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Chapter Text

A winter rose sat perched in a small crack on a wall of ice, snowflakes flurrying around it. The northern winds buffeted about him as Jon stood before it, but he felt neither the wind nor the cold. The petals of the rose in front of him were covered with spiky white frost as sharp as the thorns on its stem. Jon could only stare at it, fascinated. Logically he knew it was impossible for a rose to grow out of a wall of ice. And yet, there it sat, as sturdy and sure as if it were in the glass gardens at Winterfell.

Then the rose started to change. Jon watched as the petals grew wet with crimson, heavy droplets of the stuff forming at the end of each petal before dropping and staining the snow below. The smell of it was coppery and warm.

A sense of terror gripped Jon at the sight, although he didn’t know why, which only grew as more drops fell from the rose. Two, three, four, and finely, six. The red stains in the snow grew, and grew, and grew until the scarlet puddle had reached Jon’s feet. By now his heart was racing with fear, pounding hard as a war drum. The last thing he heard before the blood touched him was a woman’s voice, filled with panic and desperation.

“Promise me!”

Jon woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed. His skin drenched in a sheen of cold sweat. Heart heart hammering away in his chest, just as it had in his dream. His breathes came quickly as well, his chest rising and falling as he struggled for air. This was the fifth time he’d had that dream in the past week. And every night it was the same, except for now, this time he had heard a woman’s voice.

Running a hand down his face, Jon swung his feet over the side of his bed, relaxing some as they hit the cool stone floor. As if the feeling of it grounded him to the present. He breathed in the cool pine scent of his room, which was the same scent as the rest of Winterfell, the great keep of the North.

Breathing shakily, Jon ran a hand down his face, wiping away the dredges of sleep from his eyes. He had been plagued by dreams such as this one for the past month. They weren’t always the same ones, but they were recurring. The bleeding rose however was the most common one. Another one he had had often was eyes as cold and blue as ice, and swords of black glass that swung through the snowy air. He had others, ones that were much more abstract, but they all left him with the same feeling upon his waking. Dread. And this one was no different.

A sudden knock sounded from the door, startling Jon and dragging him from his brooding thoughts. He looked up as his half brother, Robb, stepped into the room.

“Ah, you’re awake.” he noted with a grin.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“Well,” Robb started. “It’s halfway through the morning already, and you missed breakfast, which Arya’s still mad about,” Jon forced out chuckle at the thought of the nine year old throwing a fit in the hall, spitting bitter remarks which would have earned her a cuff on the ear from their father. “Not that mother minded of course,” Robb added. Jon wouldn't of minded if Robb had neglected to tell him that. Although Catelyn stark was kind enough to allow Jon to stay in her home, that was about the end of her niceties. Jon is and will always remain a bastard and a symbol and constant reminder of his father’s disloyalty to her.

“So what are you doing here?” Jon asked trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice as he stood to get dressed.

“Well, you might remember that you promised me a sparring session today,” Robb said, a smirk forming on his face. “I can see you clearly haven’t forgotten.” The sarcasm was not lost on Jon who swallowed a groan.

“Sorry,” Jon apologized, slipping a shirt over his head. “I didn’t mean to sleep so late.”

“I understand,” Robb said, eyeing his half brother cautiously. “Looks like you needed the extra sleep.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon retorted.

“Well,” Robb started awkwardly, shifting his stance somewhat. “You haven’t really been at your best of late.”

“Really?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Robb confirmed. “And it doesn’t look like you’re getting any better,” he added as he saw Jon let out a huge yawn.

“I’m fine,” Jon lied through the yawn, forcing a smile and some of his typical humor. “I can still beat you in a sparring match ”

He didn’t have to meet his brother’s gaze to know that the young lord was rolling his eyes in exasperation. “You could barely hold a sword like this. It wouldn’t be much of a fight now would it,” Robb sighed. “Not with you half asleep anyways."

Jon fought the urge to roll his eyes. Yes he had been tired of late, he had to admit. But it was only because of the dreams he’d been having. But it wasn’t like he was going to admit that to Robb. The Stark would just laugh at him for letting a few nightmares impede his ability to swing a sword.

‘But they don’t feel like nightmares,’ Jon thought to himself. ‘They feel like a warning.’

“Well, come on then,” Robb said, clapping his hands together and snapping Jon attention back to him. “Let’s find you something to eat and go for a ride. It wouldn’t be a fare fight against you like this,” he smirked. "But if you really want to spar; I suppose Bran needs some training or perhaps Arya." This time Jon did roll his eyes, but followed his brother out of his room anyway. After glancing through the window, he decided to add another layer of clothing anyways before he left. It looked like a cold day outside.

After going to the stables and mounting their steeds, they rode out of Winterfell at a brisk pace, headed for the Wolves Wood. It was a good way to explore without heading too far away from the citadel. Their swords clanked as they bounced up and down on their saddles as the horses continuing at an easy canter.

Sharp wind stung at his face as Jon rode on, whipping his dark curls back from his face. It felt nice, to just ride. The peace and quiet of the North soothing them as if promising a world free of strife. It was unrealistic, but a nice fantasy. They rode on that way in silence for a while longer, enjoying the weak sunlight that managed to filter down through the branches. A light dusting of summer snow covered the ground, turning the forest into a pristine portrait of the north. The horses slowly eased out into a walking pace, which let the two boys enjoy the scenery more.

“So do you want to talk about it?” Robb suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

Jon looked up at him, almost startled by the sudden request. “Talk about what?” He asked, almost hoping Robb wouldn’t mention what he thought he would.

“Come on,” Robb sighed, exasperated. “Do you think I'm a fool?” Jon frowned. “I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately. You’re always tired, and when I came to you this morning it looked as if you’d seen a ghost,” he listed off, casting his brother a concerned look. “I just want to know what’s wrong. I hate seeing like this Snow.”

Jon sighed, defeated. It was strange having Robb talk to him about things like this. Normally he was the strong older brother of the Stark brood, ready to fight at any moment but not always good at listening to people's troubles. But nevertheless, he was talking about it, so Jon had to respond.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. “Just some weird dreams.”

“Weird dreams?” Robb echoed, confusion lacing his tone.

‘He’s not going to let this go,’ Jon thought to himself.  ‘Might as well get it over with.’ With a resigned sigh, he started.

“It’s just feelings, and images,” he tried. “Sometimes I see things I know I haven’t. Like a red castle by the sea, and wolves as big as horses,” he started. “But other times, it’s stranger things. Green fire burning across water, a bleeding winter rose, a dragon and a wolf. And each time, I always wake with a feel of dread. Like I’ve seen something I shouldn’t have, or something bad is going to happen because of it.”

“Maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks on you,” Robb suggested. Jon only shook his head.

“No,” he said. “It feels real, each one. Like it’s actually happening somewhere.”

“All dreams feel that way,” Robb replied. “I dreamt once that I was being carried away by an eagle for its children to feast on. Still felt real then.”

Jon let himself smile at the image of an eagle carrying away his large brother for little chicks to nibble at, all the while Robb crying in fear. “An eagle?” Jon chuckled.

“It was a large eagle,” Robb announced defensively. Larger than a horse.”

Jon only let out a laugh, making his brother bristle on his mount. “You try being hundreds of feet up in the air and not feel a little scared,” Robb muttered bitterly, which only made Jon laugh harder.

“When I join the Night's Watch, I just might,” Jon offered, referring to the view he’d get from the top of the wall. After all, it had always been his dream to join the watch.

"So you’re really going then?" Rob asked, looking over at Jon out of the corner of his eye.

"Aye..." Jon trailed off into silence

Robb looked as if he were going to continue but he let their comfortable silence settle around them again, their horses continuing to walk through the forest. Sounds of birds and other small forest creatures hummed in the air, lightening the atmosphere around them.

But now it was getting dull, just the two of them moving slowly through the otherwise still woods. So Jon couldn’t say he was disappointed when Robb suddenly spoke up.

“Race you to the top of the hill, Snow,” Robb challenged, gesturing to the hill crest in the distance. He smirked his wolfish grin as he did.

“You’re on Stark,” Jon said, accepting. Without wasting time, he kicked his horse in the flank and flew off down the path. He heard Robb follow suit and soon the Stark was close on his tail.

The two raced on through the woods, growing closer and closer to the goal. Jon was in the lead, but only barely. Then, Robb past him with a whoop of joy, leaving the other to swallow the snow he’d kicked up whilst doing so. Jon let out a gruff huff, and kicked his horse again. He was going to win this thing, damn it!

Right before he reached base of the hill though, his head exploded in pain. Before he could even scream though, his mind filled with sounds and colors which flew by faster than he could process them. A great fire, the words TRAITOR carved on a post, a head rolling down red stone steps, and so many other things that all filled him with fear. And all the while, his chest burning with pain, like he was being stabbed.

"For the Watch."

He heard the words clearly in his mind.

"For the Watch."

"For the Watch." It was said by not one singular voice but multiple different male voices all of which he had never heard before.

Each time he heard them, sharp pain blossomed in his chest, over and over again.

"For the watch." He screamed in agony.

"For the watch." Why did he feel so betrayed?

"For the Watch."

Ned Stark had been finishing up a meeting with Jory and Rodrik when the sound of a galloping horse made him look up. The sight of Robb with a flushed, scared face, made him pause. He hadn’t seen Robb look truly frightened ever since Old Nan had told him the story of a demon that took naughty children in the night and cooked them up as stew. But this look was different, this one was panic, a haunting, deathly panic.

“Robb,” Ned started. “What is it?”

Robb wasted no time in answering his quarry. “Jon,” he gasped. “The wolfswood, riding, don’t know what’s wrong,” he spewed, rushing his somewhat incoherent sentence to get the point across. “There’s so much blood father.” With that Robb turned his horse and galloped back in the direction he came without saying another word

That was all Ned needed to know for the blood to drain from his face. The look that had been on Robb’s face mirrored exactly how Ned felt. His blood turned to ice and his stomach felt as though it had dropped into the summer snows below his feet. He drew in a shaky breath before addressing Ser Rodrik and with as much strength as he could muster, commanded, “Get my horse.”

Jon felt cold. Colder than he had ever felt in his life. He felt himself shivering hard, trying to fight the feeling. He felt wetness trickling down his face, and soaking his chest with a warm sticky feeling. He clutched absently at his rib cage, which felt like someone had dropped an anvil on it, making his breathes come in short, pained gasps. His body as a whole felt like it was being crushed and sliced apart at the same time, making for a very confusing, painful mess. Why he felt like this, he had no idea. Not that he had much time to think on it, as his mind was slipping in and out of consciousness. Images flashed across his mind. Snippets from past nightmares, and flashes of things he didn’t understand.

Sounds of heavy footfalls made him crack his eyes open. He saw shapes running about around him, the sounds of voices and yelling filled his ears. Someone jostled him, causing him to cry out in pain. More shouting filled the air. Someone was calling his name, repeatedly. They kept asking something. But Jon couldn’t figure out what. Confusion swept through him as the bustle got more and more vigorous. More voices, more shouting, more colors. Then he felt himself leaving the ground and being lifted into the air. His ribs shift and he cried out in painful protest. Someone swore. His head swam as he was jostled about, moving from one pair of arms to another. Vertigo clutched him and he felt the world spinning, making him want to vomit. Through the pain and dizziness, he could hardly make out anything. But the smell of blood was strong. That wasn’t good. Was it his blood? Probably, seeing as his chest and face felt like they were on fire. Something made him jerk sharply and the pain flared in him again, and unable to take it anymore, his mind dipped into darkness again as the pain became too much.

***

Images and scenes flashed through his mind at great speed, making him feel dizzy and disoriented. It felt like all his dreams were converging at once. But this time the images cleared into one. A stone tower sat in the middle of a sandy mountain. The landscape around it was desolate and barren, broken up by only the rare bush. Jon could tell that he was in a desert, even though he had never seen one before in his life. Bright sunlight made him squint, nearly blinding him. He had never known it could be so harsh.

Looking around again, he saw three men in armor standing around at the bottom of the tower, a sense of authority hanging around them. He could see a crest chiseled into their breastplates, but from the distance he was at, he couldn’t make out what it was. Where was he? And how on earth had he gotten there? Jon looked around again for any clues, but he found none. Hadn’t he just been riding with Robb in the wolfswood?  Jon wracked his brain to try to remember something, but nothing came up.

“Excuse me!” He called towards the men, trying to get their attention. They paid him no head. “Ser’s!” He tried again, louder. Still, no one noticed. Jon frowned. Why couldn’t they hear him? This whole thing as frustrating him to no end. Turning his gaze away, he spotted ten or so riders in the distance, headed towards the tower. He tried to focus on them but his attention was torn away when he heard a woman scream.

He whirled about, looking for the source. Then he heard it again, coming from the windows at the top of the tower. Looking back towards the guards, he discerned that they weren’t going to help the woman, so he bolted off towards the stairs and up into the stone tower.

When he reached the doorway, the smell of blood and roses hit him like a hammer. He almost had to take a step back from the force of it.

“One more push, my lady!” He heard someone say. It was followed by more pained screaming. “Just one more! You’re almost there.”

He was intruding, he knew it, but Jon couldn't help himself as he slowly stepped into the room. Neither the woman on the bed nor the ones at her feet seemed to notice though, just as the knights outside hadn't. Coming around to the side, Jon finally saw what was causing the woman such agony.

She was giving birth.

Laying in a blood soaked bed, the woman's face- no, girl, for that was what she was. A girl barely older than himself- twisted in pain as she gave another tortured cry. One of the midwives tried to wipe the sweat off her brow, but the action proved useless. Below her Jon could see the blood stains on the sheets growing. She was loosing too much blood. Then the girl cried out again, this one the worst of them all, before another voice joined in, a small, shrill little voice.

“It’s a boy!” one of the women exclaimed, holding up a small shrieking bundle of bloody rags. Jon tried to peak over the wet-nurses’ shoulder to see the babe the girl had just given birth to. It was a small pink thing, squirming around and crying.

The girl on the bed let out a great sigh, her contorted face turning into a weak smile. She looked like she was about to say something, but was cut off when a sound came from the stairwell behind Jon. Before he could turn around and look though, the world vanished around him.

Chapter Text

When Ned saw him, he wanted to puke. Blood covered his sons face and clothes, soaking into the snow around him. He could hear his ragged breathing from where he sat atop his horse only yards away. What in the seven hells could have happened? From Robb’s jumbled account of what he’d seen, he claimed that Jon had cried out in pain and he’d found him on the ground, with his horse galloping off towards the citadel. Blood had been pouring him his face from where he must have fallen on the rocks and his chest was soaked as well. The second part was the most worrisome for Ned, and now that he saw it with his own eyes, his fears had been confirmed.

Dismounting quickly, he ran over to his boy. His eyes were barely open, and small moans of pain escaped Jon’s lips when Ned reached him, showing that he was at least still alive.

“Jon, Jon can you hear me?” He asked, cradling his head in his hands. No response. “Jon!” Ned tried again, this time giving his son a rough shake to try to rouse him. All he received however was a cry of pain. “Damn it,” he breathed, trying not to let the fear growing inside him take over. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at his guards.

“I want all of you to check the area for signs of an attack. Jory, I want your men to ride back to Winterfell and inform Maester Luwin of what happened so he can be ready when we get there, and Robb,” he said, finely addressing his eldest. The young boy looked pale as death with fear, but stood up straight when his father addressed him. “I want you to help me get Jon back to Winterfell, can you do that?”

“Yes father,” Robb said, nodding shakily.

“Alright, then go,” he ordered his men. “But you two,” he said, pointing to a few random guards. “Stay and help Robb and I.” They nodded. All the men went about their separate tasks, Jory and four others remounted their horses and rode back to the castle while the rest went off into the woods to look for any sign of trouble.

“Jon,” Ned tried again, hoping his son could hear and understand him. “Jon I need you to stay awake for me, don’t go to sleep, alright? You can’t rest yet son.” A soft moan escaped Jon after. Ned wasn’t sure if that was a response or Jon just being in pain. Either way, it was good enough for Ned.

“Alright,” Ned sighed, looking up. “Robb, I want you to help me lift Jon up, Darin,” he said, addressing one of the guards now. “You’re going to lift him up and give him to me once I get on my horse. Make sure you don’t hurt him.” Then, as an afterthought, added, “Marcus, you’re going to help him.” The other guard nodded.

“On three Robb,” he said, turning back to his son. He reached an arm under Jon, motioning for Robb to do the same, and secured a hold so that lifting the boy wouldn’t cause him too much pain. “One, two, three,” Ned counted off, hoisting up the limp boy with Robb’s help.

Jon cried out at once, making Robb wince and Ned swear loudly. “Darin,” he cried out. “Now!” Darin rushed forward and took the boy in his arms, freeing Ned and Robb so they could mount their rides. Ned quickly climbed onto his horse and held out his arms for Jon. Darin, with the assistance of Marcus, helped Jon up into Ned’s arms, where he tried to position him gently against his chest so he wouldn’t cause him more pain. More groans escaped from his sons cracked lips, making Ned wince. Forcing his gaze away from his injured son, Ned flicked the rains on his horse, causing it to jerk forward and rush through the woods. He had to get back to Winterfell as soon as he could. He would not lose his son. He had made a promise, and gods be damned if he was going to break it.

“How did this happen Robb?” Ned asked, paced the stretch of room in his solar with growing agitation. He had returned to Winterfell with his sons an hour ago, one in shock and the other one the verge of death. Immediately Maester Luwin had taken Jon into his study and had set to work, not allowing anyone else in except a few people to help him work. So far, Ned had not received any word on his son’s wellbeing, which as the hour drew on, was making him feel worse and worse.

“I don’t know,” his son said, his voice nearly cracking with emotion. “One moment we were riding along, and the next, I heard him scream, and saw him fall from his horse onto the rocks. His horse was going wild too, rolling its eyes and acting like it had seen a ghost,” he recounted. “By the time I got to him, there was blood everywhere. I didn’t see anything else. I swear father.”

“Not even a knife, or an arrow?” Ned asked cautiously. Robb only shook his head. Ned let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Why would someone do this father?” Robb asked suddenly. Ned looked up to see his sons face contorted in confusion and worry, a look not right on a face so young.

A long moment of silence passed before Ned managed to answer. “I don’t know son.”

His response however didn’t seem to please Robb. The boy narrowed his eyes slightly at his father, as if doubting his words, but remained silent. There was still a near palpable tension in the room it seemed, which neither of the Stark men knew how to address. So, after a moment’s consideration on his part, Robb stood up and left the room. Ned didn’t bother to stop him. He didn’t have the energy to anyways.

As of now, the entire castle knew of the incident. Whether in detail or not, it didn’t matter. The working theory was that someone must have tried to kill Robb but had mistaken him for Jon. It wasn’t a hard mistake to make if you had never met the boys. Jon looked much more northern than his brother did after all. But Ned had a different theory, one that made his stomach sink lower than he could have possibly thought with dread.

As soon as Arya had heard, she’d come rushing up to the solar and demanded to see Jon, tears streaming down her face. But Ned had been unable to help her, and instead had just held her close as she wept into his arms. Bran had done the same, although he had merely asked if Jon was going to be alright, a question which Ned was afraid he couldn’t answer. Even Sansa had shown some concern for her bastard brother, something that Ned was much impressed with.

But now all he could do was pace in his solar and wait for Maester Luwin to arrive with news. He continued doing so until he grew too tired to pace, and instead sat in his chair and stared at the hearth, watching the dying embers in the fire sizzle and fade to coals. It was some time later that he heard a knock on the door.

He looked up, expecting to the Maester Luwin, but was surprised when he met the eyes of his wife, Catelyn.

“Cat,” he said his voice hoarse from worry. “What are you doing here?”

Catelyn slowly closed the door behind her and made her way across the room to him, sitting down in the chair next to him before speaking. “You weren’t at dinner,” she said. The words had no emotion behind them. They were merely a flat statement. But Ned could see past the meaning. “We all missed you.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But Jon’s my blood. And I can’t think about anything else right now, Cat.”

A disappointed scowl appeared on her face, turning her eyes hard. “You have plenty else to think about,” she said sharply, her voice taking on the edge it normally did whenever they discussed his bastard, as they were right now. “You are the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. You have duties to attend to, duties that don’t stop existing just because your bastard fell off his horse.” Her tone was steely and cut through Ned like a knife. “You can’t just hide yourself away because of that.”

“And what would you do?” Ned challenged, turning to his wife. “If it had been Robb, or Bran. What would you do?”

“That’s different,” she said quietly.

“How?” Ned countered; his tone devoid of harshness or maliciousness. “How is it different? He’s my blood. How is it any different from that?”

Cat grew silent at that, lowering her eyes to the dusty floor, not daring to breathe a word. Whether it was in shame or frustration however, he couldn’t tell. When she remained silent, Ned sat back with a deep sigh, exhausted. He didn’t like to fight with Catelyn. Especially over Jon. He knew she despised the boy, and he wished he could change that, but he honestly couldn’t blame her. And there was nothing he could do about that. Before anything else could be said however, a knock on the door heralded another person’s arrival. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell looked up just in time to see Maester Luwin strife into the room with a solemn look on his face.

Immediately, fear clenched Ned’s heart as he prepared for the worst. “What is it Maester?” He asked, his voice shaking only just. “How is he?”

“He’ll live,” the Maester said, letting Ned have the opportunity to breathe a deep sigh of relief. “But there’s something you should know…”

Chapter Text

Ned couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. It was impossible, really. Even the magics of old couldn’t have done such a thing. So instead of speaking, he just stared at the Maester, his mind blank with shock. Luckily though, his wife Catelyn didn’t share the same feelings, because her low voice spoke up almost immediately. “How can that be?” She breathed. “That’s impossible.”

“I don’t know,” Maester Luwin admitted. “It is beyond my comprehension. By all accounts he should be dead.” A shiver of dread passed through Ned at the thought. “But the wounds, they healed. Before my eyes.”

‘He had been stabbed,’ Ned thought to himself, recalling what the Maester had just told them. ‘Six times. He had been stabbed six times. And he’s fine?’

“I don’t understand,” Ned finally managed to say after struggling to comprehend all the information he'd been given. “Not even a scar?”

“Well,” Luwin started again. “I’m sure the cuts on his hands and face will scar, but the stab wounds, they sealed up all by themselves. As if they never existed.”

Ned sat back in his chair, dumbfounded. He could hardly process what the Maester had just told them, let alone this information. However, if there was any doubt that it hadn’t been an attack, it was now thoroughly extinguished. But that also left many more unanswered questions to deal with. Was Jon the actual target of the attack? or was it Robb? Were his children at risk? And no matter which answer is was, he knew his children weren’t safe. He turned slowly to Cat, to see how she was taking it. The lady of Winterfell looked pale, as if the news had also shaken her. Ned assumed it must have been her worry for her children rather than Jon but still, it was almost comforting to know they shared the same concerns for Jon.

“Get me Ser Rodrik,” Ned ordered suddenly, breaking the silent tension that had been building in the room. Maester Luwin nodded and left the solar, heading off to find the captain of the guard.

In the wake of his absence, Cat turned to Ned with a haunted look in her eyes. “So he was attacked,” she said softly. Ned could only manage a nod in response, not entirely trusting his voice at the moment. “And if it was meant for Robb…” Catelyn couldn’t even continue her thought as tears welled in her eyes. She pursed her lips together and took in a deep breath, trying to control her emotions. Ned didn’t want to think about that either, that his children were being targeted. Which was why he breathed a sigh of relief when Maester Luwin returned a few minutes later with Ser Rodrik by his side.

“Double the guards on patrol tonight,” Ned commanded, standing up and addressing the knight. “I want all my children watched carefully. Post guards outside their doors if you have to. They go nowhere without someone with them. Is that clear?”

“It is my Lord,” Ser Rodrik said with a curt nod.

“And start an investigation as to who might have done this. It was definitely an attack,” he continued. “And I want whoever is responsible brought to justice.” The knight nodded solemnly. “Alright, you may go.” Ned dismissed. The knight gave a small bow before he went off to follow through with his orders, leaving the Starks with Maester Luwin once more. “And Maester Luwin,” Ned said, addressing the Maester this time. “Please go and tend to Jon. Make sure he’s comfortable.”

“Of course my Lord,” the Maester said, giving a slight bow before exiting the solar again. And once again Cat sat with Ned in the dim lit room, returning to an awkward and uncomfortable silence.

Arya did not like this one bit. First her brother had forbid her to see Jon, then her father, and now Ser Rodrik. He had even posted a guard outside her door to make sure she didn’t sneak off. Well, she wasn’t actually sure if that was the reason, but for the moment, that was her working theory. Ever since she had seen her father ride through the gates with her brother limp as a doll in his arms, she had panicked. She had ran immediately to Robb and asked what had happened, but he wasn’t all that forthcoming with information. Then she’d ran to Maester Luwin, seeing as he had taken Jon for treatment, but they hadn’t let her in. When she finally found her father, he had only told her that he had been hurt, and not much else.

It had been hours later, in her bedchambers, when the hot tears had finally stopped flowing. Septa Mordane had come by earlier to tell her to come to supper, but Arya had refused. Using a few choice words she knew mother would most certainly scold her for later. But her mother had never come. Nor her father. In fact, the only person who had come to comfort her was Robb, and he had seemed to need it as much as she did.

And now, late into the night, in the hour of the wolf, Arya sat on her bed, staring out her window towards the Maesters tower. She could see the window lit orange from the candles inside, and knew the Maester was still at work. She couldn’t tell if she was comforted by that information or not. Either way, it meant Jon was alive, and she supposed that was enough for her.

The sight of him unconscious and covered in blood sprang to the forefront of her mind again, and she had to force her breathing to remain calm. The hot feeling rising in her belly though didn’t help.

