with promises of hatching a plan to ambush Theon and tip a pitcher on him as they’d done for most celebrations for the past few years.