Casting another glance towards her door, she was annoyed to find a pair of shadowy feet outside, lit faintly by the torchlight in the hall. That meant there was no going to see Jon on her own. Unless…

Suddenly, Arya stood from her bed and walked towards her door, pulling a light cloak on to fight off the drafty night air. She opened her bedchamber door and peeked up at the guard standing next to it. Surprised, the man looked down and made eye contact with her.

“My lady,” he said, caught off guard by her sudden appearance. “I didn’t think you’d be up at this hour.”

“I’m thirsty,” she lied. “I want to get a glass of water.”

“I’ll escort you to the kitchens then,” he offered. Clearly there was no getting rid of him that easily.

“I want to go alone. I’d rather be by myself right now,” she tried again, hoping he’d take the hint and let her be.

“Sorry my lady,” he responded. “I’m under orders not to let you out of my sight.”

Arya sighed, put out. “Fine,” she said, trying not to sound too bitter. “Take me to the kitchens.”

He nodded and started to walk off down the hall, looking back once to see if Arya was following. She obliged, picking up hr cloak and holding it close to her small frame. They walked in silence for awhile, making their way through the empty halls of the castle. Soon they reached the hallway that Arya wanted to go down, and then, making sure the guard wouldn’t notice, slipped off down the passage and sneaked off towards the Maesters rooms where she knew Jon would be. It was a few moments until she heard the cry from the guard as he realized she was no longer with him. But by then she was down the passage and had already turned onto another one, way out of sight of him.

She made her way up the stairs towards Maester Luwin’s chambers and silently opened the door to them. She saw no trace of the old man, but saw Jon lying on a cot at the far end of them room. Slipping inside, she made her way past tables piled with books and herbs to her unconscious brother’s side.

Now that she saw him, she understood why her father and Robb had forbid her before. Her brother’s face was a mess, sliced and bruised and all torn up. His hands looked no better though. They were wrapped in sullied bandages, stained dark from what Arya could only assume was blood. But what drew Arya attention the most were the large purple bruises all along his side. From what she had been told, that must have been from where he’d fallen off his horse and hit the ground. Arya simply couldn’t wrap her mind around that though. He was a great rider, and would never fall from a horse, unless something had happened of course.

“Lya…”

Arya was startled when she heard Jon speak. But on closer inspection, he had only breathed the word in his sleep.

“Lyanna…” He whispered again. Arya frowned. Lyanna was their dead aunt, whom none of them had ever met. Unless of course there was a different Lyanna that he knew which none of them did. Before Arya could ponder more however, the sound of footsteps came from behind the doorway, and in stepped Maester Luwin.

“Arya?” Arya turned around swiftly and stared up at the Maester, her eyes wide as if she’d been caught in the act of stealing. “What are you doing here child?”

Panicked, Arya blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “I was looking for a glass of water.” Maester Luwin raised a disbelieved eyebrow, as if unimpressed with her flimsy excuse.

“So you came all the way up here to get it?” He asked, his tone almost teasing. Ashamed, Arya looked down at her shoes and mumbled the truth.

“Sorry Maester Luwin,” she apologized. “I only wanted to see Jon.”

Sensing her distress, Maester Luwin stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “It’s alright child,” he said. “It’s understandable to be concerned for you brother. Especially now given the circumstances.”

“He’ll be alright, won’t he?” She asked, looking up at him. She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded too pitiful.

“Yes,” he responded. “He’ll be alright, given time.” Arya let out a big sigh of relief. “But he needs rest to do so,” he continued. “And he won’t get that if you’re around to bother him.”

“I swear I won’t!” she cried. “I won’t be a bother, Maester Luwin. I promise.” She didn’t want to leave Jon’s side. Not when she had just seen how bad he was. She was his sister, and she loved him. She wasn’t about to just leave him alone with the Maester day in and day out. Even if it was just for one night. “Please let me stay,” she begged him. “Please.”

After a moment consideration, the Maester let out a sigh of resignation. “Alright,” he said. “But only after you tell that guard at the door. He seems most annoyed with you.”

Arya looked over her shoulder to see what he was talking about. There, in the doorway, stood her father and the guard she’d ran away from earlier, neither of them looking at all pleased with her. “Oh,” she breathed. She had a lot of apologizing to do it seemed.

Chapter Text

When Jon first woke up, Arya and Robb were in the middle of an argument, which Jon’s light cough had ended in a heartbeat. Robb had immediately rushed off to find Maester Luwin and their father, leaving Arya to squeal with joy and hug Jon repeatedly, much to Jon’s; and his ribs’, discomfort. Then Robb had returned with the Maester and Lord Stark, and the adults had kicked the children out of the room. Maester Luwin had poked and prodded Jon for some time, asking dozens of question about what hurt, and where, before letting his father speak with him.

"Jon!" He breathed, rushing forward and wrapping the boy in a bone crushing hug, literally.

"Ah!" Jon cried, startled by the the sudden movement jarring his ribs. His father quickly pulled away, face slowly reddening with shame.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't thought about your ribs," he apologised, before easing himself down into a chair that had been drawn up the the side of his bed.

"It's alright," Jon winched, rubbing his sore chest. "It's not that bad." A clear lie. And the raised eyebrow on his lord fathers face told him as such.

“Maester Luwin says you cracked your ribs when you fell,” his father said. “You should take it easy for the next few weeks.”

“Fell?” Jon frowned. “From what?” All he knew from before waking up in the Maesters chambers was going for a ride with Robb. Everything after was hazy.

Jon watched as his father's face darkened. He’d only seen that look a few times before. Once when the Greyjoy’s rebellion was announced, once when Jorah Mormont had escaped justice, and once when Lady Stark had called Jon… well, it didn’t really matter anymore. Suffice to say though, whatever had happened must have been bad. Very Bad.

“You should lay back, son,” Lord Stark said before recounting the events of the past two days. As he spoke, the memories came back to Jon, but truthfully, all Jon remembered was riding in the Wolfswood with Robb, and then the strange dream he'd had whilst unconscious; but he wasn't planning to mention the latter half to his lord father.

Afterwards, his father interrogated him to see if he’d seen anything of his attacker. But It seemed what he did tell wasn’t enough for the Lord of Winterfell. Ned had frowned, dissatisfied, and then badgered him some more. Asking questions Jon didn’t have the answers to. He tried to tell him as much, but Ned Stark wouldn’t hear it.

“I’m telling the truth,” Jon said again, growing tired of the constant interrogation. It had been a day since he’d woken up, and five since the ‘attack’, and still his father couldn’t let it go.

“I need you to try, Jon,” his father pressed. “Really try.”

“I am,” Jon snapped, a faint flame of anger smoldering inside him. “And nothing’s changed. I don’t remember seeing anyone, I don’t remember hearing anything, I don’t even remember falling from my horse,” he ranted. And finely, for emphasis, added, “I don’t remember anything.” Suddenly tired from the effort of yelling, and sat back hard against the pillows resting against the headboard. He turned away haughtily from his father, eyes glaring instead at the windows which were throwing pale afternoon light into the room. From his side, Jon could hear his father heave a sigh, clearly exasperated.

“Fine,” he heard his lord father say, his tone annoyed and clipped. “I’ll leave you to rest then.”

Glancing back at his father, Jon watched as he rose from his chair and headed towards the door, casting a final glance over his shoulder at his son before leaving. Jon was tempted to say something before the door had shut. That he was sorry perhaps, or that he hadn’t meant it; Anything to not have his father look at him with such disappointment. But Jon didn’t, and the door closed behind his lord father.

At first, his dream was just sounds and colors, a jumbled mess of noise that Jon couldn’t, nor didn’t really care to, make sense of. But then it settled into something more distinguishable. He stood in a crowded courtyard, staring up at the steps in front of a large building. Warm bright sunlight shone from above, and the smell of perfume and sweat mixed together to form the most uncomfortable of odors. Up above, he saw a few people standing on the pulpit in front of what Jon assumed to be a sept. It was an immense sept though, larger than the tallest tower at Winterfell. One man, a thin gaunt being, was dressed ink black fine clothing, finer than his looks would have him assume, and was being held onto by men in golden cloaks. A fat man stood behind him, most likely the Septon. Behind him stood a cluster of gold cloaked figures and a tall boy with a thick head of golden hair. From his distance, Jon couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the royal crown perched on his head. That was odd. Wasn’t Robert the king?

Jon continued to watch however when the man held between the gold cloaks was thrust down to his knees, his hands tied behind his back so he couldn’t resist.

‘They’re going to kill him,’ Jon thought with sudden realization. Slowly, he started moving through the crowd to get a better view of just who this king was sentencing to death. It must have been someone important if it was before the doors of the sept. People were screaming all around him, crying words such as “traitor” and “villain”. Just before the sword was swung though, and through the din of the crowd which was distracting him, Jon managed to make out the clear face of the last person he would have expected to see there, with look of despair sweeping over his features. The man lowered his head, exposing leaving his bare neck for the executioner. And Jon could only watch, petrified, as the sword descended onto his father’s head.

Arya had taken to spending much of her time with her recovering brother, even sneaking out at night to stay with him in his room. She had found a way to do it so that both the guards and her father would be happy. Well, her father was only happy with the arrangement because he was unaware of it. Her normal sentry, Davin, let her go as long as he followed her there, and led her back in the morning before the Lord and Lady of Winterfell would notice her absence from her bedchambers where she should have been. And this night was no different.

Davin had led her to Jon’s bedchambers just after most of the castle had gone to bed, keeping her in his line of vision the entire walk there. He had apparently learned his lesson the first time round, much to Arya’s displeasure. Now she sat with Jon in his room, the faint glow of a single candle giving off enough light for Arya to see Jon’s face. He had fallen asleep just under an hour ago, right in the middle of their conversation. too. At first, Arya was annoyed, but then she remembered just how tired he had looked when she had entered. And then she had felt bad for making him stay up and listen to her going on about the day she’d had. Then she had settled back in the thick squishy chair by the side of his bed that her father normally sat in when talking to Jon, and pulled a blanket around her to keep out the cold. It wasn’t terribly chilly in the castle, seeing as the rooms were kept nice and cozy by the hot springs it was built over, and the ever burning fires in the hearths scattered all around the keep. But Arya was small and thin, so a blanket seemed reasonable.

Now it was late into the night, and Arya couldn’t fall asleep. She had shifted positions near a thousand times, but to no avail. She was starting to give up on the idea of sleep when a sudden sound from the bed drew her attention.

It was Jon. His brow was creased into a line, as if he were troubled. His lips were moving ever so faintly, and fingers twitching anxiously at his sides. At first, Arya had thought he’d woken up, and was simply in pain. But on closer inspection, she knew that was not the case. He looked to be having a nightmare.

“Jon?” she whispered softly, leaning forward in her chair, her blanket falling from her shoulders and to the floor. She received no response. “Jon,” she tried again, her voice harsher and sterner. Still nothing. He gave a quick spasm of his head, jerking it to the side and whimpering, as if in pain.

Arya couldn’t take it anymore. She rushed forward and grabbed onto his shoulder, trying to shake him awake. “Jon!” She cried. “You’re having a nightmare, wake up!” she shook again, hoping to rouse him. Finely, after a third shake, his eyes snapped open.

He was breathing heavily, eyes unfocused as they flit around the room. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Then, his eyes landed on her, and she felt him relaxed a little under her touch. “Arya?” He breathed, still disoriented from just having woken up.

“Yes,” she nodded. “You were having a nightmare, Jon,” she said, trying not to sound too panicked. In truth, she hated seeing him like this, and it scared her. But she couldn’t let him know that.

“Father,” he muttered. “I saw father. He was below a sept, they were executing him.”

He sounded terrified, Arya realized. Like he had actually seen it happen with his own eyes. “Father’s fine,” she said, trying to reassure him. “He’s here, in Winterfell.”

Jon let out a huge breath at her words, running his hands down his face. “It felt so real though,” he sighed. “Just like the others.” The last part seemed to be added in an afterthought, much too quiet for most to hear. But Arya, with her nine year old ears, heard him perfectly.

“What others?” She asked, suddenly weary. Jon removed his hands from where he’d been rubbing his eyes and locked them with hers, his face frozen in weariness, as if he’d let slip a secret he wasn’t supposed to. For all Arya knew, he might have. When he didn’t respond, the young lady of Winterfell asked again. “What others, Jon?”

Jon sighed, defeated, and looked away from her. “It doesn’t matter little sister,” he said, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” she deadpanned. If she wasn’t mistaken, she could have sworn she saw a ghost of a smile form at her words.

After a few moments of silent debate of his part, Jon finely let up, turning back to her. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped. “But would you sit down first? You’re making me uneasy.” Arya rolled her eyes, but complied with his wishes anyway.

“Alright, so it started a few month ago,” he started, tone becoming serious. “I’ve told Robb this, but he didn’t take it all that seriously. At first it was just snippets. Images of seemingly random things that had no connection to me. But then they started getting specific. I dreamt that I was standing in front of an icy wall, with a winter rose perched in a crack. And when it started bleeding, I was terrified, and I don’t know why. I can’t even describe it,” he said, his voice almost haunted. “And then, when I was unconscious, after I was attacked. I saw a young woman giving birth in a tower, somewhere far south of here. She was bleeding badly too.” He looked off into the darkness, his mind having gone somewhere far off in thought.

Attempting to drag him back, Arya spoke up. “And then what? What else did you see?”

“I wasn’t sure at first, but I saw a head rolling down the steps of a great sept. At first, I wasn’t sure what it was, but now I do.”

“So what was it?” Arya asked, leaning forward unconsciously in her seat. Jon remained silent for a few moments.

“I saw the king execute our father.”

Chapter Text

It had been a week since Jon had confessed his dreams to Arya, and in the week, he had spent all of it in his bedchambers healing. A dreadfully dull task if he said so himself. Arya of course visited as much as she could, as did Bran and Robb. Little Rickon sometimes appeared as well, but only at one of his siblings insistence. Jon couldn’t blame him of course. He was only three, so he didn’t really understand what was happening.

By now, Jon was getting sick of seeing only the four walls and windows of his bedchamber. It was all he had to look at for near two weeks now, aside from whatever interesting thing Arya brought with her during her daily visits. Last time it had been a small bundle of poorly picked winter roses, the sweet smell offering a welcome change to the dull room. Jon could tell she had gone far out of her way to get them, too, judging by the mud stains on her clothes. Which only made Jon appreciate them more.

But in all that time, one thing remained constant. The dreams had returned with a vengeance, repeating themselves over and over. He had seen his father decapitated near four times now, something that always shook him to the core. One night, he had even dreamed of a song he knew he’d never heard before. It had been a haunting, yet beautiful melody. But the only emotion that accompanied it was fear and despair. But then again, that was pretty much all the dreams he’d had of late. But now, just that past night, he had seen a raven, a raven with three eyes that had looked at him with far more intelligence than any bird should have. It had squawked at him and flown off toward the crypts, as if expecting him to follow. But before he’d had the chance to, he’d woken up.

Now Jon sat in his bed, pondering over it, when the door to his room opened, and in stepped Maester Luwin, his Lord father, and little Arya, who seemed to be bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Good morning Jon,” the Maester greeted him, sitting down on the chair next to his bed. “How are you feeling today?”

“Much better,” Jon said. Well, physically anyway. “I hardly feel a thing now.” That was a lie though. Any time he coughed, his chest ached, but if he mentioned that he would be forced to stay cooped up in his room for much longer.

“Good,” the Maester smiled, pleased. “That’s quite good. Now, I’m just going to do a few tests to determine how far you are in your healing. And if you’re well enough, I think it’d be reasonable to let you out and about.”

Jon caught sight of Arya beaming brightly behind the Maester. She must have heard of this before Jon had. Jon still smiled widely though, immensely pleased at the news. Jon shot her a pleasant smile and let the Maester do his work.

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” Arya asked, unable to keep her excitement down. The Maester had released Jon from his prison of a bed and had said that he should be able to wander freely around, now that his wounds were basically healed. This also meant he didn’t have to enjoy every meal in his bed chambers anymore, something that the Stark children seemed most glad for. Mostly because Arya and Bran kept insisting on eating with Jon, much to Lady Stark’s displeasure.

“That depends, little sister,” Jon said, pulling his boots on. They felt weird now, after having gone so long without them. “On what your mother thinks.”

“I don’t care what she thinks,” Arya said stubbornly. “You’re my brother, weather she likes it or not.” Jon smiled at her fierce compassion. She truly was a northerner, just as her strong looks suggested. But still, he wished not to upset the lady of Winterfell. It seemed he did that enough by merely existing, which was something he couldn’t very well help doing.

“She’s still your mother, and you must respect her,” Jon sighed, standing up tall. After so much time spent laying in his bed, he had grown used to looking up at people, but now that he could stand and walk around, he was his old height again. He had forgotten how much he missed it. He had also forgotten how small Arya was too.

Arya rolled her eyes, both at his words and his smirk from finally being taller than her again. “It’s still not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair, little sister.”

After that, they lapsed into silence. He had finished getting dressed by then, having pulled a tunic and jerkin on while they’d spoke, and with a nod to the door, they left the bedchamber. Jon was so pleased that he could now walk about the castle again. He loved Winterfell, it was his home, and being confined to his bedchambers had been driving him insane, not that he would ever admit it though. Sometimes, if he asked one of his siblings, he’d get a window open and the cool summer breeze would blow in and fill the room with the crisp cool smell of the north. But then his father would walk in sometimes later and demand it be closed in fear that Jon would catch cold. As if, he had thought. He was a northerner, even if he was born in the south. He wouldn’t have caught cold that easily.

Now, he and Arya were heading out of the doors of the castle and into the courtyard, where he could see Robb sparring with Theon in the dirt. He seemed to be winning. No surprise to anyone.

“Robb!” Arya cried, running off towards her big brother. “Robb look who it is!”

Robb managed to look up long enough to see Jon standing there with a brief smile on his face, and to be whacked by the boy he was sparring with.

“OUCH!” He cried, falling on his butt. The practice sword fell from his hands and into the wet dirt next to him. Arya laughed at the sight despite herself, as did Jon.

“And that’s,” Theon started, his typical cocky smirk lighting up his face. “Why you don’t get distracted while battling, Stark.”

“Yes, yes,” Robb spat, trying not to sound too bitter over losing to the Greyjoy. “Now help me up.”

Arya stood by and watched with mild amusement as the Greyjoy helped their brother up, smirking his stupid grin whilst doing so, just to rub his victory in a little more. Robb tried to ignore it, but it didn’t look like it was working. After, he cast his attention back to Arya and Jon, and his face split into a pleasant grin.

“Jon,” he sighed. “It’s good to see you back on your feet.”

“It’s good to be back on them,” he responded.

Robb’s smile brightened in response. His eyes filling with a gleam that seemed to have been

lost from them. “Well,” he started again. “I’m glad.”

It was then that Theon Greyjoy decided to but in, putting on his usual stupid smirk and carefree persona. “If you’re well enough to be back on your feet, does that mean you’re well enough to mount a horse again?” The Greyjoy asked.

Jon frowned and turned to his brother, confused by what the other boy meant.

Robb sighed and turned to Theon, shooting him a half glare, as if it would do anything to deter Lord Stark’s ward. “He just got better,” the young wolf chastised. “I don’t think that would be the best thing for him right now.” Theon only smirked knowingly and raised an eyebrow at the Stark.

“You know, in the Iron Islands, it’s never too soon to see one,” he taunted, causing the Stark boy to bristle.

“See what?” Jon finally cut in, looking between the both of them with confusion and a growing sense of frustration.

Robb and Theon shared a look before either of them bothered to answer. Robb seemed more on the side of being annoyed and exasperated, while Theon was almost mocking the Stark.

“Are you well enough to ride, Jon?” Robb asked in clarification, turning to his brother. Jon furrowed his brow in confusion as a response.

“Why?” He asked, still not understanding the point in the question. He didn’t think Robb would even consider asking him to ride for at least another month or so.

“Because,” he answered. “Father has a deserter to behead.”

Chapter Text

Direwolves hadn’t been south of the wall for hundreds of years, so Maester Luwin and many of the other northerners said. Yet, despite that, Jon held a small bundle of white fur in his arms as they rode back to Winterfell, the bundle of course being a small direwolf pup. It was clearly the runt of the litter, as Theon had so elegantly pointed out earlier. Its eyes were red as the sweet wines Jon knew lords and ladies always drank, it’s fur whiter than the summer snows beneath them. An albino, Jon had realized. He had heard the Maester talk of such animals one time, but he hadn’t truly believed him. Until now anyways.

Jon looked up at the procession moving through the woods, more specifically, his brothers in front of him, both carrying a few pups themselves. Theon was carrying one as well, but the disgust on his face was obvious as he kept sneering at the thing every few minutes anytime it squirmed in his grasp or whined. At least he’s not getting one, Jon thought to himself in relief.

It was some time before they arrived back at Winterfell, at which point Jon’s still healing body exhausted from the journey and he retired to his quarters, leaving the Lord and his sons to explain their new pets to the Lady of Winterfell. Jon thought it wise to stay out of that conversation.

After leaving his wolf pup with the kennel master and giving him instruction on what to do with it, he retreated to his bedchambers. He stripped off his jerkin and tunic, kicked his boots off, and dropped onto his bed with as much grace as was expected of a tired boy of four and ten. His eyes had hardly closed when he suddenly felt a splitting headache and like the world around him was spinning uncontrollably. He gasped in shock, realizing what was happening. It was just like what had happened before he’d been attacked in the wolfswood weeks ago. But before he could do anything about it, he was sucked into another dream.

When the colors and images finally cleared, Jon found that he was standing in the center of the courtyard of Winterfell, alone on the grounds expect for a raven perched on a post not too far from him. He recognized that raven. It was the one he’d seen in his dream last night.

Frowned, Jon took a few tentative steps forward, his boots making no noise as the trod across the muddy ground. The raven was facing him, all three of its eyes focused unblinkingly on him as he made his way slowly over to it. Jon had to admit that the sight was rather unnerving.

Just before he reached it, the bird took wing and flew off in the direction of the crypts. Jon sighed, aggravated. This again, he thought, of course. Looking around, as if checking to make sure there was no one around him, for whatever reason, Jon decided to follow the bird. He trailed after it, making sure to keep it in his line of sight before it would fly off again.

As he predicted, it had lead him to the crypts, where it now sat perched on an unlit brazier, seeming to be waiting for him. It cawed at him loudly once he stopped in front of It before flying off down into the crypts. Sighing, Jon had no choice but to follow it.

Jon remembered the time he had covered himself in flour and had hidden in the crypts waiting to scare his younger siblings. He had succeeded in making little Bran cry, and also in receiving a hearty smack from Arya. The memory brought a faint smile to his lips, which soon disappeared once he stepped off the bottom step and was met with the gaze of the raven he had been following.

Instead of flying off again like he had expected it to so, it merely sat and stared at him, as if waiting for him to do something. It was then that Jon noticed two people standing behind the raven, lit dimly with the glow of a few torches. They were standing in front of the stone statue of his aunt Lyanna, seeming to be having an argument of sorts.

“I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her,” the larger man spat, his voice quite with aged sorrow. His eyes were trained on the statue before him with such pain that even Jon felt his chest ache. He was talking of the last Targaryen prince, Jon knew.

“You did,” the other, more familiar voice spoke up, as if in reassurances. Jon realized it was his father, Lord Stark, who had spoken. It didn’t overly surprise Jon. He knew his father loved his late aunt dearly, and would often visit her in the crypts. Most of the time with flowers.

“Only once,” the larger man said, snapping Jon’s attention back to the scene at hand. “In my dreams I kill him every night.” He continued. “A thousand deaths will be less than he deserves.”

A moment of still silence passed between the two before Ned spoke up. “We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting.”

“The Others take my wife,” the apparent king grumbled, starting back down the hallway towards the entrance. “And if I hear ‘Your Grace’ once more, I’ll have your head on a spike. We are more to each other than that.”

Jon watched with mute fascination as the two old friends made their way back to the stairs that led up to the outside world.

“I had not forgotten,” his father replied. “Tell me about Jon.” Jon frowned, very much confused. Why would his father be asking the king about his own bastard son? Had something happened to him that only King Robert was aware of? And why on earth would the king care about a mere boy like him? Robert sighed before answering.

“I have never seen a man sicken so quickly.”

Oh, Jon realized. They weren’t talking about him. They were talking about Jon Arryn, Hand of the King. But as far as he knew, the Hand was alive and well. Which only made his brow furrow even more in confusion, if that was even possible anymore. Realizing he had now missed a good chunk of the conversation, Jon looked back up at the two and listened in again to see what they were talking about now.

“A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like fire in his gut. It burned right through him.”

It sounded like an awful way to die, Jon thought to himself, allowing himself a moment of mourning for the man he’d never known. Before he could continue to follow the two down the tunnel, the sound of a raven screeching forced him to turn back around, only to spot the familiar bird perched on top of the statue of Lyanna.

If there had been any consistency to the dreams he’d been having, it was that they all wanted him to know something. What perplexed him about this one however was that the conversation between the king and his father was moving further away, and soon he would be unable to hear it and learn anything from it. But the raven wanted him here, at his aunt’s crypt, for whatever strange reason.

Jon glared down at the three eyed bird, quit annoyed with it. It had been pestering his dreams for weeks now, trying to tell him something, but it still made no sense to him. He might just be going mad, Jon surmised, listening to a raven just like the Mad King had with the voices in his head. And he knew how that had ended.

Huffing, he turned to walk away, but the raven appeared in front of him, having flown there to squawk at him and force him back to the statue. Frustrated, Jon did so to humor the bird, a thought he never imagined would cross his mind, and backed up. That seemed to appease the blasted corvid.

The raven watched him expectantly for a moment, before hopping over to the statues feet, where Jon now saw law a bouquet of winter roses. They appeared to have long since dried up from when they had been placed there, but their smell was just as strong as ever. It tugged at a memory in Jon’s head, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it. That was, until the roses started bleeding.

No.

Jon backed away from the flowers, terror immediately taking hold of him, causing his breath to come in short gasps. He knew that he was dreaming, but he started to feel light headed anyways. He had always seen the bleeding rose on a wall of ice, not in his aunt’s grave. The blood ran slowly across the cold dark stone, making it appear to be black and sickly. The smell of blood and roses was so strong, Jon couldn’t focus on anything else. Distantly, he was aware of the raven cawing at him, but he wasn’t listening. Because he knew where he had smelled this before. It had been in a tower in the middle of the desert, where his aunt Lyanna had just given birth.

Chapter Text

Lyanna had had a son? There was another Stark out there? Or was it a Targaryen, considering she had been raped by one before her death. And if she’d had a son, why had Ned never spoken of it? Is that how Lyanna had died, from childbirth? It made sense, Jon had heard that those things can happen.

Despite all these thoughts whirling in his head, Jon could hardly focus on anything. He had just been dumped with information he didn’t know what to do with. Jon Arryn would die, or has died, and it hadn’t seemed natural. Which means someone may have wanted him dead. But the statement alone gave him pause. Why would anyone want loyal, honest Jon Arryn dead? From all of his father’s accounts, he had sounded like a wonderful, patient man. But he was still going to die, and because of that, it seemed, the king would ride north to Winterfell, possibly to ask Jon’s father to be his new Hand. Jon couldn’t say he didn’t see the logic in that. King Robert and Lord Stark had known each other for years, and judging by the stories his father told, they had been very close friends.

But that still begged the question. Why? Why should he know this? What was he going to do with this information? It didn’t make any sense at all.

Groaning, Jon sat forward and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to drown out all the thoughts swirling inside him. Thoughts that were just giving him a headache. Instead, he tried to just focus on one, the one that was standing out the most. Lyanna.

His father had never spoken of Lyanna, never in passing, and hardly when someone confronted him either. All Jon had ever known of her was vaguely what she had once looked like, before she had been kidnapped by the Targaryen prince and raped before dying before it was her time. She had started a war as well, Jon reflected. King Robert had been betrothed to her, and had been outraged when she had been taken from him, and had killed the silver prince for it.

But that’s not the whole truth. The thought had bubbled up in him before Jon could suppress it, and it made him wince. If he was right, that it had been Lyanna Stark lying in that tower in the south, than that meant she had sired a Targaryen, even if it was rape spawn. Lord Stark had never mentioned anything of the sort on the rare occasion she was brought up, and Jon honestly could not blame him for doing so. Perhaps the babe had died before Lord Stark had arrived. Or perhaps it had been whisked away by one of the wet nurses. Or, the most likely option that he was trying to ignore, it had been killed because of its birth right.

The notion alone made Jon’s stomach roll uncomfortably, threatening to crawl its way up his throat and onto the cool stones below him. He had known such things had happened before, to the little Targaryen children and their mother. Innocent people who had done nothing wrong but been born or married to the wrong family.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and forced the thoughts out of his head. He didn’t want to dwell on such wrongdoings as that. Instead, he thought back to before that revelation, to what the king and his father had been speaking of. They had mentioned the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, and how he had seemingly dropped dead from sickness, with no warning whatsoever. As far as Jon knew, the Hand was still alive and well. But he couldn’t be completely sure. A raven might have arrived recently, or will arrive, bearing the news of his passing.

Or it might not, and he was just being paranoid. But something deep down told him he wasn’t.

He should tell Lord Stark, he decided. But how? How would he, a bastard, tell the Lord of Winterfell that the Hand of the King, and his Lord Fathers foster father, had died, without any proof? Well, stranger things had happened, he surmised. Direwolves were said to not exist south of the wall, and here one was, curled up by his feet on the bed. And three eyed ravens that showed you things one might have been unable to even imagine… Yes, stranger things had happened, Jon concluded. And asking if the old Jon Arryn was dead did not seem as strange in comparison.

But not now. It must have been far into the night by then. Past the hour of the wolf. But there was no way Jon was going back to sleep. So instead, he slid off the bed and propped himself up against the side of it, head resting against the wooden frame, and hands locked over his drawn up knees. It wasn’t an overly comfortable position, he conceded, but that was the point. He didn’t want to fall asleep. He didn’t want any more of those haunting dreams. So instead, he sat on the cold stone floor in his dark room, and waited for the sun to finally breach the horizon.

Arya had noticed something was wrong with Jon when he and Robb were sparing in the practice yard. Normally, when they fought, Robb would make a cheap joke, or Theon would say something stupid on the sidelines that would make both boys smile and laugh. Either way, it was a light hearted affair, even if both of them ended up walking away with brand new bruises and on the off chance, a split lip. That was only if they fought dirty though, something Arya secretly enjoyed watching, but would never admit. But today, Jon hadn’t cracked a smile once, or even responded to Robb’s “witty” remarks. It was odd; Arya had to admit, because her brothers were like best friends. Seeing Jon appear so distant to him was... just wrong.

Arya watched from the fence, sitting very unladylike with Theon towering behind her, watching with keen, bright eyes. He wore his typical wry smile that made Arya itch uncomfortably sometimes, but right now she was ignoring it, focusing more on the match before them. Robb and Jon were almost equals when it came to swordplay. Despite being a bastard, Jon had received the same education as Robb, including sword play and other melee practices. Although Robb would never admit it, Arya knew Jon was better at riding by a long shot, and maybe even swordplay.

At the moment though, it was hard to tell who was winning. They both seemed exhausted, but neither looked ready to give in, despite their labored breathing and the sweat rolling down their brows.

“Ready to give up, Snow?” Robb teased, adjusting his grip on the blunted sword. Instead of retorting or cracking a smile, Jon just scowled, his brooding expression more intense than it usually was. Another two stroked of their swords and Robb was on his knees, his sword in the dirt and a new bruise forming on his leg where Jon had just hit him.

Instead of offering his half brother a smile and a hand up, Jon instead walked briskly out of the training yard and back to the weaponry where he’d leave his sword and practice armor.

Arya frowned, her gaze following him out of the yard, her thick brows scrunched together in confusion. Why was Jon acting so cross? He hadn’t told her about anything that might have upset him recently. Maybe he was just stressed from having to take care of his new direwolf pup, she figured. But that didn’t seem quite right, she thought in further reflection.

“What’s with him?” Theon’s voice broke Arya’s train of thought, causing her to blink in surprise and look up at the young ward of Winterfell.

“Don’t know,” Robb offered in response, his tone conveying the same worry Arya felt.

Frustrated and concerned, Arya hopped off her perch on the fence and scrambled after her half brother, in need of answers. Her blunt curiosity would not help whatever was troubling him, she knew, but they shared nearly EVERYTHING together, so how dare he keep something so troubling from her.

She found him in the armory, cleaning the blunt practice blade with more intensity than a young lad should. But then again, it was Jon.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, not even bothering announcing her presence or offering small talk. Jon looked up, seeming slightly startled by her sudden appearance, before sighing and going back to cleaning his blade. Arya wasn’t daft. He didn’t want to talk. But she did. Huffing, Arya stepped forward and hopped up on a crate next to where he was seated and started swinging her feet impatiently, waiting for him to give. It didn’t matter which sibling she was talking to, the tactic always seemed to work. Much to her smugness.

“Nothing, little sister,” he sighed, not looking up from his sword.

“Care to try again?” She asked dryly, not easily fooled by his transparent lie.

He suddenly stilled, his hand lowering from the polished sword and resting at his side. His eyes seemed to be clouded in thought for a moment. He stayed this way for nearly a minute, before finally addressing her inquiry.

“Has there been a raven from the Capital lately?” He asked.

Arya frowned, taken aback by the question. Why would Jon care about the goings on in King Landing? Not even Robb or Theon or any of the other Stark children cared for such things, Sansa being the only exception.

“Why?” She started, more confused than she was when she had first walked in. “Why would that matter?”

“Because,” Jon struggled to find the words for a few moments, worrying his lip whilst doing so. “I need to know about the hand of the king. Is he well? How’s his health?”

Arya’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand why that-“

“Please, Arya,” Jon cut in, his voice rising in what seemed to be desperation. “I must know.”

Arya was at a loss of what to say. She couldn’t claim that she knew, because she didn’t. And even if her lord father or lady mother had mentioned one, she hadn’t brought herself to care enough to pay attention. But still, the most troubling part was why it mattered so much to Jon. Her brother was brooding, and a little dark, yes. But this was… something different.

“I could ask father…” she tried, trailing off.

Jon nodded mutely, looking somewhat relieved, but still riddled with nerves. His eyes and mind drifted away from her, and he seemed to be containing himself, trying to work out a puzzle that was far beyond his abilities, and it made Arya nervous.

"Jon?" She tried again, this time in a quieter voice. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer at first, just turned back to look at her, his dark grey eyes raking over her small form. Arya only stood their silently, holding his gaze with her own steady one. She wished she could read his features, discern what was going through his head, but the most she could do was hope he'd come forward with his thoughts.

"I don't think our aunt Lyanna died of fever," he finally breathed.

It was so quiet, Arya wasn't quite sure she'd heard him correctly. Their aunt Lyanna? A woman they had never heard a thing about except how and where she'd died. And their father was still vague on that at best. But that still didn't really explain Jon's behavior.

"I don't understand," she frowned.

Jon opened his mouth as if to answer, but shut it quickly, before opening it again. He struggled to find the rights words to use, the right way to say why he felt he was right. At last, he finally broke the silence.

"The dream I had of that woman, in the tower, from all those weeks ago right after I was attacked," he started, eyes looking somewhere past her. "I told you about her, right?"

Arya nodded.

Taking a deep breath, Jon said, "Last night, I dreamed I was in the crypts here at Winterfell. But I wasn't alone. King Robert and our father were down there, they were discussing the death of Jon Arryn, and how it had seemed to sudden and strange," he explained.

Arya scrunched her brow up, confused. "What does this have to do with our aunt?" She asked.

"Because," he started, turning his gaze to meet hers directly. "After that, the statue they were in front of when they were talking, it was Lyanna's. And after they left, a dead bundle of winter roses started to bleed, and the smell of the flowers and blood was everywhere. I knew I had smelled it before, and then I remembered where." He paused, looking Arya over to gauge her reaction. She was still confused. "It was the same smell as the tower where the woman gave birth. And I know it has to be her that had been there."

"But how does Jon Arryn come into this?" Arya asked in a hollow voice, trying to absorb what Jon had just told her.

"Because if has died," he answered. "Then it means these dreams, or whatever they are, they're true. And if they're true," he said thickly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "That means Lyanna Stark, our aunt, had a child with Rhaegar Targaryen."

Arya found herself trying to swallow a lump that had suddenly grown in her throat at his words, trying to suppress the fear building inside her. "And if your dreams are true," she added in a deathly quiet tone. "That means father is to be executed by the king."

The grim look from Jon was all the confirmation she needed to confirm her dreaded thoughts.

Before either of them could form any thoughts on it, the sound of her father's voice wafted into the armoury, coming from outside where he was apparently walking with a few others. It sounded tense and worried. His footsteps and voice were drawing nearer, and when he finally entered her line of Vision, Arya saw who he was talking to. It was Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. Both Jon and Arya froze to listen to what he was saying.

"-received the raven yesterday," he said. His voice sounded rough and tired, like he had been awake all night, or crying. Perhaps both, though neither of the two truly believed the latter. Lord Stark was talking with Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin, and judging by the grim look on the maesters face, he already knew what it was about.

"It was from the capitol," he continued. Jon and Arya exchanged a quick, worried glance. Arya quickly prayed to the gods that it wasn't about what they had just spoken of. Please, don't let it be, she thought to herself.

But alas, the gods did not seem to answer her prayers. Because the next words out of her father's mouth made her blood run cold.

"The Hand is dead."

Chapter Text

"What are we going to do?" Arya hissed, panicked, following Jon through the halls of the keep. She struggled to keep up with his long, quick strides and was stuck in a half-jog to do so.

"I don't know," he admitted, sounding both frustrated and exasperated.

"But if it's as you said, that aunt Lyanna had a child," Arya pondered as they reached Jon's bedchambers and entered them, waiting until their direwolves followed them in before shutting the door. "Why haven't we heard of them before?" She wondered aloud, almost hesitant to dig deeper into it. "Besides, father said he found her dying, not dead. The baby must have been somewhere."

"Perhaps it had died, or was stillborn," he offered stiffly, still not sure how to feel about that. "Or maybe a wet nurse had taken it away before father got there." He didn't, however, voice the other option that had stayed with him since last night. The most sickening of them all. That the child had been killed, head smashed against a wall like Aegon, or stabbed like Rhaenys.

"That doesn't sound very likely," Arya pondered. "Maybe father did see it, but was disgusted because it was a Targaryen," she offered. It sounded less plausible to Jon though, so he shook his head slowly to dismiss it.

Arya noticed his brooding look returning and tried to offer a solution. "You could always ask father," she tried. But even to her ears, it sounded impossible. Father never spoke of his sister Lyanna. So she was definitely sure he wouldn't if they approached him and started demanding answers about her. Answers he might not even have anyway.

Jon seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he met her grey eyes with his own matching ones in a look of disbelief. She sighed, turning away in unspoken agreement. No, that would not be a good idea, and even so, they wouldn't get anything from it anyhow.

"We need to do something though," she sighed. "I can't let father die."

An air of uneasy silence descended upon them after she spoke. Even the direwolves seemed to be affected by it, Nymiria whining and resting her head on her paws, while Ghost, silent as ever, sniffed his sister anxiously.

"I'm only a bastard, little sister," Jon sighed in defeat. "I can't do much of anything."

As much as Arya hated it, she knew it was true. It wasn't fair. But then again, as Jon had said before, nothing ever was.

The next morning, her lord father announced that the king would be visiting Winterfell in a months time. Sansa had been ecstatic at the news, and had started gushing about the prince and all the southern fashion and costumes she would get to see. Bran had been excited because that meant that knights and sworn kingsguard soldiers would be traveling with the royal company. He had always loved the stories of Barristan the Bold, and Duncan the Tall. To meet one of his idols in real life seemed like a dream come true to him.

To Arya however, it just made her stomach sink into the cold stone floor below. She wanted to scream. To shout and throw things and make her father listen to her. But she couldn't. She would only sound mad, raving about impossible things that no one would ever believe. So instead she had sat there and listened to her father explain the kings coming visit, and hold her tongue as she had been taught for years. But she still hated every second.

The month leading up to the king's arrival had been a long one. Jon couldn't say he envied his father with all the work he had to do in preparation. The Lord of Winterfell already had all the duties that came with the title, which was exhausting enough, so Jon couldn't even imagine how much he was doing now. And of course because it was King Robert, he would want a large feast, with anyone who was anyone attending. That meant knights, stewards, squires, banner men, and countless others. So, in other words, lots of preparation.

Not only did he have to prepare for the feasts Robert would demand, but his stay in general. Rooms had to be readied, the castle needed to be cleaned, and so many other tasks that Jon had lost count of. All he knew was that he felt quite sorry for the servants.

The only peace and quiet he could find nowadays was with Robb and Theon in the training grounds. Well, it wasn't quiet per say, or peaceful, but it took his mind off things. Which was something he sorely needed these days. When he wasn't occupying himself with such distractions, both himself and Arya had tried to subtly dissuade their father from going south, as they predicted the King would want of him. But so far the Lord of Winterfell hadn't moved in his stance. Of course, neither of them really knew where he stood in his decision in the first place, but they hoped it wasn't leaning towards the capitol. And however subtle they had tried to be, both Robb and Sansa had caught on, and were both teasing them about it. Robb saying neither of them had thin enough blood for the southern climate, while Sansa simply gave the pair a cold shoulder, thinking that they wanted to ruin any chance she got of going south.

But they didn't have to. Because the south came up to them.

Jon watched from his window as the kings' procession entered the gates to the castle. It was a fair sized spectacle, he had to admit. Knights and stewards lords and people who couldn't even imagine the titles of were pouring into Winterfell. Near all of them were dressed in rich, bright colors too, making Winterfell seem even more lively. Banners were waving loosely in the air; a crowned black stag on a yellow sky and a gold lion on a red sky. It seemed as though the Lannisters were every bit as royal as the Baratheons, even if all they did was fund the crown and help to make a few heirs.

Speaking of the heirs, Jon could see the three Baratheon children exiting their carriage, oldest to youngest. First was handsome, golden haired Joffrey. He was tall for a boy of ten and two, probably taller than Jon himself, something he wouldn't have liked to admit. From where he sat at the window, Jon couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn he'd seen that boy before. He knew it was impossible, but he looked so familiar… Next came little Myrcella. A sweet looking girl with long, flowing golden curls. When he spotted the queen standing off to the side, he realized immediately who she took after. And last came squat little Tommen. He was a plump boy, round and soft. Not surprising, Jon thought to himself, once he got a look at the boy's father.

From the distance he was at, Jon couldn't quite make out the kings face, but he knew it was him. The large, heavy man with a thick black beard was no doubt Robert Baratheon. Even from his window in the tower, Jon could hear his bellowing tones as he greeting the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Jon had heard stories of this man from his father. But usually those stories involved a lean man, well built and ready for battle. This man however, was plump and must have reeked of wine, if his red flushed face was anything to go off of. He was wearing a fine looking doublet though, making him look regal and rich. But the allusion was shattered when he spotted some questionable spots he knew weren't embroidery. This made Jon raise an eyebrow in disgust. Clearly the crown had done him no favors

Sighing, Jon leaned back from the window, continuing to watch with vague interest the proceedings happening bellow. For some reason his father had ordered him to stay in his room while the royal family addressed the Lords and Ladies of the north. That was all well and good with Jon. He didn't want to be faced with a drunken king anyway, not when he was still recovering that was. His father had said he was allowed to come to the feast if he wished, but was told to sit near the back of the hall, as per usual.

Jon's attention was drawn back to the royal ensemble below when he saw his Lord father and the king head off towards the crypts. A cold feeling settled in Jon's stomach at the sight. He knew without a doubt that they were going to visit Lyanna Stark's statue, where Robert would rant and rave about Rhaegar Targaryen. But for some reason, this knowledge didn't comfort him in the slightest.

Unable to focus on the commotion below any longer, Jon looked down at his direwolf, Ghost. The albino pup was curled up at Jon's feet, snoring softly with his pink tongue sticking halfway out of his mouth. It was a humorous sight, Jon thought, considering that a direwolf was said to grow to the size of a small horse and become as fierce as ten wolves. Jon smiled and scratched behind Ghost's ears. He might be large one day, but for now, he was nothing more than a bundle of white fur.

It was some time later when the sound of the door opening drew his attention away from Ghost. He looked up and saw Arya, exasperated, leaning against the door frame as if she had just fought a battle all on her own. Jon smiled at the sight.

"Is the royal family really that exhausting?" He teased, watching as she walked over to him and plopped herself down next to him.

"Joffrey is," she spat. "And Myrcella is as stupid as one of Sansa's straw-brained ladies," she whined. "You're so lucky you don't have to talk to them."

Jon smiled, trying to imagine the scenario Arya had painted for him. It was true, from the brief glance he'd seen of Joffrey, he did look high and mighty, so he could believe that he would be a little shit.

"Are you going to the feast tonight?" Arya asked suddenly, changing the topic away from the annoying prince.

Jon sighed, stroking Ghost's fur absentmindedly as he thought. "I guess that will depend," he answered honestly, looking out his window again.

"On what?" Arya asked, leaning closer to him in curiosity.

He didn't answer, instead looking out the window, his expression giving nothing away. He didn't want to see the Lannisters, to see his father agree to go south with the king, where he would meet his end. He just couldn't do that. Arya frowned, narrowing her eyes in confusion. But despite her efforts, she received nothing more from her brother.

"Well," she started again, her voice as strong as her personality. "I'd like you to be there. You'd be my only family member not acting all snobby and proper."

Jon let out a soft chuckle at the thought. Every time Winterfell had a feast, Arya and the other Stark children were expected to act like just that, Starks. Meanwhile, Jon enjoyed the feast from the far end of the hall, enjoying as much wine as he wanted and talking with lively, rowdy folk that were easy to get along with. It was the only time when he didn't envy not having the Stark name. Arya however…

"I just hate it," she sighed. "And then Sansa will somehow make me look stupid, because she's always so perfect. Perfect little Sansa Stark."

"Don't make fun of your family," Jon chastised lightly. "It's the only one you've got after all." When he said them though, he wasn't thinking of Arya's dilemma, his mind was thinking back to that dream he'd had, where he'd seen his father's head rolling down the stone steps of a sept.

"Please tell me you had a dream where father won't make me go. Please," Arya begged.

Jon let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head at her pleading face. "I don't think it works like that little sister."

"Then what's the point?" She sighed heavily. Jon could only watch her with a smile as she threw herself onto his bed and stared vacantly at the ceiling. She was far too melodramatic for her age, he mused.

"Tell you what," he offered, making her sit up at attention. "If you go to the feast tonight, I'll get you a present."

He now had her undivided, if not speculative, attention. "What sort of present?" She asked slowly, narrowing her eyes.

Jon smiled cheekily in response. "Something I know you'll like," he teased. Arya's eyes were still narrowed in contemplation, but if he knew her, he could tell he'd already won her over.

"Fine," she said. "But it better not be a dress."

Jon hadn't gone to the feast in the end. From what he'd heard around the keep, the king was very loud and very obnoxious when drunk, and would try to woo any women in his sights. And, according to those he'd spoken with, the king was drunk at every feast. So Jon did not care that he was missing this one. He also didn't want to see the Lannisters. From what he'd gathered from conversations he'd overheard in the keep, they weren't a cheery bunch. The queen was bitter and cold, her only redeeming factor being her beauty. Her twin brother was an oathbreaker, and the worst kind at that. Jon had heard the stories of course, about how the captain of the Kingsguard had run the Mad King through the back with his gilded sword. Kingslayer, they called him. And lastly there was the youngest Lannister; the Imp. He'd heard that the man was short, deformed, and a pain to see. But Jon couldn't really see what was wrong with that. If anything, he could relate. Tyrion Lannister hadn't chosen to be born a dwarf, just as Jon hadn't chosen his parents. But it had worked out that way all the same.

So instead of going to the feast, he had snuck some food out from the kitchens and was enjoying a nice sweet wineskin and a plate loaded with food in the deserted courtyard with Ghost. He had sat himself on a soapbox near a brazier while Ghost had curled up at his feet, and was absently fiddling with a practice sword next to him. He was near the armory after all, so he wasn't surprised to find that someone had just left their sword lying about. He suspected it had been Theon.

The sound of the feast was wafting into the cool night air. It sounded like laughter, music, and cheering. Judging from the various feasts he'd attended in the past, he was sure the banner men of the lesser houses were swapping stories and cracking jokes unfit for noble ears. Jon would be eating with them if he was inside, and maybe even feeding Ghost under the table. His siblings hadn't been allowed to bring their direwolves to the feast, but Jon was a bastard and would have been seated near the back of hall, where nobody would have noticed the pups' presence, or cared for that matter.

Sighing, he offered a chunk of meat to the white pup bellow him, and watched as he snatched it eagerly out of his hand. Smiling at the sight, Jon leaned back and took a drink from his wine skin. The sweet liquid ran down his throat, filling his stomach with a comforting warmth. Father only ever let his children drink any wine at feasts, and even then only allowing them one glass each. It was moments like these that Jon was actually glad he was a bastard. Because it allowed him to grab a full wineskin like the one he was drinking out of and enjoy himself a little. Well, as much as he could tonight anyways. At least the wine was making the self-induced exile more bearable.

"Oh, thank the Gods; I'm not alone out here after all." Jon turned to see who had spoken, and was surprised to find Tyrion Lannister waddling about in the courtyard, apparently just having spotted Jon.

Putting on a neutral face, Jon said, "Can I help you my lord?"

"Probably not," the Lannister said, nearing him. His features were suddenly washed in light as he approached the flaming brazier, and Jon couldn't say he wasn't a little repulsed. The Imp was indeed ugly, but Jon pushed that thought down. It wasn't fair to judge before he'd really spoken to the man.

"Then what can I do for you?" Jon asked the dwarf, stressing the "can".

Tyrion drew out a long sigh, glancing at Jon before speaking, seeming to choose his words carefully. "You're Lord Starks bastard," he finally said. It wasn't a question. But both he and Tyrion knew it didn't need to be answered anyways. Jon drew in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing slightly and body growing rigid. Yes, he was a bastard, but he didn't like to be reminded of the fact.

Instead of confirming it, Jon merely responded with, "And why would you think that?"

"Ah, cheeky boy," Tyrion noted with a smirk. "I like it. But yes, I know you're the Stark bastard because here you sit, obviously in exile, weather self imposed or not, it matters not, but you have a direwolf." He gestured to Ghost, who was now paying attention to the two men. "Now, last I heard, the direwolf was the sigil of House Stark. And all the Stark children have just received a new direwolf pup, including their resident bastard. Now, if I find a child sitting outside of the great hall while the King is present, an event practically everyone must attend, with a direwolf accompanying him, what am I to make of that?"

If Jon hadn't been annoyed, he would have been impressed. The small lords' deduction had been surprisingly accurate. Not that it would have been hard to make, anyone who had knowledge of House Stark could have pieced that together. But then again, most people south of the Neck didn't care much for the goings on of the north. But this Lannister did, for whatever reason.

"Lord Stark's my father," was all he responded with.

"But Lady Stark is not your mother," the dwarf noted. Jon looked away from him, unable to meet his blunt gaze. Tyrion seemed to notice this, and continued. "Let me give you some advice bastard, never forget what you are, for the rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor, so it can never be used to hurt you."

Jon pondered his words for a moment, frowning into the darkness of the courtyard while he thought. "And where did you come across this bit of advice?" He asked, turning back to the Lannister.

Tyrion merely smirk, not giving a straight answer. "I think you're a smart lad. I'm sure you'll figure it out." Jon frowned, but knew what he meant. He didn't say it though so as not to insult him. But he was the imp of Casterly rock. Of course he would know.

Before Jon could voice that thought however, a sharp pain stabbed through his head, from temple to temple. He gasped in surprise, dropping his plate of food. He heard it clatter to the ground.

No, not again, Jon thought, feeling the sharp pain lance through his head. It signaled a vision/dream. It had already happened twice now, and neither time had it been fun. But over the course of the month, he had forgotten just how painful they really were. He tried to force himself out of it, tried to focus on anything BUT the pain, but it only grew and grew. Vaguely he was aware of Ghost nudging his ribs, rather roughly too, and people shouting. Or maybe just talking, either way, it didn't help his headache. Someone was jostling him, trying to get his attention. But it was pointless.

Fine, he thought bitterly as the pain became unbearable. Show me whatever it is you want. And so, he slipped out of consciousness.

The images came quickly this time, settling fast in the sight of an old tower. Jon recognized the structure, it was the First Keep right here at Winterfell, a tower that no one had used in years, decades maybe. He didn't have long to take it in though, as he felt his body moving towards it. Strange, he thought, to feel his body moving without him having to say so. It wasn't exactly a good feeling though, he reflected.

He watched as he started to climb the tower, and was shocked to see hands half his size reaching for the stones and ivy that would help him up the wall. Why was he climbing anyway? That was Bran's forte, not his. But still, he felt sure footed as he made his way up the decrepit tower. It almost felt like second nature, but Jon knew that couldn't be. This must not be his body, he figured. There was no way.

He climbed higher, feeling the cool wind wave in his hair and the sturdy stones beneath his small fingers, but stopped when he heard voices. How? No one had been in the tower for years.

"I don't like it," he heard a women's voice say. He felt himself glance around, looking for the sound, and found it's sourcing in the form of an open window beneath him. "You should be the Hand."

"Gods forbid," came a male voice, scoffing lazily at the women. "It's not an honor I'd want. There's far too much work involved." Whoever the man was, he was clearly of noble birth if the women thought he was deserving of the title. Jon found himself still hanging on to the stones, continuing the listen in.

"Don't you see the danger this puts us in," the women pressed. "Robert loves him like a brother."

"Robert can barely stomach his brothers. Not that I blame him. Stannis would be enough to give anyone indigestion."

"Don't play fool," the women snipped. "Stannis and Renly are one thing, and Eddard Stark is quite another." Why were they talking about his father? "Robert will listen to Stark. Damn them both. I should have insisted he name you, but I was certain Stark would refuse him."

Whatever they were arguing about, it was about the newly opened position of the Hand. Clearly the women didn't want his father to become the new one, for whatever reason. In fact, she almost seemed afraid if it.

"We ought to count ourselves fortunate," the man said. "The King might as easily have named one of his brothers, or even Littlefinger, Gods help us. Give me honorable enemies rather than ambitions ones, and I'll sleep more easily by night." Jon felt as though he should raise an eyebrow at the man's odd claim, but found he couldn't. Curse this dream body.

"We'll have to watch him carefully," the women said.

"I would sooner watch you," the man responded, sounding bored. "Come back here."

"Lord Eddard has never taken any interest in anything that happened south of the Neck," the woman said, ignoring the man's request. "Never. I tell you, he means to move against us. Why else would he leave the seat of his power?"

Jon scoffed internally at the woman. She may claim to understand his father, but she clearly didn't. Lord Stark wouldn't go south because he wanted power, he would do so out of duty, as he had during the rebellion. He had had a chance to take the iron throne for himself after all, but he hadn't. Shouldn't that be enough proof for the women ranting about him?

"A hundred reasons," the man with her reasoned. "Duty. Honor. He yearns to write his name large across the book of history, to get away from his wife, or both." No, Jon thought. Father would never want those things. "Perhaps he just wants to be warm for once in his life."

"His wife is Lady Arryn's sister," she stated. "It's a wonder Lysa was not here to greet us with her accusations."

Accusations? What had these people done that would incur the wrath of Lady Arryn? It must have been something bad if they had managed to get themselves on the wrong side of a Tully, he figured. Whoever these people were, he shouldn't trust them.

"If she knew anything, she would have gone to King Robert before she fled kings landing," the man countered.

"She may grow bolder now that she sits in the Eyrie," the woman noted bitterly.

"Let Lady Arryn grow as bold as she likes," the man said. "Whatever she knows, whatever she thinks she knows, she has no proof." A pause. "Or does she?"

"Do you think the king will require proof?" The woman said. "I tell you, he loves me not."

"And whose fault is that sweet sister?"

Jon felt his body look around, as if hoping to find a way down to the window without alerting the pair of his presence. Whoever it was he was in, they must have realized this conversation was not meant for stranger's ears.

"You're as blind as Robert," she accused.

"If you mean I see the same thing, yes," the man replied easily, not fazed by the woman's words. "I see a man who would sooner die than betray his king."

"He betrayed one already, or have you forgotten," the woman reminded the man."Oh I don't deny he's loyal to Robert, that's obvious. What happens when Robert dies and Joff takes the throne? And the sooner that comes to pass, the safer we'll be. My husband grows more restless every day. Having Stark beside him will only make him worse." Wait, husband? It was the queen that was speaking, Jon realized with dread. Clearly there was no love lost between the two of them. And if the man with her had called her sister…

"He's still in love with the sister, the insipid little sixteen-year-old." She continued bitterly. "How long till he decides to put me aside for some new Lyanna?"

Her words left Jon feeling a cold pit growing inside him, leaving him unsure how to process her speech. All he could discern was that the queen despised a girl who had been dead for fourteen years ago, and apparently wanted the king off the throne as soon as possible.

"Jon."

The voice had been so quiet Jon had barely heard it.

"Jon!"

This time it was louder, more insistent. If Jon had been in control of his body, he would have slipped off the face of the tower in shock. He recognized that voice… But it was too deep, too old…

Before he could think on it more though, he slipped away and the vision was over.

Chapter Text

Ned could not say he enjoyed the feast. Sure he had missed his friend, but he had changed much over the years. The Robert he remembered was strong, handsome, and always seemed ready for a fight, his battle hammer never too far from his side. The fire in his eyes had never dimmed, and an air of strength and the sounds of battle seemed to cling to him like perfume. Now all that clung to him was the strong smell of wine, and he had grown quite fat over the years as well. The fire in his eyes had been replaced with lust, lust for any women who seemed to catch his fancy, which seemed to be most of them.

The only thing that seemed to not have changed though was his hatred for Rhaegar. Their conversation in the crypts had shown that quite clearly. He also did not seem to care much for his wife. But Ned couldn’t really blame him. From what he had seen of her that night, she seemed a cold woman. Not one you’d want to strike a conversation with anyway. But to be honest with himself, he couldn't entirely blame her. She was forced to watch as her fat, drunk of a husband flirted and teased every woman who entered his line of sight, before bedding them later. Ned could understand why she would want to be distant from him.

Shaking himself of these thoughts, Ned forced himself back to the present, where he was watching his sons and daughters eat with the princes and princess as the table near his own. Sansa and Jeyne were striking up conversation with Myrcella, or trying to at least. It seemed an awkward affair from where he sat. Robb, Bran, and Theon were seated near Joffrey, but there seemed to be a tension in the air between them. Robb and Bran were fairly friendly, so Ned assumed the fault lay in either Theon or Joffrey. Ned turned away and scoured the hall for Jon, and felt a prick of sadness when he failed to spot him. He deserved to be here after all. He hadn’t been at the welcome ceremony either though, he remembered, even though he had told him not to come. As much as he felt disappointed in the lad for it (it was the KING after all), he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief worm his way into his chest.

There was always that lingering fear that someone would recognize Jon for who he really was though. He looked so much like her after all. How could one not? But luckily, no one had yet, and he hoped it would stay that way.

He was soon however distracted from his brooding by his youngest daughter breaking into laughter as his eldest gasped in horror. He looked up to see that Arya had thrown food at Sansa's face and was going to fill another spoonful of munition unless someone put a stop to it. He saw his and lady wife gesture to Robb for him to put a stop to it, which made Robb's laughing stop as he had to assert himself as the responsible older brother and carry Arya off and out of the hall.

Ned would have stayed to watch if not for a commotion at the end of the hall.

He looked up and saw Tyrion Lannister and what looked to be Benjen Stark in heated discussion, their voices bordering on shouts. Ned quickly deduced his presence was required and began to push through the crowds to get to the end of the hall, before a scene broke out.

"-didn't do anything, that's what I'm trying to tell you!" He heard Tyrion say in a clipped, near angry manner to Benjen, who had a deep set scowl on his face, as if Tyrion had personally pissed all over his meal before serving it to him.

"You just happened upon him like that then, is that what you expect me to believe?" Benjen shot back in a hostile tone.

"I don't know what happened," Tyrion nearly shouted back. "One moment we were talking and the next he's screaming as if someone was driving a dagger into him. I can assure you I am not to blame for this," he pressed earnestly.

"What is the matter here?" Ned cut in, his brow pinched together, staring sternly at the two of them. "Surly whatever is causing the both of you such grief can be moved away from the feast," he commended.

Benjen didn't even bother with an apology, but launched straight into it. "Ned," he said seriously. "Something is wrong with Jon. He collapsed in the training yard, screaming bloody murder. The only one who was with him was this Lannister dwarf, who's claiming innocence," he bit out, shooting said Lannister a filthy glare, who merely ignored it.

"What!" Ned exclaimed. "Where is he now?"

Instead of answer, Benjen shot off at a brisk pace, heading off into the keep, presumably to either the maesters tower or Jon's quarters, whichever they had thought best to bring him. Ned started off immediately and followed his brother through the castle, hardly noticing as Tyrion struggled to waddle after them, trying with all his might to keep up.

Once they were clear of the entrance hall and further into the halls of Winterfell, Ned demanded answers.

"What happened?" He asked, addressing Tyrion, who was managing to just stay behind them.

"As I told your fair brother my lord," he started, sarcasm heavy in his tone. "I was just talking with him out in the yard when suddenly he cried out in pain and doubled over. Before I could do anything, he had collapsed into the dirt. That was also when your wild brother arrived and started throwing accusations."

Benjen scoffed from where he walked next to Ned. "From where I stood, it looked like you had stabbed the lad."

"Well, if you were as great a ranger as they claim you to be," Tyrion shot back hotly. "Then you would have seen I have no knife on my person now do I?"

"Enough," Ned growled, having grown tired of their squabbling. The two thankfully shut up.

By now they had reached Jon's chambers, where a small white pile of fur seemed to be scratching at the door, as if trying to dig under it.

"Ghost," Ned sighed, recognizing the silent animal. Upon hearing his name, the direwolf pup looked up and his wine red eye met with Eddard's. He was surprised by the desperation in them, but could do nothing about it. So instead, he settled for patting him on the head.

"So that's what it's called," Benjen remarked, opening the door to the chambers. "Blasted thing hasn't left Jon alone since we brought him in."

Ned felt a wane smile grow on his lips at his brothers comment as he followed him into the room. It was nice to know that the fabled loyalty between a direwolf and his companion was indeed true. But unfortunately, it couldn't help Jon now.

Ned grimaced as he stepped into the room and his gaze landed on the boy laying on the bed. He looked just like he did all those weeks ago after he'd been attacked and fallen from his horse. He was pale and had an almost waxy appearance to his skin. It pained Ned to see him like this. Again. It hurt even more when he realized there wasn't much he could do about it either.

"Maester," Ned said, now addressing maester Luwin who had been sitting next to Jon as he examined him. The old man looked up at his lord's behest. "Is there anything you can tell us?"

Luwin sighed deeply before speaking. "Well, I can tell you he was not attacked. Not this time, at least."

Ned sighed and nodded in stiff relief.

"This time?"

Tyrion's comment however, went ignored.

"What else?" Ned asked stiffly.

"I cannot say," the maester admitted. "I found no evidence of any illness that could have caused this. Nor any traces of poison." He paused and gave the lord of Winterfell a soft, tired expression. "I do not know what to tell you."

Benjen, who stood next to him, let out a frustrated huff, scuffing his boots angrily across the stone floor. Ned remained stock still though, his eyes glued to the seemingly lifeless boy on the bed. He looked so much like he had last time, except now he wasn't covered in his own blood, and nor did he look to be in any pain.

Ned would find small blessings where he could, and that was one.

And that was the exact moment Jon let out a large, strangled gasp from the bed, suddenly awake.

"Seven hell!" Tyrion exclaimed in shock, stepping back as Ned and Benjen lunged forward.

"Jon!" Ned exclaimed, reaching his sons side before his brother, grabbing onto Jons hand as the boy tried to orient himself, eyes flying widely around the room in confusion. "Jon, look at me," Ned tried again, cupping his hand behind the boys neck and turning the boy to face him.

"Father?" Jon gasped, eyebrows scrunched together as he slowly starting to take in his surroundings. "Uncle," he breathed, his eyes landing on Benjen.

"Thank the Gods," Ned breathed, suddenly leaning forward and giving Jon a rough kiss on the head. "We'd thought we'd lost you again."

Jon, shocked by the sudden concern and show of affection, was at a loss for words, and could only sit there in silence while everyone fussed about. Benjen started to badger him with questions while his father only sat with him and gripped his hand hard, like it might disappear beneath him. Meanwhile, Tyrion was trying, and failing, to keep Ghost from bounding over to the bed and disturbing everything. It would have been a comical sight if not for the given circumstance.

Eventually, maester Luwin shooed everyone away so he could give him another examination, now that he was awake. It gave time for Jon to orient himself, but not as much as he needed, as it was over quickly and his father, Benjen, and Tyrion were back in the room before he knew it.

By now, he sat on the edge of the bed, hands fisting the furs beneath him as he tried to sift through and make sense of everything he had just seen in his head.

"Jon."

The voice yanked him back to the present, and looked up to see his father, who had spoken, sitting next to him on the bed. One large hand was on his shoulder, either to steady him or to comfort, Jon didn't know. But either way, it made a warm feeling bubble up in his chest.

"Jon, what do you remember?" His father asked, his eyes searching Jon's own, as if they hid the truth in their grey depths.

"Nothing," he lied quickly. "I was talking with Lord Tyrion when all of a sudden, my head exploded in pain," he said. "The next thing I know; I was here."

He tried to comfort himself by rationalizing that it wasn't actually a lie. That was indeed what he remembered. But what his father was asking was if he knew the cause. And he did, to a point. He knew what it was, but he didn't understand it. Not yet at least. But whatever it was, he didn't want his father to know about it. It would only lead to more questions, and then to answers he didn't want to say, or know.

His father, on the other hand, didn't buy into his thinking for a moment. He frowned, an expression that always made Jon feel shameful, before saying; "When you lie, you always narrow your eyes and stick your chin out," he pointed out bluntly, making Jon glance down at his boots in shame for a moment before looking back up again. "So why don't you try that again. Hm?"

He could feel his stomach twist itself into knots as he thought of a clever way to answer this. "It wasn't lord Tyrion, if that's what you're thinking," he finally said.

A grandiose sigh followed his statement. "See," the dwarf exclaimed, sounding relieved. "I told you I had not to do with it."

But just as before, his statement was ignored.

"Then what was?" Benjen pressed, concern etched onto his features. Instead of giving an answer though, Jon looked off into the distance, his mind working hard trying to figure out what to say. But nothing came to him. So he settled for shrugging mutely.

Next to him, Ned sighed, dropping his hand from his sons shoulder. He clearly wasn't going to talk right now, not with everyone crowding him and demanding answers. So, pinching the bridge of his nose, he spoke up.

"Alright," he said. "We'll leave you to rest for now." Jon looked relieved at the statement, his shoulders slumping somewhat in obvious exhaustion after being tense for so long. "But I'll be back later," he added, standing up. He bent down and gave Jon another kiss on the head, ruffling his raven locks and given him a soft look before ushering the others out of the room. Tyrion cast Jon a curious glance before following the lord of Winterfell, while Benjen was right on his tail.

Jon watched the trio leave and sighed, sinking where he sat. Maester Luwin was still with him though, as was Ghost. Luckily though, neither of them would pry about his predicament.

"Let's get you settled in," the maester said, and Jon complied. He was bloody tired.

"He isn't safe here," Benejn hissed as soon as they were clear of the hall to Jon's bedchambers and Tyrion was out of sight. "He should come to the Wall. He's always wanted to, you know that."

Ned had filled him in of the goings on of the past months involving Jon, of the attack and myserios wounds that healed before their eyes. But Ned didn't want to heard what his brother had to say about it. He'd already dealt with enough for the night. A fight with Benjen wasn't something he wanted to add to the ever growing list.

"The Wall is no place for a boy," Ned shot back, anger flaring inside him. "I refuse to send him there. He belongs at Winterfell. And he's safe here," he insisted, but even to his ears it didn't sound very true.

Benjen seemed to think the same, because one eyebrow rose up in disbelief as he said, "Safe? He's been attacked at least once in the past few months. You can't pretend it doesn't mean what we think it means."

Ned clenched his jaw hard, his eyes shooting venomous looks at his brother. He took a deep breath to try and calm himself before speaking so as not to shout. "He is in my charge, not yours," he hissed, unable to keep the fire out of his tone. "You didn't raise him his whole life. I am his father, and know what's best for him, not you."

"What's best for him?" Benjen scoffed. "What's best for him is what will keep him safe. Or have you forgotten your promise already?"

The fist came out of nowhere, leaving Benjen no time to react before it landed squarely on his jaw.

The ranger went flying back and hit the wall behind him, holding onto his jaw in shock. Once he reoriented himself, he turned to Ned with a deep set scowl on his sloping features. But before he got a chance to speak, the lord of Winterfell cut him off.

"Never mention that again," he threatened in a low voice, deadly serious. "Or it won't just be your chin I hit."

Benjen said nothing as he collected himself, pushing past Ned and leaving the way they came, leaving the eldest Stark to his own whirling thoughts.

Chapter Text

Arya was mad. Not only at the stupid embroidery she was working on that wasn't working with her, but at Jon. Well, not at Jon, but she was angry all the same.

It had been days ago, the night of the feast. He'd had another vision, this time about the queen and her brother. They had been talking about father and the king, and how they despised both of them. That made Arya mad, and the next time she had seen either of the Lannisters after hearing of it, she couldn't help the dirty looks she had thrown them.

But what made her the angriest, was that Jon hadn't told their father. He'd had the perfect opportunity to do so, to warn him of everything, but he hadn't. Arya would have done so herself after hearing of it but knew that the lord of Winterfell was less likely to listen to her than he would Jon. All because he was older.

Arya hated it.

But life had returned to normal. Jon seemed to be under closer watch now, though, like all the Stark children had been after he had been supposedly attacked. Not that it was obvious of course. He didn't have guards and sworn Stark men following him through the keep day and night. That would raise too much suspicion, seeing as he was just a bastard. No, instead Arya had noticed the way Ser Rodrik and some of his men would stay close by to him, or cast a glance over in his direction more than would be considered normal.

These weren't things most people would notice. But Arya wasn't most people.

The not-so-quiet whispering off to the side distracted Arya from her thoughts. Looking up, she saw her sister was huddled close to Jeyne Poole and giggling between whispered statements. To Arya, they looked like silly birds fighting over grain the way they were sat.

"What are you two talking about?" She asked loudly. Jeyne and Sansa looked up, both blushing, and giggled. "Tell me," she said.

Jeyne glanced over at the princess Myrcella, who was happily chatting with the Septa and her other ladies, all working on their own stitches as well. Satisfied that the princess didn't seem to be listening, Jeyne leaned forward towards Arya and spoke.

"We were talking about the prince," the steward's daughter blushed. Arya felt herself roll her eyes. Of course, they were.

"He likes your sister, you know," Jeyne continued, looking wistfully over at Sansa, who's own face was dusted with a fine, pretty blush, as beautiful as ever. "That Joffrey. He told her she was very beautiful."

"He's going to marry me someday," Sansa said in a soft voice. "I will be his queen and have his babies."

It took all Arya had in her not to pull a face or to gag.

"What do you think of Joff, sweet sister?" Sansa asked daintily.

"Jon says he looks like a girl," she stated, remember her conversation with him the other day, days after the king's arrival.

Sansa merely sighed in response. "Poor Jon," she said. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."

Arya felt herself get angry at that. "He's our brother," she said, accidentally raising her voice louder than she had intended.

"Children, what are you talking about?" Septa Mordane suddenly asked. Arya blushed and tucked her chin down in embarrassment, focusing back on her stitches, which were crooked and ugly. Unlike Sansa's, which were perfect. Just like everything else Sansa did. Perfect.

"Our half-brother," Sansa corrected, smiling sweetly. "Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we are to have the princess with us today."

Arya scoffed in response, as quietly as she could though so as not to get into trouble with the Septa.

More pleasantries were exchanged between the ladies in question before finally settling into an awkward silence, everyone seeming to have run out of conversation topics.

"Would any of you ladies like to hear a story?" One of Myrcella's ladies suddenly asked, breaking the silence in the room. Sansa and Jeyne both nodded eagerly, while Arya simply sat glumly and went back to her stitching.

"Alright," the woman started, settling herself into a more comfortable position, setting her own needle down. "Have you ever heard of a greenseer?" A chorus of "no my lady" rang through the room. "Well then," she continued. "There used to be people, long ago, who had the ability to walk in the skins of animals. It was said these individuals were quite rare but revered. And some, among these talented few, could see through trees themselves, long into the past through the roots of weirwoods, as well as the rest of the world, because of the connection the trees had," she said.

"But with time, the gift died out and was lost to the seven kingdoms. It's said that it still exists north of the Wall, but no one has ever gone to find out if the statement holds any truth."

"Perhaps because those who go north come back in pieces," Jeyne said, earning a scared gasp from princess Myrcella and a light cuff from Septa Mordane.

"Do not say such things around the princess, child," Septa Mordane chastised. The girl apologized and went back to her needlework, as did everyone else as the woman continued on with her story. But Arya wasn't listening anymore. Her mind was spinning with the story she'd just heard.

That gift sounded an awful lot like Jon's visions, the ability to see into the past and around the world, seeing things he couldn't have possibly seen before. Before Arya knew what she was doing, she had stood up and her embroidery had fallen to the floor.

Everyone looked up at her, startled. Blushing, she quickly turned to Septa Mordane. "I'm sorry, but may I be excused? I just realized I have something to attend to," she said, itching to get out of there to go confirm her theory.

Septa Mordane, instead of granting her leave, narrowed her eyes and huffed indignantly. "Arya, how impolite," she ticked.

Arya did not have time for this. She knew Septa Mordane would tell her mother about it and she would punish her, but she had more important matters at hand. So, giving Myrcella a small curtsy and a "By your leave, my lady," she fled from the room, ignoring the Septa's protests and she hurried off to the library where she hoped to find more on greenseers.

If there was one redeeming factor of the north and of Winterfell and it's chilly keep, it would have to be its library. It had books and scrolls that were as old as any he'd come across. Upon arriving at the library, he had found more than he thought he would up in the desolate kingdom and was happily enjoying the plethora of books at his disposal. He was in the middle of one such book when he heard someone entering the library.

"If you're looking for fairy tales, they're over there," Tyrion commented idly from where he sat in the library, noticing the young girl enter. He also noticed the scowl she sent him in response.

"I'm not looking for fairy tales," she said sharply, surprising the small lord. He raised a curious eyebrow and set his book down, getting a better look at her.

She was clearly a Stark, as her features showed him. The long solemn face and the gray eyes pointing clearly to that. What surprised him though was the look in her eyes. Steely, and ready for action. Though what sort of action a nine-year-old could do was beyond him.

"Then what, pray tell, are you searching for?" Tyrion asked. "Perhaps I can be of some help."

The Stark girl merely rolled her eyes and went on to search by herself in the library. "I doubt it," she scoffed. "And it's none of your business anyway.

Tyrion felt himself smirk at that, enjoying the girl's blunt nature. It wasn't often he was exposed to it, after having lived in the viper's den of Kings Landing for so long.

"Oh dear girl," he said. "Everything to do with knowledge is my business."

She turned to him. "Are you a maester?" She asked.

Tyrion paused, taken aback. "Well, no."

"Then it's not really your business." And with that, she turned back to looking through the shelves of books and scrolls in search of whatever it was she was after.

Cheeky, Tyrion thought to himself, silently impressed. He continued to watch as she went around the room, looking through the shelves before giving up and sitting down with a huff on one of the many chairs in the room, opposite Tyrion.

"Perhaps now I can be of some assistance?" He offered again, now with a sly grin, teasing the girl who seemed to set against it.

She scowled at him again, unamused. Her expression however quickly changed to one of skepticism, then to curiosity, and finally to pensive as she looked at him. But wait, Tyrion realized. She wasn't quite looking at him. She was looking at the book in his hands, the cover of which was in clear view of the girl.

"What?" He asked.

"That book," she said, pointing at it. "The one you have. That's the one."

Tyrion frowned and looked down at it, inspecting it as if looking for anything that would jump out towards a child to have them want to read it. All he found, however, was a dusty, leather bound book.

"Isn't this a bit much for a girl your size?" He commented, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm taller than you," she stated bluntly.

Tyrion gaped for a moment, before remembering himself and shutting his mouth. "Fair point," he conceded. "But still, why would you want this book?" He asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. During the past few days he'd spent in Winterfell, the Stark children had surprised him more than he thought they would. First was their direwolves, then Jon Snow, the bastard, and now this Stark girl, demanding a book on old myths and sciences of Westeros. Something no child would be interested in. Well, no average child.

Her guarded expression, so very much like all other Stark's before her gave nothing away. "If you must know," she started, staring him down with a cool, level look. "I don't think all myths are myths after all. And I need that book to find out if I'm right."

Smiling in satisfaction, Tyrion closed the book and set it down in pen invitation for her to take it. "Well," he said. "I'm never one to get in the way of the search for information." The girl gave him a faint smile in response. "Go on, you may have it."

"Thank you," she mumbled, going to retrieve it.

"And your name, dear girl?" He asked.

"Arya Stark, my lord." She replied, offering a small curtsy.

"Well then Arya Stark, may you find what you're looking for." She nodded her thanks and quickly left the library, leaving him on his own again. Tyrion stood to go and get another book worth his time, but his mind was with the girl who'd just left. The Stark's never ceased to fascinate and mystify him. He felt a tug in his mind that meant he yearned for answers. And if there was anything Tyrion almost always got, it was answers.

These Stark's were curious, and he was going to make it his point to figure out just what it was that made them tick.

Chapter Text

Robb had been the one to find Bran laying under the old broken tower near the godswood. It had been horrible. He'd been bleeding badly, and his legs were twisted at an angle that made Jon feel sick to his stomach. His wolf, which still remained unnamed, was sitting next to him, howling with all his pup might.

Robb had run off to find his mother and maester Luwin while Jon stayed with Bran. When Lady Stark arrived, she looked practically livid with him. She only calmed down once Robb explained that he and Jon had simply found him like this. But only just.

They had quickly, with the help of maester Luwin and Jory Cassel, brought him inside and the maester had to work at once. Jon got the strange feeling of deja vu from it, but he brushed it off as it wasn't important.

That had been days ago. And now, even though despite it, the King was leaving, along with his lord father and a small host of northern bannermen. Lady Catelyn had stayed shut up in little Bran's room, refusing to leave for anything. Even having a cot brought up for her to rest on, which she rarely, if ever, did. Jon had hardly visited, too afraid of Lady Stark to dare. But all of the other Stark brood had, and from their accounts, he didn't seem to be getting any better. He also didn't seem to be getting worse, which was good. But he showed no sign of waking. And that was what had everyone so worried.

Below his window, down in the yard, his unnamed wolf had been howling nonstop. It had gotten so bad at one point, that it seemed like nearly half the castle had been about ready to gut the poor pup just to get a decent night's rest. Luckily, though, that hadn't happened.

Saying goodbye to everyone had been hard. Jon had visited with Arya in her chambers for quite some time the day before while she had been packing. They'd talked about Bran, about the visions, and about father. eventually, nearing the end of their conversation, Arya had pulled a book out from under her bed and showed it to him. It was an old one, no doubt from the library here at Winterfell.

"I found this the other day," she said, voice low. "I was looking for something in the library that might explain your visions," she continued. "That one looked promising, but I never really got around to reading it, because the next day was when Bran fell." Her words were flat and full of sorrow. "And since I'm leaving for the capital, I figured you would have more need of it than I."

She handed it to him, settling the old leather bound book in his own calloused hands. The pages were yellowed with age and the title was hard to make out. But he could see why Arya had chosen it.

"Thank you, little sister," he said, offering her a smile and messing up her hair. She made a face and batted his hand away, making his smile grow.

"Actually," he said, setting the book down and standing. "I have something for you."

Arya was immediately sitting at attention, her direwolf Nymeria doing the same. Jon walked over to where he had stashed the gift upon entering the room before bringing it back to where Arya sat.

"As you might remember," he started, starting to unwrap the long shaft from the rags it was held it. "I promised you a gift if you attended the King's welcome feast."

"Aye, you did," she said, a happy glint in her eye as she recognized what the gift was.

"Well," Jon smiled, pulling it from its wrappings and revealing a short, thin blade. "Here you are. Your own sword."

Arya snatched it from him eagerly, smiling widely. "It's skinny," she noted.

"So are you," he replied. Then, "I had Mikkon make it special. the Braavos use swords like this in Pentos and Myr. It won't take a man's head off, but you can poke him full of holes if you're fast enough."

"I can be fast," Arya smiled, still admiring her new blade.

"You'll have to work at it every day," he said. She nodded in understanding. "And first lesson, stick 'em with the pointy end."

She rolled her eyes and whapped him on the arm with her free hand. "I know which end to use," she chastised. But then her face fell. "Septa Mordane will take it away from me."

"Septa Mordane doesn't have to know."

Arya smiled at that, something that made Jon's chest feel lighter. "But who will I practice with?"

"You'll find someone," he assured her. She didn't look totally convinced but said nothing more on the matter.

"Does this blade have a name, like Ice?" She asked, changing the topic. "Can you tell me?"

"I'm sure you can guess," Jon said, smiling. "It's your favorite thing."

She thought for a second, appearing puzzled, her mouth twisting in show of it. Then her face split into a grin.

Together, they said it, both cracking stupid grins.

"Needle!"

The king and his father had left a week ago now, along with his uncle Benjen and other men headed for the Wall. Jon had stood out in the yard, sitting off to the side by the armory. Watching his father leave for the south where he knew he would die was hard. But there was nothing that could be said to him to stop it. So instead, he'd approached his father before he'd mounted his destrier and enveloped him in a large embrace, burrowing his nose into the furs of his cloak. The one he might not ever see again. Tears slipped down his face as they held one another, before finally breaking apart.

Jon looked up into his father's gray eyes. Eyes so much like his own. Stark eyes. He wanted to beg him to stay, to tell him everything he'd seen. But he wouldn't listen. He'd call him mad and leave anyway, as was his duty.

Fuck duty, Jon thought bitterly, brushing the wetness from his eyes. All it's good for is getting you dead.

"Must you leave, father?" He asked, voice hoarse.

The lord of Winterfell smiled sadly down at him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I wish it weren't so," was all he responded with.

Feeling almost guilty for thinking it, Jon asked, "What of me? I doubt Lady Stark will stand my presence here with you gone."

His father's face fell some at his statement, but his resolve stayed strong. "I've spoken to her. You're not to leave Winterfell until my say-so, so she does not send you away against your will."

Jon tried to smile at the words, trying to be comforted by them. But all he felt was an empty grief inside.

"Thank you, father," he managed. The lord of Winterfell nodded before starting to turn back to his horse, but before he could mount it, Jon suddenly asked, "What was her name?"

Shocked by the sudden question, Ned turned around, confusion etched on his face. "Who's name?" He asked.

Swallowing thickly, Jon spoke again, hopeless desperation in his tone. "My mother. What was her name? Since you're leaving, I thought I'd ask one last time..." Since I may never see you again, he thought. but he kept that to himself.

A sad look passed over his lord father's face, eyes swimming with emotion before he riened himself back in.

"The next time we see each other," he said, voice thick and heavy. "We'll talk about your mother. I promise."

"Promise me." The voice from his dream all those months ago suddenly came to mind, but he forced it down. The desperation and emotion in it though seemed to match what he was currently feeling. Instead of giving his father a response, he merely offered a weak smile, one that showed he didn't believe him, before giving him one last hug and heading off into the keep.

The next day, Jon sat up in the old tower by the godswood, the same one Bran had fallen from. He didn't know why he had gone there. At first, he had meant to go off to the armory to spar with Robb to take his mind off things. But instead, he found himself going up the decrepit stairs of the tower of the first keep, his feet having led him there.

He hadn't been up there in a long time, but he could still tell that something was off. For one, there was a patch of floor that wasn't covered in dust, like something had been sitting there and then moved to clear space. For what, and why, he couldn't tell.

Frowning, he walked over to the window, where vines were creeping in from the outside. He couldn't explain why, but he was drawn to it. Like it was familiar, like he had been there before. But not from this side, he realized.

What?

He stopped short, the thought having caught him off guard. This side of the window? What other side of the window could there be save for the outside? And there was no way he could have been on the outside. If anyone would have it would be Bran. He was always climbing after all.

Well, not anymore. The thought was unwelcome and he squashed in down furiously in his mind. He wouldn't think of such things. Bran might yet recover.

Recovering from the intrusive thought, Jon stepped towards the window anyway, an idea having popped into his head. He remembered the vision he'd had during the welcome feast. He'd been climbing a wall, or perhaps a tower even. But it hadn't been his body, or so it seemed. Maybe... he thought carefully. Maybe it had been a memory of what had happened here... How though he couldn't explain. But it might be possible

It was a long shot, but once the idea had formed, there seemed to be no getting rid of it. Gingerly, he peered over the sill of the window, not trusting to rest his weight on the ancient stones. He looked over the edge to the ground below. He didn't recognize it, but the stones and wall, from this angle especially, those he did recognize.

The memory of testing out his weight on a protruding white stone below popped into his head. And Jon knew for a fact he'd never climbed the tower before. Or any other tower in Winterfell.

Had his vision been Bran's memory? It was possible, although it hadn't even happened yet when he'd had it. But then again, none of his visions made sense. Some having been of events from before he was born, and now things that had happened to someone else.

His mind was now spinning. If his vision had been of Bran, then those voices he'd heard, the queen and her brother, Bran would have overheard them too. And if he had gone to check them out-

Jon's thoughts suddenly stopped, his blood having suddenly turned to ice and his stomach dropping.

They'd seen him, he realized, knees suddenly weak. They'd seen him and pushed him. He didn't fall at all. He never falls.

Jon wanted to puke. There was no way of confirming it, but he KNEW it was true. He sank to the floor, knees drawn up to his chest as he tried to understand everything. The queen and Ser Jaime had pushed Bran, a boy of just seven, out of the tower in hopes of killing him, of keeping him silent.

And that was when he spotted it. All the proof Jon needed to confirm his suspicions. Resting on the ground not far from where some furniture had been moved, was a long glittering strand of golden hair. Lannister hair. Cersei's hair.

Chapter Text

Jon was leaving, tonight. He didn't care that his father had all but ordered he stay at the keep, most likely for his own safety, or that Lady Catelyn would have to tolerate his presence, even if by only so much. He had to save his family. Even if that meant going south to King's Landing, a place where no bastard had any right to be.

For the rest of the day, he locked himself up in his quarters, planning out what he'd need for the journey south. He could steal some food from the kitchens later. And his horse, a young destrier, would suit him fine for the long ride. It was strong enough to make the entire journey as quick as possible, or so he hoped. but he was a good rider, so he had faith that it would.

After that, he'd quickly gone to work organizing everything. He pulled out nearly his whole wardrobe and made sure to only pack the essentials, seeing as he couldn't very well make a horse carry as much luggage as Arya and Sansa alone had. No, he'd ration.

He made sure to pack the book Arya had given him, as well as any coin he had. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to make sure he wouldn't starve before he joined up with the royal family, whenever that might be.

He wanted badly to say goodbye to his brothers, but he knew that if he did, Robb would grow suspicious and ask why. And he couldn't let that happen because then the young wolf wouldn't let him leave. So, as much as it hurt, he didn't.

The courtyard was nearly empty by the time Jon decided to sneak out. It was well into the night, nearly morning even when he finally left the keep.

Quietly, he made his way over to the stables, bags slung over his shoulder and cloak fastened to keep the cold night air at bay.

The stables themselves were empty, something that surprised Jon. Normally there would at least be a guard, but maybe he had just put more faith in the stable boys than he should have.

He made his way to his horse, which looked up at his approach, letting out a huff of air at the sight of Ghost, who padded silently behind him. He had just started to saddle him up when a voice broke the silence.

"Jon."

Jon whirled around at the voice, startled. Instead of a guard or anyone else he would have expected, he came face to face with the new lord of Winterfell himself, Robb.

"Robb," Jon breathed, trying to remain quiet. "You startled me."

Robb, however, was not in a talking mood. Instead, he frowned as he looked his half-brother over, noticing the travel gear he was loading up onto the horse. Grey Wind whined beneath him, seeming to draw the same conclusion as his master, and drew his ears back as if upset.

"You're leaving," Robb noted, face turned down as if he'd eaten something sour.

Jon sighed, turning back to the horse as he finished tying everything down. "Yes," he stated. "Are you here to stop me?"

Robb considered him for a moment before replying. "Where are you going?" He asked, looking his brother over as if searching for clues behind his reasoning. "Uncle Benjen already left for the Wall, and I doubt that if you had suddenly changed your mind you'd be leaving in the dead of night." A pause. "So where are you headed?"

Jon took a breath before responding, facing his brother to speak. "South," he stated. "To join father."

"I don't understand," Robb frowned in response.

"What's there to understand?" Jon asked dryly, throat tightening with emotion from the betrayed look Robb wore.

"Your place is here. Not down south. Not in King's Landing," Robb said. "You're needed here. In Winterfell."

Jon smiled faintly at his brother's words. They offered little comfort, but what was there filled him with warmth. Which made it all the harder to do what he needed to. "My place isn't anywhere," he breathed. "It never has been."

Robb's face and shoulders fell some at Jon's statement. His wolf mirroring the action as well, going up to Ghost and licking and sniffing him as if in farewell.

"Why?" Was all he asked in response.

Jon didn't know how to respond. Not with the way Robb was looking at him. His large blue Tully eyes staring at him sadly, expression tired and strung out. Just over the past week, it seemed that being the lord of Winterfell and warden of the north had aged him more than nearly fifteen years ever had. And it made Jon's heart ache to see it. And Jon wasn't helping it by leaving.

"I can't stay here," he said sadly. "Your mother would never allow it. I'm surprised she has thus far."

"I don't care," Robb exclaimed. "I am the lord of Winterfell now, she HAS to listen to what I say. And I say that you belong here!" The strength in his voice impressed Jon, along with the sorrow hidden beneath it. It only served to remind him that Robb was still but a boy of ten and five, and not yet a man grown. Not truly anyway.

"She is your mother," Jon simply responded. "I've never known what it is like to have one, but I'm sure you cannot just order her around."

Robb looked forlornly down at the ground, studying his boots intensely.

"Besides," Jon started again, offering his brother a weak attempt at a smile. "She would most likely send you to bed without dinner, along with a cuff on the head."

His brother offered a weak coughing laugh at his jibe, a small smile playing on his otherwise downturned lips. Then the seriousness of the situation returned, and he looked older than ever, face long and shoulders slumped from all the duty he'd gained in the past few days.

"I'll miss you, Snow," the Stark offered. Jon could only nod in agreement, not trusting himself to speak. "Once you've finished with your horse, come walk with me. I have something I mean to show you."

Jon nodded and finished with his horse, buckling up the saddle bags and securing the saddle and reins. After checking his work over and surmising it was done, he followed Robb out of the stables, Ghost trailing behind him like a white shadow, silent as ever.

At last, they arrived at their destination. The forge. Jon turned to Robb and gave him an upturned, questioning eyebrow. But instead of responding, Robb only pushed the door open and beckoned Jon inside.

Mikkon, the forge master, didn't seem to be there. Not that that was a surprise, it was the middle of the night after all. But Robb didn't seem to need the man, as he walked surely over to a table where a sword lay, sheathed in a new scabbard, the hilt shining in the faint light.

"Here," Robb said, picking it up. It was long, but not as long as a broadsword, like Ice. "I was going to give it to you on your name day in a few weeks time," he said. "But I suppose that won't be happening now." The boy offered Jon a faint, sad smile when he said it, causing a sharp pain to shoot uncomfortably into Jon's chest.

"Go on," Robb said, holding it out to him. "Take it."

And Jon, with some hesitation, did just so. He was surprised at first by how light it seemed. And even by holding it just below the hilt, he knew it had impeccable balance. He stroked the handle, feeling the texture of the soft virgin leather under his hand. The cross guard was relatively simple, but the ends were shaped into the head of a direwolf, the figurehead of house Stark. Then he noticed the pommel. A white wolf. Like Ghost.

"Robb," he breathed, emotion making his voice catch in his throat. He didn't even know what to say.

"Unsheathe it then," Robb urged, an eager smile splitting across his features. And Jon did.

The sweet sound of steel rang through the air, followed by a small gasp from Jon.

"It's beautiful," he breathed, admiring the blade. It was castle forged steel, obviously, but the work put into it seemed to be above par. The steel shined in the dim light, and small intricate designs ran down the blood groove of the sword. He had no doubt this would have taken weeks to make.

"Robb," Jon started, eyes welling with emotion. His half brother looked up, Tully blue eyes meeting steel gray. "Thank you."

Robb said nothing as he suddenly stepped forward and brought him into a tight embrace. It took not even a second for Jon to reciprocate, holding his brother just as tightly as he had their father when he left. He didn't realize it until now, but Jon was going to miss Robb more than he thought he would. Robb was his rival, but also his best friend. He was always there every morning ready to practice with him. Whether it be swordplay, archery, or horseback. He remembered them playing in the yard together while they shouted out the names of great warriors. He would miss the way Robb would laugh whenever Jon beat Theon at sparring, or how the snow would melt in his auburn curls while he himself seemed unaffected by the cold.

He would miss his brother.

Suddenly, Robb pulled away, expression fighting to remain cool, but Jon could tell it was a losing battle. "Well, Snow," he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Stark," Jon offered. He turned to go back to the stables, where his horse was waiting. But before he left, the Stark boy called out after him.

"Oy, Snow," he called, making Jon turn around. "What will you name your sword?" He asked, gesturing to Jon's new blade. The memory of giving Arya her own blade played in his mind, making Jon smile.

"I don't know yet," he answered. "What do you think I should call it?"

Robb considered it for a moment, seeming to really think before offering a response. "Well, fathers is named Ice, and one day it will be mine," he noted. "How about you name yours something northern, so everyone will know they're brothers," he said, referring to the blades.

Jon thought on it and agreed.

"How about Frostfang," he offered. "After all, it's biting cold," he said, referring to how painful frost could be to the unprotected. Just like a sword.

Robb smiles at that, a true, genuine smile, one Jon hadn't seen of late and had admittedly missed.

"I like it," he said. "Now go, it's a long ride south after all."

Chapter Text

Jon didn't think his ass would ever be in as much pain as it was now. He had been riding hard for days now, and after every one, his legs felt raw and he almost couldn't walk straight. He felt ashamed. He was a better rider than this. How often had he beat Robb or Theon in a race, or simply just gone on a ride across the moors beyond the keep of Winterfell? He felt as though this suffering was beneath him. Yet suffer he did.

It had been a long few days, though, despite the pain. Frost Fang, which was strapped to his belt, bounced along with every movement of the horse. The weight of it at his side was comforting, reminding him of his brother and of home. Often, at night, he found himself itching to draw the blade and take a few good swings at a tree or a bush, just to get the feel of it. But he never did. He didn't want to blunt the blade before he even got a chance to really use it.

It was midday when he decided to take a small break, for both his horse and himself. A small stream trickled nearby, offering water to his no doubt weary stead. Judging by their location, Jon surmised the stream fed into a creek which then fed into the Trident, a raging river nearly a mile wide, where the legendary battle between King Robert and the dragon prince Rhaegar Targaryen took place. But the ruby ford was another day's ride south, and that was if he was being generous.

Slowly, he eased himself down onto a protruding tree root, being careful not to accidentally sit on any of the fungi growing on it. Warm sunlight streamed through the canopy of leaves above him, dappling the ground with golden light. Jon had never been this far south before, well, not when he could remember anyway, and he had to say, it was rather beautiful.

Before this forest, he had passed through the marshes and bogs of the Neck, keeping a watchful eye out for lizard-lions and other nasty creators. Before that, there had been farmlands and open moors for as far as the eye could see. It was all very familiar to him, reminding him painfully of Winterfell and all he was leaving behind. But the farther he traveled, the warmer it got. He had shed his fur-lined cloak awhile ago, now just down to his boiled leathers and tunic. It felt weird to be riding without the weight of it on his shoulders, but he would adjust.

As I am doing right now, he thought to himself, leaning back against the large oak whose roots he sat on, yearning for a decent rest. He had been riding hard for days, desperate to catch up with the royal convoy before they reached Kings Landing. And judging by word of people in the inns and towns he'd passed through, he wasn't far behind. And of course, he wouldn't be. He was but one man on a horse, while the king had carriages, bannermen, men on horses, men on foot, tents to be pitched and taken down every day... All Jon had was a bedroll. It was no surprise he'd made better time than the royal family.

Looking around, he spotted Ghost padding through the fallen leaves, nose down on the ground and tail held high in content. He smiled softly at the sight, watching as the white ball of fur and teeth made its way around the clearing. He was getting bigger every day it seemed. Soon enough he'd be as big as a hunting hound.

Suddenly, Ghost perked up, looking straight up into the canopy of leaves above them. Jon followed his gaze and spotted what had caught Ghost's attention. It was a raven, like the ones kept in the rookery back at Winterfell, and in every keep and castle across the seven kingdoms.

"Looking for something?" Jon asked the thing rhetorically, used to how the ravens back up north would call out for corn, but not expecting a response at all.

Instead, it just stared at him with its beady black eyes, which didn't surprise Jon in the slightest. He was about to go back to resting when it fluttered down to his feet, settling itself in the grass in front of him.

"You're an odd bird, you know that," he commented. The bird tipped its head to the side in response.

"King," it suddenly cried. "King. King."

Jon raised his eyebrows, half surprised and half amused. It wasn't uncommon for corvids such as this one to learn phrases. Perhaps it had been hanging around the royal entourage for too long on this road and had picked it up from there. Whatever the reason, it was no concern of Jon's.

"Bran. Bran."

Those words made Jon pause. He froze, sure that he had misheard the thing. But it repeated it as if to clarify.

"Bran."

"What in the seven hells..." he breathed, staring at the bird as if it had three eyes. Birds learning common phrases he could understand. But Bran, Bran wasn't something said often enough for any bird to remember. It wasn't even a word really, just a name. Narrowing his eyes, Jon stared the raven down, looking for any sign of... of what he didn't know. But he was sure there was something abnormal about this bird. If there was, though, he couldn't find it, and soon enough, the raven had blinked at him and flown off, going back to wherever it had come from.

Jon watched it go, glaring at it until it was out of sight. It reminded him of the raven in his dreams. Frustrating, and not very forthcoming with information.

What am I thinking, he chastised himself, shaking his head. It's a bird. Nothing more.

He dreamed that night. Not the kind of dreams that had been haunting him and showing him events that would scar most men, but the kind that left a strange aftertaste upon waking. Where you weren't sure if it was comforting or off-putting, but it was enjoyed all the same.

He dreamed of his mother. She had kind eyes and a warm smile. Her hair tumbled in thick locks down her breast and back and her hands were soft like velvet. In his dream she was beautiful, and when she smiled, it was as if someone had lit a fire in his chest. It filled him with warmth and a feeling of safety. He had dreamed of this mystery woman often, but despite the amount of times he had, all he could ever remember upon waking was a silhouette, a shadow of what could have been.

And as usual upon waking, he was filled with sadness, and deep under that, resentment. Resentment towards his father for never telling him about her, and for bringing him back to Winterfell to be shown as a permanent stain upon his otherwise spotless honor. But those feelings were buried deep down, where all other dark thoughts he'd ever had resided. The ones he'd never dare show to the light of day. Or even admit to himself for that matter.

Ghost seemed to sense his inner turmoil because the direwolf was suddenly sitting in front of Jon, head tilted to the side curiously, eyes full of what Jon assumed was concern.

A strange look for a beast to wear.

"I'm fine, Ghost," he assured the pup, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears.

That seemed to be enough to satisfy him, as he gave his hand a lick and padded away, presumably looking for something to kill. That left Jon alone again with just his horse and belongings. Immediately, his gaze was drawn to his new blade, but he ignored it, in favor of another distraction. The book Arya had given him before leaving.

He hadn't read much of it, spending most of his time riding and resting. Maybe now though he could try it again. Perhaps read a chapter or so.

Grabbing the book from one of his saddlebags, he settled himself against a rock and flipped open to the page he had last read. Arya had mentioned to him something about greenseers before she'd left, but so far he hadn't found much, if anything, on the old legend. From what he understood of it, they were a kind of warg, but much more powerful. And if that was true of Jon, wouldn't he have to be a warg before being a greenseer, if he even was one at all? And from what he knew of wargs, they saw through the eyes of animals. Something Jon was sure he'd never done.

As he read, he found the book mostly talked about the logicality of the old myths of Westeros. It talked of dragons, children of the forest, and white walkers. All the while debating whether or not these stories had any worth. Finally, just as Jon felt he had grown too hungry and restless to continue sitting there, he stumbled across what he had been looking for.

Greenseers had the greensight and were wargs as well, the book said. The First Men believed that they were responsible for carving faces into weirwoods, creating heart trees. The greenseers were said to be able to see through the faces of their weirwoods, influencing animal and plant life, and possibly seeing into the past and future.

This sounded familiar to Jon. Although he wasn't too sure about the weirwoods...

During the war of the First Men and the children of the forest, greenseers are said to have turned trees into warriors and sent beasts against humans. It is said they used the hammer of the waters to shatter the Arm of Dorne into the Broken Arm and the Stepstones, but the First Men continued to settle throughout Westeros. The Neck was also flooded by their magic. The greenseers and wood dancers of the children agreed upon the Pact with the First Men at the Isle of Faces.

The Starks of Winterfell slew the greenseers allied with the Warg King at Sea Dragon Point. During the Andal invasion, Erreg the Kinslayer is said to have defeated greenseers at High Heart, although it is more commonly accepted that the children had already left the Riverlands before the Andals arrived. Gwayne IV Gardener, King of the Reach, sought assistance from greenseers in anticipation of Andal attacks.

Only one in a thousand is born a skin changer and only one skin changer in a thousand is born a greenseer. While most children have golden eyes, the eyes of greenseers are red or green. They are not robust or long-lived but can linger within weirwoods. It is also known that humans can be born with the greensight just as they are born wargs.

It sounded very much like what Jon was experiencing, but there were some parts that simply didn't fit together. He didn't use heart trees to see into the past or the future. In fact, he didn't even do any of it on purpose. They just happened, almost like someone was forcing them on him. He had no way of controlling them.

And the warging... He'd heard tales of them of course, they had been one of Old Nan's favorites to tell to him and Robb as children. But to have them still exist today, long after the demise of the Children, it seemed nigh impossible.

There's more to this than I know, Jon thought to himself in frustration. But whatever it is, I have no clue of how to find it.

Chapter Text

It was late in the afternoon when he heard the shouts.

After a short lunch, he had ridden on down the kingsroad, putting the thoughts of greenseers and wargs in the back of his mind to ponder another time. He had been plodding along the road for a good amount of time when he heard the noise.

Cautiously, he brought his horse to a stop, listening for signs of another. When another round of screams came, he dismounted, hand going for the sword at his belt. It sounded like a woman's screams. And accompanying those, to his revolt, was laughter. Sick, raunchy laughter.

"Oh hold still, s'not nearly as fun with you squirmin'," he heard a man's voice say. Rounding the bend in the road, Jon crouched behind some bushes and peered through the leaves to get a view of the scene before him.

His stomach turned uncomfortably when he recognized what he saw. Three men had surrounded a young girl who couldn't have been much older than Sansa. Two of them were keeping her pinned down while the third was grabbing at his cock, in an obvious attempt at raping her.

Anger flared in Jon at the sight, his heart pounding in his rib cage like a war drum.

"Please don't, I beg you!" The girl cried, voice high and wet with tears.

"Did ya 'ear that lads?" The man with his cock out sneered as he got himself ready to mount her. "This cunt thinks we'll listen. Almos' funny in'it?" The other two men laughed with him, the sound just as ugly as their behavior. That was when Jon snapped, unable to just sit and strategize anymore.

"Hey!" He called, standing up and unsheathing his blade. The sound of steel rang through the air almost musically, making the men stop and look. Mustering up as much strength as he could, he addressed the rapers. "He heard the lady, now stop it."

His words though, however impressive, just made the three burst into gaudy laughter.

"The lad thinks he's a knight," one of them coughed out. "Little far from yer castle, are we?" He taunted. Jon scowled in return, gripping his sword tighter in his hand.

"Go on boy, leave us," the apparent leader said, smirking. "This isn't worth spilling your blood over."

"But it's worth spilling hers?" He remarked haughtily, pointing his sword at the young girl. She flinched at the gesture, causing him to give her a sympathetic look before turning back to her attackers. "Now I'll ask you one more time, leave. Now."

It was evident they didn't take his threat seriously. Jon almost didn't as well, but he knew Ghost was close behind him, somewhere in the bushes. And Jon had grown up learning swordplay from an anointed knight. The most training these men had seen would at best be whenever they got into drunken brawls at the odd tavern or inn. He had nothing to fear from them.

"Fine," the other man said. "Your mistake."

The men drew their weapons, Jon tightening his grip on his own. Casting a quick glance to the girl still on the ground, he nodded to her for her to take the chance to run. He hoped she understood because his attention was soon back on the three men now making their way towards him.

"Let's make this quick." The man said with a sneer.

"Agreed," Jon said, then charged.

The sound of steel on iron clanged in the air as Jon's weapon met theirs. It was quickly followed by his own side step and parry before blocking one of the axes. They were large and obviously strong. But Jon was quick, and he used that to his advantage.

Ducking under a blow, he hit his cross guard against one of their noses, the sound of bone breaking soon followed by shouts and swearing.

He had to dodge another blow after that, side-stepping before regaining his balance and swinging at the attacker. He felt steel meet flesh and watched as blood spurted from the man's leg. It wasn't fatal, but it would still hurt something awful.

By now, broken-nose was back and the leader was eyeing him carefully. Jon shifted his grip on Frost Fang and backed up, making sure to keep all three men in his field of vision.

"So, the little lad has some tricks up his sleeve, does he?" The man growled. Jon chose to remain silent, instead watching his feet and eyes to see where he would attack next. Jon saw the moment he was about to move, the way his eyes twitched and his knees bent, ready to charge. But before he could, a white blur shot through the air, and he went down hard, screaming in pain.

Jon could only watch in amazement as Ghost clawed and chewed his way through the man. He made no sound, not even a growl, as he did so. But the man was making up for it tenfold, with guttural screaming as his throat was ripped apart, blood spurting from the wounds the direwolf made.

It seemed as though his last attacker was not so enraptured, as he felt a body barrel into his, sending him crashing into the dirt. He squirmed around desperately beneath the large man, straining to free his sword hand, which was pinned beneath him. He felt a fist collide with his jaw, and the iron taste of blood quickly pooling in his mouth.

He fumbled his free hand on the ground next to him, hoping to find something to hit the man with. But he never got the chance, as there was a sudden THUNK, followed by his attacker going limp and landing on him, pushing the breath out of Jon's chest, before rolling off, unconscious.

Tentatively, Jon looked up at his savior. It was the girl he'd saved, and she was holding a large stick in her bloodied hands, shaking like a leaf but face set in anger and determination.

"Thank you," Jon breathed, staring in awe.

She dropped the branch before reaching out a hand to him. "I should say the same," she said as he accepted the offer and helped him up. Looking around quickly, he noted that Ghost was licking at his fur calmly, and the man he'd previously been engrossed in lay on the ground, dead. The third was nowhere to be seen, having presumably run off after meeting Jon's blade.

"You're welcome," Jon offered, picking Frostfang off the ground. "But I couldn't have very well let them do that do you. It would have been wrong."

The girl offered a tentative smile, still shaking and looking like a deer ready to flee. Jon noticed this and thought on it.

"Are you alright, my lady?" He asked, looking her over for any injuries besides the growing bruises on her arms and face.

"Lyn," she said, giving her name. "And yes, I think so." Her voice was small and shaky, unsurprising given the circumstances.

"Is there somewhere I can take you, Lyn?" He asked. "Is your home nearby?"

She nodded mutely, pointing down the kingsroad to the south. "It's a large inn. Hard to miss."

"Would you like me to escort you there?" He asked. She considered it for a moment, eyeing him wearily, before nodding. "Alright, let me get my horse then."

He retrieved his steed from where he'd dismounted it further up the road and trotted back to her. With her say so, he helped the small girl up onto the beast and started to lead the horse down the road. As they passed the two remaining attackers, he fought the urge to slice the unconscious one's throat. The only reason being he didn't want to scare Lyn any more than she already had been.

After they had walked in silence for some time, Lyn spoke up.

"You're bleeding," she stated, staring at his face. Jon wasn't surprised. He could taste the blood from his split lip from when the second man had rammed him.

"Aye," he agreed easily. "It happens."

"But I thought knights never got hurt," she pondered, frowning.

Jon almost laughed, suddenly reminded of Sansa and her love of songs and stories where such things were true.

"I am no knight, my lady," he chuckled.

"And I'm no lady," Lyn retorted with a faint smile, blushing at his words. He smiled back at her and they soon lapsed into silence, the only sounds being his horse and the birds above them. Eventually, after some time, he could hear people and make out a large stone building, signaling that they had arrived at their destination of the inn of which Lyn had spoken of.

"Is this it?" He asked, turning to her.

She bobbed her head in affirmation.

"Looks fairly crowded," he noted, eyeing the large group that he could see, sure there were more beyond his vision.

"That's because the king's stayin' here," she said. "That's why I was on the road. I was going to fetch more water for all them horses."

Jon almost tripped over himself at her words. The king! Sure enough, when he looked around some more, he could make out the banners of the royal family and of other bannermen that had joined in the journey south. Jon felt ecstatic at the revelation. He had made it! He still had a chance to stop his visions from coming true.

"Will you be alright, Lyn?" He asked, turning back to the girl on his horse. She gave a tentative nod before allowing him to help her down off the destrier. After thanking him again, this time with a large hug, she bolted off towards the inn and presumably to her family. Jon felt himself smile as she ran out of sight, glad he had been able to help. He remembered her comment about him being a knight, and for a moment he allowed himself to toy with the notion. That he could be like Barristan the Bold, or Duncan the Tall. It was a nice thought. Maybe in another lifetime, it would have been true.

Shaking himself of the thought, he turned back to his and quickly mounted it, calling for Ghost to come back to his side before going off to find somewhere to stay for the night before bothering to find his father on the morrow. But at least he had made it. Now all he had to do was stop the king from beheading him, discover what the Lannisters were plotting, and somehow find a way to make sure he could stay at court without his bastard status interfering.

Needless to say, he had a long night ahead of him.

Chapter Text

It was early in the morning as Ned walked about the encampment. Robert had wanted him to join him for a ride for gods knew what reason, but Ned was taking his sweet time before doing so. He loved Robert as a brother, but now, the man seemed obsessed with only two things, women and wine. And if it was even possible, he seemed more stubborn now as king than he had in his youth, a feat Ned would have thought impossible.

But alas, the king surprised him. His boiling hatred for Targaryens hadn't faded over time. If anything it had grown. Whenever the topic came up, Ned found it difficult to hold his tongue as Robert ranted and raved about the silver prince and his "dragon spawn". The only thing that made sure he stayed silent was the echo of a promise he'd made so many years ago. And he was not one to break promises.

And now he was to be Hand, another promise he could not break. As much as he distasted his new position, he knew it was one that could not be filled by any other. Not Stannis or Jamie would be worthy of the title in Roberts eyes. And aside from them, there weren't many other options. Which left Ned. Perhaps the only man in Westeros who wanted nothing to do with it.

His thoughts were suddenly stopped short when he caught sight of a white blur in the corner of his eye. Looking up, he saw it move through the area, recognizing it for what it was.

"Ghost," he breathed, stunned. It was Jon's albino direwolf. But he knew the beast would never leave the boys side. Which could only mean one thing.

"Damn that lad," Ned breathed, anger and fear boiling in his belly. He started off immediately after the wolf as it appeared to make it's way back to it's master. Ned huffed to himself in anger and told himself that when he reached the boy, there would be hells to pay.

Jon had been sleeping relatively peacefully for the first time in a long time when he was woken suddenly. He started when a rough hand grabbed his collar and yanked him to his feet, dragging him harshly from his slumber.

His cry of alarm was cut off when the hand that had grabbed him turned him around and he came face to face with his father, Lord Stark. And needless to say, he looked furious.

"Jon! What are you doing here?" He growled. Jon could only blink dumbly at him, his brain still foggy from sleep. His father was standing in front of him and holding him up by the collar, livid. He couldn't even manage to think anything at the sight, too surprised to try. His father huffed angrily when he didn't respond before dragging him off farther away from the encampment before cornering him against a carriage.

"You should not be here. You have no idea how dangerous it is," he growled, one hand still clutching Jon's tunic, causing him to wince.

"But I do," he insisted, finally finding his voice. It was hoarse from sleep. "And that's why I'm here. You're in danger father," he pressed. "All of you."

But it seemed as though Lord Stark would not listen to him. "No Jon, you need to understand. You cannot be here." There was a note of desporation in his tone, but Jon could have easily imagined it. "Court is no place for you. I don't want to risk anything happening."

Jon would have retorted any other time, but at the moment, the only thing coming to mind was the image of his fathers head on the steps of the Sept of Baelor. And it wasn't as if he didn't know how a bastard such as him would be treated at court. It was an anomaly just to have one there at all, let alone stay. But he wasn't expecting that. He just needed to fix things. To make sure his family was safe from the Lannisters and all they planned to do to them and the crown.

"I know that father," Jon said. "But you must listen to me," he begged. "The Lannisters-"

"No Jon, you must listen to ME," his father hissed. The tone was so harsh that Jon visibly flinched back, scared by the sudden show of anger that he'd never seen on the usually solemn face. "You need to be as far from that vipers pit as you can. It's not you're place. You wouldn't be safe."

"And neither will you!" Jon tried again. "You're in danger. All of us are. The Lannisters are plotting against the king. They want him gone. And they might kill you if you get in the way." He rushed the words out before his father could interrupt him again, desperate to have him hear him out. He did not want his vision of his father being decapitated to come true. Not if he could stop it.

"That's nonsense, Jon," he reasoned. But Jon heard the hint of doubt underneath, and the hesitation. "Why would the Lannisters want the king dead?"

"I don't know," Jon admitted. His dream hadn't shown him why, so he could only guess. "But I'm sure they were behind Lord Arryn's death."

His father's eyes narrowed, looking him over with a scrutiny Jon hadn't seen in a long time. "And how would you know this?"

Jon didn't know how to respond. He would tell him the truth, he decided. But what if he thought him crazy? Like the Mad King Aerys. It didn't matter, Jon conceded to himself. It'd be worth the risk.

"May we go somewhere more private?" He finally asked, glancing around them warily. He didn't want to risk anyone overhearing what he was about to say.

His father seemed to understand that, and nodded. "Come," he said, and dragged Jon back to his room in the inn.

"I know it sounds mad," Jon tried. "But it's the truth."

His statement was followed by silence on his lord fathers side, complete with a contemplative, unreadable look on his long face. They were sitting in his lord fathers quarters in the crossroads inn, and Jon had just told him everything. About the visions, about how he saw the king and his father in the crypts. About when he overheard the Lannisters, and how he suspected that Bran's fall wasn't an accident at all. If anything, that had been the most concerning for Ned, but only just. It was a lot to take in after all. Now Jon sat in front of him, nervously waiting for a response.

"So you're telling me," his father started. "That all those months ago, you weren't attack in the wolfswood?"

Jon was taken aback. Out of all the questions he could have asked, he chose to start with that one. He shook it off quickly though, choosing to answer his fathers query.

"Aye," he confirmed. "But I still don't understand my wounds," he admitted. "Not the ones from the knifes anyway."

His father nodded in contemplative silence, not meeting his eyes. He was looking into the air, eyebrows furrowed deep in thought. If Jon was correct, as he most often was when reading people, he looked relieved. But this relief seemed to run deeper than Jon would have expected. Instead of asking on it though, he held his tongue, not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on in his fathers head.

"And the night you collapsed," he spoke again. "The night of the kings welcome feast. That was a vision as well?"

Jon nodded in confirmation. "Aye."

His father seemed to ponder this. After a moment, he said "So every time you have a vision, you get a terrible headache and collapse. Is that right?"

Jon nodded again. "But only the direct ones," he corrected. "I can still dream of them without the pain. But when it does happen it's like whatever is being shown to me is so important it can't wait for me to be asleep."

"And of the three you've had, what did you see?"

"I saw the king order you to die," he said in a quiet, hoarse voice, not meeting his fathers eye. "But it wasn't Robert. It was his son, Joffery." Jon had come to realize this during the royal family's stay at Winterfell when he'd had the dream again one night. That time he had recognized the boy king for who he was, because he had seen him strutting around the keep so often.

"The other was when I must have been seeing through Bran's eyes," he told his father, still not looking up to see his face for fear of what expression he might find on it. "I, or perhaps Bran, was climbing the broken tower near the godswood when I heard voices. So I stayed to listen." Ned did not interrupt, so Jon continued. "It was the queen and her brother, the kingslayer. They were talking about you, and about Lysa Arryn and how she suspected something. What I don't know, I never heard that part. But they talked of how they wanted Robert gone. And how the sooner he was the better."

At last, he looked up to meet his fathers grey eyes, so like his own, and saw his own fear and concern reflected back in them. It always worried him when he saw the look on his lord fathers face. He was so used to him being strong and reassuring, like he was never afraid of anything. But now he knew that was just a front.

"What of the third one?" He suddenly asked.

Jon blinked, dragged back to the present. "I'm sorry?"

"You said you've had three visions like this," his father repeated. "What of the third? What did you see in that one?"

Jon felt his mouth go dry. He didn't want to tell his father the truth, about how he'd seen Lyanna in the tower of joy giving birth to a babe. He didn't want to because he was afraid of his fathers reaction. If he knew, that meant he had done nothing about it and either had let the babe be killed, or taken far away where he'd never be able to return. If he hadn't known though, it would open the wound that Lyanna's death had left him, and Jon knew how deep that had cut. He did not want to see his father in such pain.

But he could not lie to him either. Ned Stark had raised him better than that, bastard or no. So he settled for something in between. Something that didn't necessarily ease his conscience, but didn't way it down either.

"I saw a woman," he said. "She had just given birth."

Ned frowned in confusion, tilting his head to the side to show it. "Do you know who the woman was?" He asked.

Jon hesitated before shaking his head minutely. The action produced a sigh from the lord. Jon watched nervously as he sat back, running a tired hand down his face as he composed himself. Ghost seemed to sense his father distress and padded up to him, offering him a few comforting licks on the hand in hopes of helping. It didn't, but his father scratched the pup behind the ears regardless.

"Well, I'm sure there was a reason for it," he surmised. "Do you remember anything else from the vision?"

"Are you saying you believe me?" Jon asked, quickly changing the subject.

"I'm saying I will consider it," he responded in a level voice. "I would be a fool to outright deny them, not when some have come true."

Jon considered his father. He was glad the man was at least taking what he said to heart and wasn't ready to throw him out into the snow, or rather, the mud, seeing as they had left the north leagues ago. It wouldn't have mattered to Jon if he had though, he would have found another way into Kings Landing. It would have been harder, but he would have done.

"What shall we do, then?" Jon finally asked.

Ned thought on it for a moment before replying. "Did anyone recognize you when you arrived here last night?" Jon shook his head. "Good, that's good..."

His father trailed off, leaving Jon to boggle what he was planning. He scrunched his eyebrows up in thought, as if the action would help. But alas, it did not. So instead he sat and waited somewhat impatiently for an explanation.

"If the Lannisters truly are plotting against the crown, nowhere in Westeros is truly safe. Not for long anyway." He pondered, and then paused. "I've only brought a few of my men who would recognize you, and I could talk to them about the circumstance so they would understand." He seemed to be talking more to himself than Jon now. He turned up to face then, directing his next words at him, his decision made. "You will come down to Kings Landing," he sad firmly. "But as my squire."

What?

"What?" Jon repeated his thought aloud.

"Bastards are not accepted at court," his father explained. As if Jon didn't already know that. But he kept the though to himself. "And the only men who would recognize you for one are either Stark's or are loyal to house Stark. I can speak with them and explain the situation so they know to keep quiet."

Jon frowned, thinking on what his fathers words meant. "So, no one can know I am your son? At all?"

Lord Stark nodded solemnly. "I will speak to the girls about it too. I'm not at all concerned about Arya, but Sansa I am. I know she adores the queen and would tell her anything she wanted." Jon nodded in agreement. "I think it would be best to stay away from them until further notice."

His shoulders slumped in defeat at the words. He wouldn't get to see Arya? Or was it just Sansa? His eldest sister did not hold much love for him, much like the Lady Catelyn, but she was his family all the same. Perhaps the rule wouldn't apply to Arya. It was a selfish thought, but Jon couldn't help himself.

"You also should refrain from calling me father," his father said suddenly. Jon nodded in understanding. "And if anyone ask for your name, just tell them something else."

"Would I still be a Snow?" He asked. He saw how his lord fathers shoulders slumped some at that, but his expression was still hard set on his face, showing no signs of change. Perhaps he had imagined it.

"If that is what is most believable, then yes," he sighed. It wasn't uncommon in the north for a house to foster their bastards off to other houses, as it strengthened bonds between them, even if only slightly. So perhaps Jon claiming he was just some northern lords bastard being fostered at Winterfell who managed to become a squire to the warden of the north himself. It wasn't like he was bad with a blade either, so the explanation wouldn't be easily doubted if anyone was judging him by his skills.

"Aye, that could work," Jon at last conceded, before letting out a yawn. He hadn't realized how tired he'd been while they were speaking. But now that things had calmed down, it was catching up to him.

His father noticed this as well, because he gave a soft smile before standing up and placing a hand on his shoulder. "I must meet with the king to discuss the state," he said. "And you've had a long journey. You should rest."

All he could do was nod. He wanted to stay and discuss more of the plan with his father, but he accepted that there wasn't much he could offer while so drained.

"You can use my bed, if you like," Ned offered. And then, in what resembled a jape, he said "But try not to let Ghost on it."

Jon offered his father a full smile that time. "I'll try not to," he replied. Lord Stark returned the smile with his own warm one and stepped out of the room, leaving Jon with Ghost and a very enticing bed. So, yawning again, he took off his boots and leathers and crawled under the furs, content to stay there for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Ned's meeting with the king had been rather short in the end. Evidently, Robert had grown tired of waiting for him and had simply gone off for a ride by himself into the moors before eventually riding back when he had either grown bored or hungry. Either way, the lord of Winterfell had broken his fast with his old friend and spent not much of the time discussing matters of state at all, the reason being that whatever Robert had to say needed to be said away from listening ears, such as the ones always around him.

But to be honest, Ned hadn't been thinking much on that. His mind had been occupied with what Jon had told him. His tidings hadn't been good ones. And what he'd told him had the potential to ruin everything that the kingdom had spent the last fourteen years building. He would have been inclined to dismiss it, but then he remembered the scared look on the boys face, and the earnestness behind his grey eyes as he'd spoken. It had scared Ned, but he had believed him. But his report of the Lannisters wasn't the only thing troubling him.

He'd been having visions.

He remembered how Jon had explained that they most closely resembled those of a greenseer, but Ned thought something was off about his description of them. He knew of house Reed and their gift of the sight, and what Jon was describing didn't quite match up. But perhaps it was different for everyone. At least, that's what he would tell himself until he got a solid answer.

What also troubled him, but he hadn't commented on, were the fresh bruises and split lip the boy sported. He had clearly been in a fight recently. Whether he won or not, Ned could only assume the prior. He was glad he was at least getting some rest now. He'd looked exhausted, with dark circles starting to color the skin under his eyes. Ned couldn't say he was surprised though. From Jon's account he'd been riding hard for near a week now to catch up with the kings ensemble. And unlike Ned and the girls, he did not have a nice bed to cozy up in after a long day's ride.

Suddenly, a blur of tangled brown hair and muddied clothed ran past him, almost bowling him over. A very familiar blur followed by a wolf.

"Arya!" He called out, turning as he saw the girl rush off. She stopped when she heard her name and turned, an almost guilty look painted on her already dirty face.

"Father?" She asked. "I thought you were meeting with the king."

"I did," he said, getting onto his knee to get to her level. "Now what are you doing running about looking like a wilding?"

Arya blushed in embarrassment and looked down, studying her boots intensely. "I was going to play with my friend," she said. "We were going to look for rubies."

Ned frowned. "Rubies?"

She nodded. "Yes. The Trident isn't far from here. Not even a mile. Mycah and I have wanted to go to the ford since last night."

"Mycah?"

"He's the butcher's boy," Arya supplied. Ned nodded in understanding. He wasn't surprised Arya had already found a friend. It was her nature, after all, to be so outgoing. He wouldn't be surprised if Arya had simply dragged the boy along with her on her exploits. He suddenly pitied the lad. You would have to be dumb to say no that Arya Stark wanted. She had the wolfs blood. Just like her aunt and uncle before her.

"Well, how about today you stay here," he offered kindly. "The queen has requested your company in her wheelhouse after all."

Arya's smile turned into a scowl, her hands folded across her chest in a show of dislike. "They won't let Nymeria in though. And I don't want to part from her."

Ned smiled sadly at her, hoping to offer some sympathy. He did not want his daughter to have any part with the queen as well. Not after all that Jon had just told him. He had no way of knowing how much of it was true, but he was inclined to believe it. "I know, Arya," he said anyway. "But it is the queen. It would be unwise to turn down her offer."

"Couldn't you excuse me from it?" She begged. "Tell her I'm unwell, or that I'm in the middle of my lessons. Anything."

"You know I can not do that, sweetling," Ned sighed, a faint smile touching his lips, amused by her pouting face. He gave a soft chuckle and stood up, offering his hand to her to hold on to. “Come now, at least go along with it for today.”

Arya glared half heartedly at the hand before accepting it and letting herself be lead to the wheelhouse.

The scene they walked to was instead the queen greeting three men in armor, all kneeling. One Ned immediately recognised to be Ser Barristan Selmy, or Barristan the Bold, as his children oft called him when playing at knights. He had been in the kingsguard during the rebellion, fighting for the Targaryens, but now faithfully served the Baratheons. He was dressed in a white suit of enameled armor, pretty, but also useful.

The other man, who was standing off to the side, he knew to be Ser Ilyn Payne. The last though, a young man with thick black locks atop his head, he did not recognise. It was only when he looked up that Ned saw him for who he was. The king's younger brother, Renly Baratheon.

"The king has gone to break his fast and does not wish to be interrupted," Cersei said, addressing the three men one their knees. "But I'm sure he will pleased to see you." She offered them all a smile, but Ned saw it held no warmth, just like the woman herself. If Jon was to be believed at any rate.

"Who are they father?" He heard a small voice ask him. He turned to see that Sansa had joined the cluster of people and was talking to him, eyebrows knit in confusion. Her direwolf, Lady, stood in front of her, having presumably cleared a path for her to walk to him through.

He didn't answer however, for a squire nearby beat him to it. "The council sent an honor guard ahead to meet the King. This is them," the boy supplied. Both Ned and Sansa thanked him and turned back to each other.

"The two older men are Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Ilyn Payne," Ned said, pointing them out to his children. "The younger one is King Robert's youngest brother, Renly Baratheon."

A rosy blush crept up Sansa's face as she stared the Baratheon down, eyeing him. "He's quite handsome isn't he?" She smiled. Ned ignored the gagging sound Arya made on his other side in favor of offering his eldest a kind smile.

Yes, he supposed he was handsome. He had grown much since the last time Ned had seen him, which would have been the Greyjoy rebellion.

Soon after addressing the men, Cersei noticed the three Starks standing by and went up to them. Ned had to fight the instinct to clench his jaw or narrow his eyes at her. After the stories Jon had told, he wasn't sure what to make of the golden queen. But for now at least he would give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Lord Stark," she said coolly. "I regret to say that because of these men's arrival; I will have to postpone my appointment with your daughters for a later time."

Sansa visibly slumped at his side, while he saw Arya fighting off a smile.

"Of course your Grace," Ned replied with clipped words. "My daughters will both understand."

"Good," she smiled back. But the smile didn't reach her eyes. None she made ever did. And with that, the queen gathered her dress and walked off to deal with the matters at hand.

Onc she was out of sight, Sansa turned to him with an agonized expression, like someone had just ripped her embroidery. "Does the queen not want us in her presence now father? Is it because of Arya and her behavior? I knew she shouldn't have come along! She always ruins everything!" She had started shouting at the end, glaring at Arya with tears welling in her eyes.

"At least I'm not in love with a stuck up prick!" Arya shouted back.

"Joffrey is not a prick! He is a prince! And a much finer person than you'll ever be!"

"He's a stuck up child," Arya retorted. "And if you weren't so stupid you'd see that!"

"Enough!" Ned finally yelled.

The two girls shrunk back and immediately closed their mouths. Sansa at least had the decency to stop glaring at her sister and focus her attention on her lord father. Arya on the other hand, did not. Her grey eyes were fixed in a cold stare on her older sister, much to the annoyance to Ned.

"The both of you are to go back to your rooms in the inn," he commanded. "I don't want anymore trouble coming from the two of you today."

Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but quickly remembered herself and shut it. "Yes father," she murmured.

"Yes father," Arya echoed, her tone not quite as sincere.

"Now go," he ordered, his anger deflating. He was never very good at it to begin with. "I will join you to sup later."

The girls nodded and soon were trudging off to the inn, Arya casting a look over her shoulder at him before rounding the corner. She looked sorry, but also betrayed, like she was torn between the two emotions. She had only wanted to go out with her friend today, but he had stopped that. Perhaps it had been for the best though, he told himself. She needed to learn how to be a lady some day, and ladies didn't go diving for rubies in rivers. They also didn't run wild with wolves.

Well, he had known one that had, but she hadn't had a happy ending. And he did not want that for Arya. As much as he loved his wild daughter, he could not bare to lose her because of what her nature lead to, like he had so many years before.

Chapter Text

It was nearing twilight when Jon finally awoke. Not to his surprise, Ghost was curled up in a tight ball by his feet on the bed, nose tucked under his fluffy tail and buried in the furs Jon lay under. He let out a small laugh, reaching over to scratch Ghost behind the ears. The direwolf in response blinked awake and looked up at him with his wine red eyes.

"You know you're not supposed to be up here," Jon lightly chastised, giving the wolf a mock belligerent look. Ghost merely dipped his head down, as if guilty, though Jon knew it was a ploy to make him feel bad. All of the other wolves in his litter did the same, especially when they wanted a scrap of food from their masters. "You're not foolin' anyone, you know."

When he didn't receive a response, which he wasn't expecting, he got up out of the bed and stretched his stiff limbs. He hadn't realized how much he had missed sleeping on a real bed until now. A bedroll and the ground was only so comfortable after all.

Putting his hands on his side while stretching caused him to wince in pain. He had forgotten all about the bruises on his side from yesterday. Warily, he leaned over and pulled his shirt up to look at it. Just as he thought, the spot just under his ribs was a mottled red/purple color. He had gotten bruises before many times, but none this bad. It would heal though, they always did. All he had to worry about was an infection from one of his many new cuts. And that would be easy to take care of now that he was within his father's company. There was sure to be a maester nearby if he ever turned out to need one.

Letting his shirt fall back to cover his torso, Jon turned to look out the window of the small room. The sun had sunk lower and had turned the sky a vibrant red, like it had been set ablaze. The light hit the walls behind him and made Ghost seem like his fur was as red as Sansa's hair. The thought made him smile in amusement.

It was however interrupted by the sudden loud growl of his stomach, reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten a proper meal. Ghost's ears perked up at the sound, tongue licking his lips as if in agreement. "If I had any food, don't you think I'd share it with you?" Jon asked rhetorically, raising an eyebrow at the wolf. Ghost merely looked at him expectantly.

The moment was suddenly ended as the door was pushed open abruptly, startling Jon and his wolf.

"Ah, you're finally awake." It was his father. Jon relaxed as the lord of Winterfell stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "Last I checked you were fast asleep. That was around midday."

Jon felt embarrassment cause a blush to creep up his face, tainting it with red.

"To be fair, you had quite a journey," his father noted, a faint smile on his lips.

"Aye, that I did," Jon agreed. He watched as his father made his way to the small table at the end of the room and set a plate of food down, seating himself in one of the chairs and pulling the other out in a motion for Jon to sit. The food was clearly meant for him then. He gladly took the invitation and eagerly joined his father, digging into the lamb and potatoes laid upon the plate. The taste was exquisite.

"I figured you would want something to eat if you were awake," his father said, watching as Jon made his way through the mutton. "I suppose I assumed correctly." Jon smiled through the mutton. "I also see someone didn't listen to my request of no wolves on the bed," he added with amusement, casting a glance to his bed, which was still occupied by the white mass that was currently staring longingly at Jon's supper. With a nod from his father, Jon tossed him some of the meat, making a silent promise to the animal that he'd find some more for him later.

"I have spoken with Jory and the few of his men who would recognize you," his father started as Jon started back on his meal again. Jon looked up and gave him his full attention. "Jory has agreed to go along with our plan. I have explained to him some of the circumstances, but not all, So he is unaware of the true reason for you joining us here."

"So you lied to him?" Jon asked, slightly bewildered. In all the years he had known his lord father, he could not remember an instance where he had lied. Even if it was a small white lie.

"No," Ned said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I simply omitted." Jon raised his eyebrows in surprise but chose to stay silent. He wouldn't have expected that from his father, but he seemed uncomfortable with it all the same, so he chose not to comment on it.

"So I am to join you in King's Landing, correct?" Jon asked in clarification.

"Aye, you are."

The knot of anxiety that had been building up since he left Winterfell suddenly eased in his chest, allowing him to breath easier. "I'm glad," he said honestly. His father however, didn't respond. Instead, he seemed uncomfortable, but not so much so that Jon need comment on it. Soon he was finished with his meal and was ready to leave the room for his father to use it again for the night. But on the way out, a hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you sure you do not want to use the bed? I'm sure I can find myself another room," his lord father offered, his grey eyes full of concern. Jon was secretly glad to receive the affection, but he just shook his head, his dark curls bouncing slightly from the movement.

"I've just slept the entire day. I won't be needing sleep for some time," he said. "And besides, you're the Hand of the king, surely you need the rest more than I."

His father smiled wryly at the light jest before ushering him out, Ghost tagging along behind him. "Goodnight, Jon," he said. "Don't get into trouble."

Jon smiled. "I think you're confusing me with Arya," he said. The comment was received with a warm smile before the lord of Winterfell placed a kiss on the top of his head, ruffling his raven hair after the action.

"Sleep well."

"And you," Jon nodded back, before turning and walking off.

The cool night air felt refreshing on his skin as Jon walked about the encampment. He had nowhere to be, or anything to do. He had slept for the whole day, so sleeping now seemed absurd. That left him with nothing better than to walk about with Ghost trotting at his heels.

The wolf pup was now the size of a nearly grown bloodhound. But one could tell Ghost wasn't at all near finished growing by the absurd size of his paws in comparison to his body, and how he lopped along awkwardly, as if still getting used to his own girth. His tongue lolled out of his mouth happily as he trotted alongside his master, occasionally looking up at the young man with his wine red eyes.

"What? Are you bored?" Jon asked with an amused smile. Ghost merely blinked up at him. "Well come on then, maybe I can find you a stick to fetch."

A few minutes later found Jon and the direwolf sitting by the bank of a stream that fed into the trident not very far from the inn. Ghost was happily playing in the water, splashing and rolling around in it and getting thoroughly muddy, dulling his normally snow white coat to a gross reddish brown. Jon stood on the bank with a practice sword and a torch propped up against a rock so as to give him light. He had found the sword tucked away in the stables while looking for somewhere to let Ghost play, figuring he should train some after having not done so for awhile, he had grabbed it and had taken it with him. Now he was stood attacking his fighting dummy. Or rather a grouping of snags by the riverbank.

The sound of the practice blade hitting wood filled the air accompanied by the splashing of his wolf in the water. He was so focused on what he was doing, he didn't hear the person come up behind him until they spoke.

"You have skill with a blade," the voice said.

Startled, Jon whirled around, almost losing his balance and falling into the mud. But he didn't. It took Jon a second, but his eyes adjusted to the low light the torch gave off and he saw a man standing a few yards away. He was older, with grey hair and lines around his eyes. But he did not seem it, as he was dressed in white enameled armor and had a sword at his hip, which his arm rested on, as though if he had need of it he could draw it at a moment's notice.

"My apologies," the man chuckled, seeing Jon's expression. "I did not mean to startle you. I had just heard splashing and what sounded like fighting and thought I should address it."

Jon blinked, now recovered from his initial shock. "It's alright," he said. "I should be the one apologizing, I suppose. I didn't mean to alarm you Ser."

The elderly man smiled, a twinkle of amusement in his eye as he looked Jon over. "You're with Lord Stark's party, yes?" He asked. It wasn't really a question though. Well; not one that needed answering. Anyone could tell Jon was of the north. But it was polite nonetheless.

"Aye," he answered. "And you're with the king's?"

The man nodded in confirmation. Then he looked around and sat down on a log that lay nearby. he watched Ghost splash around for a minute before speaking. In that minute, Jon made a quick assessment of the mystery man. He wore a white cloak which meant he was in the kingsguard. But Jon couldn't remember seeing him at Winterfell, so he must have joined the party traveling south recently.

Being a bastard, Jon had learned very quickly how to read people. And this man seemed decent and kind, if not battle hardened. He definitely did not mean Jon harm. At least, not as long as Jon gave him no reason to.

"It's good to see that they train boys well up north," the knight commented. Then he looked Jon over. "You seem quite familiar with a sword."

"I am."

The knight nodded in approval. A moment of silence passed between the two before either said anything. "Forgive me for not introducing myself," the knight started, having come back to himself. "I am Barristan Selmy," he said.

Jon felt his eyes widen. Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold. The man who he and his other siblings had looked up to ever since they learned of his deeds. Bran would have been struck dumb if he was standing in Jon's place. But he wasn't, because he was back at Winterfell... Possibly never to wake up...

"This is usually the part where you introduce yourself."

The knight's words jolted Jon back to the present and he realized the knight was looking at him expectantly. Right, he hadn't given his name. He felt a fool at that moment.

"Jon. I'm Jon."

"Well Jon, you had a good teacher. Whoever he was," the knight said. Jon allowed himself to smile faintly at the praise. "But may I ask, why practice at night alone in the woods?"

"Well," Jon tried, thinking of a reason but coming up with none. "I haven't practiced in awhile," he finally managed. "And now was a good time..."

Ser Barristan raised an amused, disbelieving eyebrow at him, making Jon flush with embarrassment. For some reason, he didn't want to seem a fool in front of the knight, and he felt he'd done that spectacularly.

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt this one time," Ser Barristan offered with a wry smile. "But try not to make a habit of this," he said, gesturing to the scene of Jon with his sword and Ghost still splashing in the water. "It makes one suspicious."

"I'll try not to," Jon said, watching as the knight stood.

"Now, as pleasant and refreshing as this chat was," Ser Barristan said. "I must get back to my watch. It was good to meet you, Jon. And your pet." He nodded towards Ghost, who tilted his head in response. "Farewell," he waved as he walked off.

"Farewell," Jon echoed. He continued to watch as the knight left, and stayed there long after the white cloak was out of sight, in awe. He'd just met Barristan the Bold, and had a decent conversation with him. And on top of that, he'd commended Jon for his swordsmanship. If this was anything to go by, maybe his time in King's Landing wouldn't be as bad as he'd feared.

Chapter Text

Kings Landing wasn't as bad as Jon had feared. It was worse. And it wasn't just because of the people. No. He'd barely interacted with them. It was mostly just the smell. It was shit, sweat, and anything else that had accumulated on the roads and such over time. Added with the heat of the capital... Needless to say, it was far from exemplary.

Jon wrinkled his nose for the tenth time since passing through the city gates. He was trailing behind in the back of the ensemble near the other squires and people who had joined throughout the trip south. They made good company, but all of them had been wary of Ghost, until they got to know him. Now the wolf pup was padding along happily beside Jon's mount, ears perked and tongue lolling out of his mouth. He seemed interested in all the city had to offer. Jon almost envied him. Almost.

After what felt like an hour- but he couldn't be sure- the gates of the red keep opened up before him.

He had heard stories of the castle that had been built by the Targaryen dynasty centuries ago. And also how there were hidden passageways and secret tunnels that no one knew about. Arya would certainly love to investigate those, he figured. The thought of the wild girl brought a faint smile to his lips. But also sadness, because he had promised Father that he would stay away from the Stark brood so no one would question his presence in the capital.

But still, he would have loved to go exploring secret passageways with her. And they were only secret because Maegor had killed all the builders, but that had been an age ago, and now all the Targaryens were either dead or in exile. Robert Baratheon himself had seen to that, he thought with disgust.

Not all, he realized. There's still one out there. Lyanna's child.

He tried to remember what the babe had looked like in his vision from all those months ago. But over time his recollection had become foggy. Did it have Stark coloring, or did it take after its father, with silver hair and purple eyes? He wasn't sure anymore, and at the time he hadn't been paying too much attention to it either. But he would be around his and Robb's age, if his memory of events served him right.

He shook himself of his inner musings as he entered the keep, getting off his horse and leading it to the stables, as all the other stable hands were busy. Once he had led his destrier to a nice spot, he unsaddled it and put the tack away, leaving to find something to do or perhaps somewhere to bathe. It was awfully hot, and his clothes had started to stick to his skin in a manner most uncomfortable.

As he rounded a bend, he suddenly caught sight of his father and another, smaller man walked away from the keep. Jon wouldn't have thought it odd, except for the fact that his father seemed agitated with the man, and he could hear argumentative voices even from where he stood.

Frowning, he considered it for a moment before deciding to follow. Ghost, of course, kept right at his heels as he tailed after the two. He probably shouldn't be doing this, but the urge to protect his family was too great to ignore. Their path led through tunnels and down the face of a wall, and then further into the city. The curiosity Jon felt prickling his mind at first was now a full fledge burning sensation. He HAD to know what was happening, and why it was so secretive. And the man his father was following, he didn't like him. He had no idea who he was, but Jon instinctively didn't like the way his face seemed to rest in a perpetual smirk, or the way his eyes seem forever calculating.

The trail finally ended in an open, dusty courtyard by a fair sized building. He watched as his father shoved the man into the wall in what appeared to be anger before a woman called out his name. It was Catelyn Stark.

Immediately Jon shrunk back from the wall he was hiding behind, both startled and scared. He knew it was stupid to be scared of the woman, but he was. Even at his age. But he also wanted to avoid being seen by the woman. He didn't want her to know this was where he ran off too. If she even cared to know he was missing in the first place.

He watched as Lady Stark ducked back into the window she had spoken from and as his father entered the building, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

What was Lady Stark doing in King's Landing? And more importantly, how had she gotten here before the king's party? He knew she hadn't left Winterfell before him. And he hadn't seen any sign of her on the road. Had she taken a ship from White Harbor? But if that was the case, what warranted the immediate need to meet her husband? It couldn't be because she simply missed him. She wouldn't leave her children at Winterfell for that. Maybe something had happened. But if something had happened, why did she have to hide in the city and wait for her husband to come to her? Why not just ride into the Red Keep to see him? Why all the secrecy?

Thoughts whirled around in his head at dizzying speed, but no answer came to him.

It was some time before Lord and Lady Stark came out of the building, sharing a deep, passionate kiss before parting ways. Jon watched as his father followed the mystery man back to the Keep while Lady Stark followed a now clean-shaven Rodrik Cassel back to wherever. The appearance of Winterfell's Master at Arms also confused Jon, though it didn't surprise him. If Lady Sark was heading to King's Landing, it shouldn't come as a surprise that she would need protection.

Frowning again at the predicament, Jon started to make his own way back to the Keep, keeping to the alleys and backways so as to avoid the crowds. Maybe he could speak with Father about why Lady Catelyn was here later. Or maybe he simply wouldn't bring it up. Admitting to following Lord Stark around the city might not come as such good news to the man. Huffing in frustration, Jon pushed on through the streets as he slowly made his way to the large red castle in the distance.

Ned followed Petyr Baelish into the brothel grudgingly. He was angry at the lord for keeping his wife in such a place as this, but at the same time, grateful that he had brought him to her. Although why she was here... he would find out soon enough.

"Ned!" Cat cried as he entered the room. She threw her arms around him in a deep embrace. He held her just as hard in return. "I feared you would never come, my Lord," she breathed into his chest.

"Cat, I do not understand," he said, pulling away from her so he could talk face to face. "What are you doing in King's Landing? What happened? Is it Bran? Is he..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. The mere thought of it bringing a large lump to his throat.

"It is Bran," she said cooly. "But not as you think." It was then that he noticed the fresh scars on her hands, raw and red.

"You've been hurt." Taking her hands in his, he turned them over and examined them. They were old, perhaps a few weeks at most. But still cause for alarm. "Gods. Those are deep cuts... A gash from a sword or... How did this happen my Lady?"

His wife slid a blade out from under her cloak, where she must have been hiding it. It was a fair sized blade. The hilt black as onyx and the steel rippled just like the Stark ancestral sword Ice. Valyrian steel, he mused. Someone very rich must have owned this blade.

"This blade was sent to open Bran's throat and spill his lifeblood," she said darkly. Ned scowled at the words, reminded of what Jon had told him not a week before. That Bran had been pushed from the tower by Jaime and Cersei because he had overheard them talking about killing Robert.

"This news doesn't seem to surprise you, Lord Stark," Lord Baelish noted in his drab monotone.

"No, it does not," he ground out. It did not surprise him, but it did make him anxious. Anxious at knowing for an absolute fact that Jon was right in saying that someone wanted Bran dead. Whether it truly was the queen and her brother or not.

"Well, Petyr has told me this blade belongs to Tyrion Lannister. I'm inclined to believe it was him who sent the assassin," Catelyn told him. The proclamation was soon followed by a shake of his head, dismissing her.

"It wasn't Tyrion," he said.

"How can you know?" Catelyn asked.

"Trust me when I say it wasn't him," he said, hoping to avoid an explanation.

"Oh please, Eddard," Littlefinger countered. "Do tell."

Ned suppressed the urge to glare at the master of coin. "Someone I trust has given me proof that it wasn't the dwarf," was all he said.

"And who was it?" Cat asked, a hard edge to her voice.

Ned sighed. A pause. And then, "Jon."

Catelyn inhaled sharply at the name, her eyes narrowing and her lips growing thin as she pressed them together in anger. "The bastard?"

"My blood," he corrected somewhat harshly.

"And how would he know this?" She asked hotly, her tone biting.

"Because he knows how Bran fell. He was pushed by Jaime and Cersei Lannister. Tyrion would have had no part in it," he explained. "There's little love between the siblings after all."

Catelyn huffed indignantly, forcefully brushing back a strand of Tully red hair from her face. "But how would he have told you? He didn't go south with you."

"Maybe you hadn't noticed his absence at Winterfell these past few weeks, but he left shortly after us," Ned said. "And no matter what you say, I trust his word. And I hope you do as well."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw Petyr looking thoughtful and pensive in a way that made his skin crawl. Ignoring the small man, he turned back to his wife, who was silently fuming, but hadn't said any other remarks against Ned's claim. Perhaps she would listen. He hopes as much, anyways.

"Fine," she finally bit out. "I will trust you on this. But not because of what that boy said. I trust you because you're my husband." She sighed. "I will give Tyrion the benefit of the doubt then. But remember what my sister wrote to me, we can't trust the Lannisters."

Ned nodded. "No, we can't. If what was said was true, I fear for the future of the seven kingdoms."

"I fear for you," Catelyn said softly, looking him in the eye and stepping closer so that her hands for on his chest while his arms wrapped around her. "Promise me you will be safe, my love," she whispered.

Ned swallowed thickly, his throat catching. "I promise."

Chapter Text

With a promise not to act on her suspicion without consulting him, Catelyn left King's Landing to return to the north, saying she would stop at the vale to speak with her sister Lysa about her suspicion of the Lannisters. Ned agreed and bid her farewell, watching as she left, wishing he could go with her. But he could not, his duty was here, and he had to uncover the Lannister's plot as well as keep his head on his shoulders and not on the ground as Jon had claimed would happen.

"My Lord," Littlefinger said next to him, distracting him from his thoughts. "It is best that we head back to the keep. As Hand, there are some issues you are to address as soon as possible."

Ned sighed, but nodded, following the small man back to the keep.

Once there, they went to the small council room, where the council was already waiting. Varys, the Master of Whispers was the first he saw. He was a bald, portly man downed in fine silks and by the smell of it, perfume. It was common knowledge he was a eunuch, so it came as no surprise to Ned that he grew no beard or had even a trace of hard muscle on him. The next was Grand Maester Pycelle, the same maester who had served the Mad King before the Targaryen dynasty fell. He was an old wisp of a man. Ned was surprised he was still alive after all these years, and even more so that Robert had allowed him to stay on as Grand Maester.

The last he noticed was Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws. Just as on the Kingsroad, Ned again noticed how much he had grown since last he saw him. He was the spitting image of Robert after he took the throne. But this Baratheon was much better dressed, garbed in fine silks and a rich looking doublet.

"My Lords," Ned started, sitting down in his seat. "I am sorry to have kept you waiting."

"You are the Hand of the King," Varys said. "We serve at your pleasure Lord Stark."

Ned grimaced internally, suddenly wishing to be anywhere but here in this stuffy room in King's Landing. "We are but five," he noted, looking around the table. "Should we not wait for Ser Barristan and the King?" It was usual for the captain of the King's Guard and the King himself to join small council meetings, or so he'd heard. Ned found it unusual that neither of the two men were with them.

Renly, in response, broke out into laughter. "If we waited for the King to join us, it would be a very long sit."

Ned frowned.

"What Lord Renly means by that is the King entrusts what he deems to be 'small matters' to us to ease his workload as ruler of the seven kingdoms," Littlefinger elaborated.

"Or that he simply grows bored with these meetings and leaves it to us to govern his realm for him," Renly added. "My brother has no sense for matters of coin or farming and instead prefers to stay away from it all together. Meaning we lucky few have the task of dealing with such things." His tone was light but held a bitterness to it that told Ned he was rather tired of his brother's way of "ruling" the kingdom. Or rather, lack of ruling it.

"But he does send us commands from time to time," Varys said, pulling a scroll from his sleeve. The Master of Whispers handed it to Ned who broke the royal seal and unraveled it. Reading it over quickly, Ned balked in disbelief.

"Gods be good," he swore.

"What Eddard means to say," Varys started. "Is that King Robert has instructed us to stage a great tournament in honor of his appointment as Hand of the King."

"Great is an understatement," Ned grumbled, looking over the paper once more. It seemed the tourney would cost more than Winterfell had made in the past year alone. How was the crown to afford it? He couldn't fathom why Robert would waste so much coin on such a matter, not when there were so many other things that needed it more, like the farms in the crownlands or repairing keeps. "Why on earth would Robert waste so much for a simple tourney?" He asked, slightly disgusted in his friend.

"This isn't the first time he's done this," Renly supplied. "But how much exactly, does it cost the crown?"

"Ninety thousand gold dragons," Littlefinger read off, holding the paper himself now. "Not counting the feasts and such as well. Ah, what is another hundred thousand to our debt?"

Ned was shocked at the Master of Coin's words. "Debt? Aerys left a mountain of gold in the treasury. How is it we are in debt?"

"Our King does love to live life while sparing no expenses. If you didn't live in the north I'd be surprised you didn't know," Littlefinger supplied. "We are currently six million in debt to the Lannisters, the Iron Bank, and other parties that are too numerous to name."

It was then that Ned really understood how awful of a king Robert was. "Gods be good," he sighed again. Not even a day in King's Landing and he already had his work right and truly cut out for him.

Jon was not all that happy with his quarters if he was being honest with himself. They were barely half the size of his room at Winterfell, and the bed wasn't nearly as soft as his old one. To be fair, they were meant for a squire, which he was now, not the son of a high lord. He wasn't the son of a high lord to begin with, not officially anyway. But he had grown used to how he had been treated at Winterfell, bastard or no.

Sighing, he turned over to Ghost, who was looking none too happy with the arrangement either, as he was circling in place trying to find somewhere comfortable to lay down. But with no furs on the floor like he was used to, he was having a hard time.

"I know boy," Jon sighed, offering his condolences to the pup. "It's no Winterfell." Ghost paused his circling for a moment and looked up at him with what looked to be agreement in his wine red eyes. The action made Jon chuckle before going back to putting his new room into order. He hadn't brought much except for what he needed on the road, which was a few shirts, some breeches, riding gear, a bedroll, a small pouch of coins, a waterskin, his new sword, and the book Arya had given him. He remembered how much Arya and Sansa had packed for their journey south and was suddenly glad he didn't have to go through the amount of unpacking they would have to. He smiled to himself at the realization.

After getting back to the keep, he had taken a long nap on his new bed, the quality of which he could ignore, he was so tired. But now it was nearing dawn and he felt no urge to sleep again, and he could not ignore how hard and lumpy the mattress was. Not anymore. Mayhaps when the sun was higher, he would speak with his father about what they were to do. He knew what the Lannisters were plotting, and he planned to stop it with help from his father. But the question as to why and how still remained. It wasn't like his lord father could simply barge into the throne room and claim treason. Not without rhyme or reason. And no matter how close he and the king were, the best that would come of that would be a fist to the face. And that was Jon being optimistic, something he didn't do all that often.

The only proof he had so far was that Cersei and Jaime Lannister had BEEN in the broken tower around the time of Bran's fall, as shown by the moved furniture and Cersei's hair he'd found. He knew they were the cause of it, and what had been said between them. But how could he prove such things to the king? It was simple. He couldn't. The word of a bastard meant nothing against the word of the queen regent and a kingsguard knight. Actually, the word of a bastard meant virtually nothing in court, especially when said bastard was just a boy on the cusp of manhood.

So that left Jon with next to nothing to prove himself. He knew his father believed him, and for that he was thankful. But again, he needed solid evidence if he were to convince the king. But they also needed to know why Cersei wanted Robert off the throne as soon as possible, and why Lady Arryn had suspected them of something bad enough to incur Robert's wrath. What could they have done to slight her? Jon thought he knew the answer. It seemed obvious enough. That Jon Arryn had been poisoned, hence his sudden and unexplainable death. That would definitely anger Lady Arryn. But by all accounts of the man Jon had heard, he'd been honorable and fair. He couldn't fathom why anyone would have wanted him dead.

Sighing in frustration, he gathered his leathers and threw them on, tugging his boots on as well with every intention of heading to the training yard to get away from the turmoil in his mind. He had made it halfway through the keep when he bumped into someone he had not expected. Someone who was carrying a small blade and barely came up to his chest in height. Someone with their own direwolf trailing behind them.

It took a moment for Jon to come to his senses and realize who was standing before him. But in that time, the person before him dropped their jaw and gaped up at him in equal parts shock and excitement.

"Jon!" Arya cried.

Jon was in trouble for sure.

Chapter Text

To say Arya was surprised was an understatement. She was beyond so. She had been heading back from her mourning practice with her sword- it was at morning because that was when no one was awake yet to see her- when she had nearly bowled over a castle squire. It turned out though that the squire in question was not in fact a squire at all, but her brother, Jon Snow. Quite literally the last person she had expected to see in King's Landing.

"Jon!" She finally choked out after what felt an age of silence between them. His eyes were wide with shock at seeing her, just as her were. Without warning, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her through the halls until he found an unlocked door and he hid them inside.

Once the bolt was in place, she turned him forcefully to face her. "What are you doing here?" She demanded.

"I could ask the same thing," he countered defensively, looking her up and down with a bewildered expression.

"I practice at this hour," she explained hotly, lowering the sword she hadn't realized was still up waving dangerously about. "It's the only time no one will see me. But what are YOU doing here! You said you were staying in Winterfell."

"Aye, I did," he said. "But that was before."

"Before what?" She asked skeptically, narrowing her eyes.

"Before I knew what the Lannister's had done," he explained in a hushed voice, as if someone would hear them, which was preposterous. No one was even awake yet.

"What have they done?" Arya asked cautiously, suddenly wary.

Jon glanced around for a moment before deciding something. "Come with me," he said, grabbing her wrist again, this time with much more care. "We need to be somewhere safer than this." Arya was about to protest, but after looking around, she grudgingly agreed. They were in a rather open room. Anyone could in and overhear something not meant for their ears. However doubtful it was anyway. But Arya agreed and followed her brother out.

"My room is in the Tower of the Hand," she said. "Only Stark men are allowed up there."

Jon considered it for a moment. "Aye, that will do."

"The Lannister's pushed Bran out of the tower?" Arya gasped. "Just for over hearing them?"

The two of them had retreated to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand and were speaking in hushed whispers. Arya had put her sword away in her trunk before sitting down with Jon and their two direwolves. She hadn't noticed when she'd ran into Jon earlier, but now he was taking up most of the floor space, the hog.

"I believe there's more to it than that," Jon admitted, absently scratching one of Ghost's ears. "What I saw through his eyes in the vision, the Lannister's hadn't seen him yet. So maybe there was more to it than we know. Maybe he heard or saw something else too."

Arya felt sick. How could the queen do such a thing? And to Bran no less! He was but seven name days old and no threat to anyone, even with what Jon said he'd overheard. If he was right though, that Bran had heard more than that, surely it didn't merit being thrown out a window. What person would believe the ramblings of a seven year old? No adult she'd ever met, that was certain. Her father was an exception, she knew, but even he had limits. For the life of her; Arya couldn't imagine what would be bad enough not even a boy of Bran's age could be trusted. And Arya could imagine a lot. Hence why the news was so very distressing.

"So you came down to tell father?" Arya finally asked, looking up at him. Jon gave a solemn nod in response. "Did you tell him about the other visions as well? About..." Arya paused to collect herself. "About him?"

"I did," he admitted. "But not about Aunt Lyanna."

Arya was about to ask why not, but quickly came to the same conclusion Jon must have. "Because if he knew, he did nothing, and if he didn't, it would only hurt him," she surmised.

"Aye," he nodded.

"It doesn't make sense though," she pouted, frowning. "All your visions have been about the king or the Lannisters. And that's happening now. So how does Aunt Lyanna tie into this? She died fifteen years ago," she reasoned, earning a thought look from Jon. "What does she have to do with this?"

Jon remained quiet sitting across from her. He looked unable to offer anything helpful, just as lost as she was. Arya huffed angrily, frustrated by knowing so little of their late Aunt. She didn't like it, but she knew that their father hated to bring up his sister. Losing her had hurt him horribly, and as such he hardly ever spoke of her. Which left much of her up to mystery. Maybe if father had spoken of her they would understand why she had been in one of Jon's visions. But he hadn't, and so they were left to guess. All they knew of her was that she had been kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar Targaryen, which started a war that overthrew the Targaryen dynasty, putting Robert Baratheon on the throne. And from what Jon claimed, he was still in love with their aunt, fifteen years after her death. It was no wonder to Arya why Cersei was so cold to him.

"Maybe we're looking at it the wrong way," Arya offered. Jon met her eyes with his own matching grey ones, which were scrunched up in thought.

"How do you mean, little sister?" He asked.

Arya chewed her lip before answering, trying to think it through. "Well," she started slowly. "We're focusing on Lyanna's role in this. But maybe we're wrong, and really it's about her child."

Jon's frown deepened, his usually guarded expression slipping into one of confusion. "How so?"

"If you're right," Arya said. "That child is a Targaryen as well. So maybe this isn't about him being Lyanna's, but about him being Rhaegar's."

"But how does that play into all this madness with the Lannister's?" Jon countered. "We have no idea where he is. And even so, he's just a boy, not some snake here in King's Landing."

A large sigh escaped from Arya. "I don't know, but it MUST! Or else what's the point?" Jon wished at that moment that he could share in her simple nine year old logic of events. Everything would be much easier if it were the truth. But some things happened without there being a reason, and he was beginning to think that this was one of those. But he wouldn't voice his thoughts. He didn't want to distress her any more than she already was.

"Well, whatever the reason, we'll find it. I promise," he said, offering her a faint smile. She returned the gesture in kind. They sat there for a few moments in silence, Arya fidgeting nervously with the hem of her shirt while Jon thought it over. Suddenly, without warning, Arya's face lit up in a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with what Jon had come to know meant she had a plan that involved him in some way that could get him in trouble.

"I just realized," she started, a smile tugging at her face. "Now that you're here, I'll have someone to teach me how to use a sword properly."

"And why can't you ask a knight?" Jon asked. "There are plenty around after all."

"Because," Arya scoffed, rolling her eyes at him. "They would never take a girl seriously. And I'm supposed to be a lady. And ladies aren't supposed to know how to use a sword."

Jon laughed with mirth at her frustration, earning him a playful smack on the arm. "Shut up," she said. "I won't be a lady. I won't be-"

"Sansa." Jon beat her to what she was about to say, and they completed the sentence both with silly smiles alighting their faces.

Chapter Text

After their reunion, Jon had had to return to his barracks, now tired and ready to go back to sleep on his hard, lumpy bed. Arya had insisted Ghost stay with her so that no one would grow suspicious of a wolf following a random squire around the castle. She said she would let him and Nymeria out to run through the Kingswood during the day so no one notice the sudden addition to the Stark's animal companions. Plus, neither of the Stark girls had a pure white direwolf, so it would raise eyebrows from that alone, even if no one did the math.

Jon had reluctantly agreed and had seen the two pups off with Arya, who he walked back to her chambers before heading back to his own, giving her a hug goodbye before doing so. It was how he spent the next few days, meeting with Arya in the morning before heading back to his quarters and doing his chores for the day as a squire. Since he was Lord Stark's squire, one would think he would spend a lot of time around him. But that was not the case. Instead, he found himself training with the other squires in the training yard. And if he wasn't doing that, he'd be serving some lord or a knight, cleaning armor or helping put armor on. He couldn't say he minded terribly, but it did take some getting used to. It was a week later when his lord father stopped by his quarters with a package in hand and a smile on his face.

Jon got off his bed immediately, glad to see the man. He hadn't had much communication with him since the first day they'd arrived, after he'd spoken with Arya. It had been a short conversation, addressing what his role would be in King's Landing as a squire. Aside from that, he only knew of what he was doing from what Arya said.

"Fath-my Lord," he corrected himself, smiling broadly. His father smiled in return and closed the door behind him to allow them more privacy. Jon moved aside as his father sat down on the bed, looking up at Jon in an obvious sign for him to join him.

"It's been far too long since we last talked," he said once Jon had sat down. "I figured it was time to visit my squire." A faint smile tugged at his lips at the term. "I've brought you something, a gift." He handed Jon the wrapped parcel, which the boy took from him tentatively. "I thought you might want something for your name day."

Jon blinked, surprised. he had totally forgotten. "I'm five and ten," he thought aloud with a hint of pride. "Near a man grown."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father smile. "Aye, that you are." It was another moment longer before he said, "Go on, open it."

Jon nodded eagerly and open the package. He pushed away the canvas covering and untied the twine holding it in place, finally uncovering the item.

"It's beautiful," he breathed. Inside was a pendant made of bone carved into the shape of a wolf. Not the Stark direwolf sigil, but a wolf nonetheless. Small garnets sparkled for its eyes, like those of Ghost. But instead of the bone it was carved from being a bleached white or yellow like other animals, it was an iron black.

"This is dragonbone," Jon noted in realization. "Where did you find any?"

His father offered a tight smile in response. "Let's just say I came into possession of something made from it and decided it didn't need it anymore." The answer was vague at best, but judging from his father's expression, Jon decided it was best if he didn't pry.

"Well, I love it," he said honestly. "Thank you, father." He grabbed it by the chain, simple steel, and put it on, letting the weight of it rest on his chest. He looked down at it, admiring the sight, before looking back up at his father.

"Arya has something for you as well," he said simply. Jon froze at the statement, eyes wide in shock and guilt. His father wasn't supposed to know he was in contact with Arya. He had promised to stay away from the girls. Another look at his lord father made him relax, if only slightly, seeing the mirth hidden in his expression.

"As close as you and your sister are, even a nine-year-old will slip up," he said. "Arya accidentally said something about how she was getting tired of Ghost and Nymeria begging for food." Jon looked down at his boots in shame. His father gave a light chuckle at the action. "We had a discussion about it. Neither of you are in trouble," he assured. "And although I am somewhat disappointed, I can't say I'm surprised. The two of you are near inseparable."

Jon smiled softly at the comment, knowing it was true.

"I also think it would only be fair you go into the city to explore, if you so wish. I have a small bag of coin if you so wanted."

Jon's expression brightened at the statement. "I would much appreciate that, father," he said sincerely.

"Just stay close to the keep so you don't get lost," he advised. "I don't want to have to send Jory out to search for you."

"I promise I won't stray too far, father," Jon said.

His father smiled and ruffled his hair. "Good lad. But now, I must be off to attend to matters of State." He stood up and walked to the door, preparing to open it, but turned back to Jon before doing so. "Happy name day, Jon." And with that, he left the room.

A short while later found Jon outside of Arya's chambers in the Tower of the Hand. He knocked to announce his presence. A "come in" sounded from behind the door, and he let himself in.

"Jon!" Arya cried, running to him as he opened the door. She launched into his arms immediately, forcing him to catch her in a hug. She pulled away quickly with a large smile on her face. "I have something for you," she said brightly. "I made it myself."

Jon set her down, allowing her to scamper off to a table to grab whatever it was she'd made. She snatched it up quickly and hurried back over to him, holding it behind her back. "I hope you like it," she said, motioning him to hold out his hands. he complied without hesitation.

"Here." She pulled it out and set it in his outstretched hands, smiling that large, gap-toothed grin of hers.

Jon looked down and his own smile appeared on his face. It was a wooden knight, or so Jon assumed. It looked like a knight at any rate. It was roughly carved and painted with imprecise hands. But he could make out the sigil on the armor, identifying it as Aemon the Dragon knight; his favorite knight as a child. Arya must have put a lot of thought into the gift; Jon realized. The knowledge of it only making his smile broaden. "Thank you little sister," he said, ruffling her hair, "It's amazing."

"I know you don't play with toys anymore," she said. "But whenever you and Robb played knights, you'd play Aemon."

"Aemon was a great knight," Jon said in his defense. "Any man should aspire to be like him."

Arya just rolled her eyes at him, having heard the same from him for years. "Anyways," she said, changing the topic. "Father said because it was your name day, you should go out and see King's Landing. As long as you stuck close to the keep. Are you going to?"

"Aye, father told me," Jon confirmed. "Hey left me a small bag of gold as well. Do you have anything you need to do today?" He asked.

Arya shook her head. "I'm sure Septa Mordane won't be pleased. But I don't care what she thinks."

'Of course not,' Jon thought to himself with an inward smile. "Would you care to join me? I might even get you something."

Arya's face lit up like a candle. "Would you?" Jon nodded. "Then please, I'm tired of this castle."

"We would have to take a guard with us to appease father. If he says yes that is," Jon noted.

Arya scoffed. "Of course he will. Even if he doesn't, it's easy to get out of the castle unseen."

Jon opened his mouth to ask how she knew but decided to close it at the last minute, knowing that of course his wild sister would find a tunnel or an alley that would lead into the city. It would be just like her anyway.

"Alright," he agreed. "Let's go ask father. I'm sure he's not in the small council room just yet."

And with that, they headed out of the Tower of the Hand in search for lord Stark.

Surprisingly, their father had said yes, and unsurprisingly, he'd made them take a guard. He had chosen to Jory go with them, the old knight vaguely surprised to see Jon, but not overly. Jon hadn't seen the man since he left Winterfell with the other Stark men. He knew his father had explained that Jon had joined them, but he hadn't crossed paths with him till now.

Bidding farewell to their father, the two and Jory were off to the city. Once there, they were surrounded by the smells, sights, and sounds of the capital of Westeros. Arya immediately dragged Jon off to the merchant district where they looked at silks, jewelry, trinkets, and more from all over the world. They heard one merchant shouting about wines from places Jon didn't think he'd ever heard of. But it must have been good seeing as his business was doing rather well.

Jon eventually decided to stop by one of the jewelers and buy a trinket for Sansa, knowing she loved pretty things. His relationship with her wasn't great. She was polite to him, but they didn't have the bond that Jon had with his other siblings. Still, if he was buying Arya something, he should buy Sansa something as well. He would have Arya give it to her though, as she wouldn't understand why it was coming from him when she thought he was still up in Winterfell. He settled on a brooch in the shape of a flower carved from a black glass set in gold that the man selling it to him claimed was dragonglass. Jon had never heard of such a thing, but it looked pretty, so he was sure Sansa would appreciate it.

The trio continued on after Jon purchased the brooch and explored more of the city. Arya found a booth selling rare pelts from Essos that deeply intrigued her. There was one that had white and black stripes and another with orange and black. Jon couldn't imagine any animal having such a vibrant pelt, but there they were.

Another merchant was selling fabrics so sheer that they looked transparent, but felt like a rose petal when you touched them. And another that tried to push his shoes onto them. They were fine quality, but Jon felt he had no need for velvet lined slippers. This went on until the sun was beginning to sink in the sky, telling Jon it was past high noon. His stomach was telling him the same thing, and he suggested to Arya and Jory they find somewhere to eat. The knight eagerly agreed, as did Arya, and they went off in search of something they might like.

They decided on honey glazed pheasant. At first Jon wasn't sure about the meat, but after trying it, he decided he loved it. The glaze was sweet and sticky, and Arya somehow got herself covered with it. That made Jon take her out to wash it off, leaving the girl dripping water from her hair onto her dress. But she didn't mind in the least, as her smile told him she was having loads of fun.

It wasn't long after that Jory suggested they go to the Street of Steel, where all the smiths were located. Jon eagerly agreed and followed Jory's directions until they found what they were looking for.

The street was a bustle of activity. On display were swords, daggers, chainmail, helms, plate armor, and anything else one could need. Jon couldn't help but gape at the detail in some of the pieces. Some of the armor was enameled with designs Jon couldn't begin to imagine would be able to be on armor. The closer they got to the thick of everything, the more detailed and extravagant everything was, until Jon was sure only a high lord would be able to afford it.

"You lookin' for something for the tourney?" He heard someone ask. Jon turned to see who was talking to him and found a boy around Sansa's age with coal smears on his face leaning against a post. He was standing in one of the larger forges that Jon was sure milked men of their coin.

"Tourney?" Jon asked in confusion.

"Aye, the tourney for the new Hand," the boy said. "It's all the talk around here."

"Lord Stark did mention something about that if I recall," Jory muttered behind them, just loud enough for Jon and Arya to hear.

"Sansa's been gushing about it whenever she's not swooning over Joffrey," Arya announced. "But father doesn't sound too pleased about it. he says King Robert is wasting money at his expense."

"Your father?" The boy questioned, looking at the trio. "Are you some lord's daughter?" He asked, looking them over and finally noticing their finer clothing.

"Lord Stark is my father," Arya announced with a hint of pride.

"Oh, milady!" The boy attempted a quick bow, but only stumbled awkwardly and righted himself immediately after, flushing in embarrassment as he heard Jon let out a choked laugh. "'M sorry," he mumbled.

"It's alright," Jon reassured him. "This is Arya Stark, youngest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark," he gestured to Arya, who smiled up at the boy. "And this is Jory, captain of the guard." The boy offered them both strained smiles, still embarrassed by his flub. "And my name's Jon. I'm Lord Stark's squire."

"Gendry," he offered. "Gendry Waters. I work here for Tobho Mott." He gestured to the forge behind him.

"You're a bastard," Arya stated. Gendry nodded stiffly in response. "So is Jon." She gestured up to him. "But his last name is 'Snow'." Gendry's blue eyes lit up and he met Jon's grey ones in wonder.

"You're a bastard AND Lord Stark's squire?" He asked in bewilderment, eyes widening comically. The sight made Arya chuckle beside him.

Jon shrugged. "Bastards can rise high in the world," he said, reciting something he'd heard once.

"That they can," Gendry agreed in a wistful tone. Suddenly, someone shouted from the forge, causing Gendry to jump. "I'm sorry, but I must get back to work. It was nice to meet you though," he said, hurrying off back inside.

"You as well," Jon called back. He saw the boy smile briefly back at them before disappearing from view. The trio stood there for a few more moments before Arya piped up.

"He was cute."

Jon raised his eyebrows in surprise and looked down at her.

"In an objective, sort of way," she hurried, blushing fiercely. Jon let out a laugh but didn't tease her for it.

"Come on," he said, ushering them along the street. "Let's find something else to do before we need to go back."

Arya nodded quickly and hurried to follow him with Jory just behind, and they walked back into the city to look for more to do.

Chapter Text

A few days later found Jon in the training yard, hacking away at a straw dummy. He was using a dummy because after a week, none of the other squires would spar with him. All too afraid of being beaten by him. They all ended up losing more oft than not, and eventually, they had simply decided to not bother with him at all, leaving him to become an outcast. An outcast born of skill, but an outcast nonetheless. It reminded Jon an awful lot of home.

"Don't you think the poor things had enough, Jon?" One of the other boys asked. It was Alec, one of the only boys he had bothered to deem a friend. He was a year or two older than Jon, but somewhat clumsy, making his skills with a sword questionable. But he still sparred with Jon on occasion, even though it always ended with him in the dirt.

"I think it has a few more swings in it," Jon commented, referring to the dummy. "More than anyone else here, anyway."

The comment didn't go unheard in the yard, and a few boys turned and glared at Jon after hearing it. He ignored them.

"Well would YOU at least take a break?" Alec asked. "You've been working since the sun rose. It's near midday now."

Jon frowned. He hadn't noticed the passing of time. But now that he thought about it, his muscles were growing rather sore, and his stomach was starting to grumble uncomfortably.

"Perhaps you're right," Jon conceded, stepping away from the dummy and joining Alec as he walked towards the water basin. He set his practice sword down next to him as he took a cup and downed the cool refreshing water. The chill was a welcome treat in the hot air of the capital, especially after working as hard as he had.

"Ah, look who's here," he heard Alec say beside him. Jon raised his brow in interest and glanced over to where Alec was looking. He almost choked on his drink at the sight. Standing there in the yard talking to one of the other knights was Ser Barristan. Jon hadn't seen the man since that night at the Crossroads Inn all those weeks ago. He hadn't seen heads or tails of the man since arriving at the keep, and as such was surprised to see him now.

As if hearing his thoughts, the old knight turned towards him and narrowed his eyes, as if trying to place his face. Jon frowned, the man had met him before so he surely should recognize him. But then again, it had been rather dark, and it had been weeks ago. Most likely not that important to the knight as far as meetings went. Sometime during his thought process, the knight had started making his way towards them, and was almost upon him when he came back to the present.

"You're that boy from the Crossroads Inn on the King's Road," he stated. "Jon, was it?" he asked, looking down at Jon, who nodded dumbly in response. "Well I'm glad to see you found your way to a proper training yard," he chuckled. "Your last one was rather questionable."

Jon felt himself smirk while Alec cast him a confused, questioning look. "Aye, it is a bit better," Jon admitted.

"Where's that dog of yours?" the knight asked, glancing around in search of Ghost. "I remember he was rather enjoying the water last time."

Jon offered a tight smile before responding. "He's with my lord's daughter. I couldn't have him here because he would scare the others," Jon said. The statement brought an amused smile to Ser Barristan's face.

"Not that your sword doesn't do that already," Alec scoffed beside him. Jon shot him a quick glare but said nothing in response.

"Are you truly that good?" The knight asked skeptically. Jon hesitated a moment before nodding, not wanting to seem cocky or overconfident. "Well, if you truly aren't getting any decent practice here, I suppose I could offer you an hour or two of my time each day to train you some."

Both Jon's and Alec's jaws dropped open in synchrony. It was almost comical, Jon was sure, to someone else. but at the moment, he was too surprised the knight had offered such a thing. He had spoken with him twice, and suddenly he was offering to basically teach him one on one? Such a thing was almost unheard of, especially with a knight of the kingsguard, and with a lowly "squire" no less.

"I take it to mean by your shocked expression that that would be a 'yes'."

The knight's comments brought Jon back to himself. He nodded his head vigorously. "Of course, Ser. I would very much appreciate that."

"Good," Ser Barristan said with a smile, turning to leave. "I hope to see you here tomorrow at dawn." And with that, he left, striding off into the keep with his white cloak billowing behind him.

Alec was the one who broke the silence first. "That was Barristan the Bold," he stated dumbly.

"Aye, it was," Jon said.

"How the fuck do you know Barristan the Bold?"

Jon was making his way back to his barracks when the pain started. He hadn’t had a vision since he’d left Winterfell, so it was somewhat jarring when the pain suddenly struck his temple, knocking him to his knees. Before he could do anything though, he was sucked into the dream.

It was the queen this time. She was speaking with his father in the godswood, both kneeling beneath a large oak that must have represented a heart tree.

“The night of our wedding feast,” the queen said, addressing his father. “The first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister’s name,” the queen bit out, obviously referring to King Robert. “He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.” His father flinched, and Jon didn't blame him. “I was a living girl and she a corpse beneath the ground, and he still loved her more than me.”

Jon felt disgusted at the confession; whether because of the intimacy of it, or the rage behind it. He also felt pity, as much as he wished he didn't.

“I do not know which of you I pity most,” his father said, voice filled with sorrow.

The queen seemed almost amused. “Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it.”

“You know what I must do,” he replied gravely.

“Must?” She laughed bitterly. “A true man does what he will, not what he must.” His father frowned, but Cersei continued on despite it. “The realm needs a strong Hand. Joff will not come of age for years. No one wants war again, least of all me.” She turned his meet his eyes, her own green ones turning softer than he'd seen them before. “If friends can turn to enemies, enemies can become friends. Be kind to me, Ned. I swear to you, you shall never regret it.”

“Did you make the same offer to Jon Arryn?” He asked in vague disdain. She slapped him.

“I shall wear that as a badge of honor,” he remarked dryly.

“Honor,” she spat. “How dare you play the noble lord with me! What do you take me for? You've a bastard of your own. Who was his mother, I wonder? Some Dornish peasant you raped while her holdfast burned? A whore? Or was it the grieving sister, the Lady Ashara? She threw herself into the sea, in told. Why was that? For the brother you slew, or the child you stole? Tell me honorable Lord Eddard, how are you any different from Robert or I?”

Jon felt rage boil up inside him in response to her scathing words. How dare she say that to his father! He would never do such a thing as what she was suggesting. His hands itched for his sword, but he knew even if he had it, it would do no good.and the thought frustrated him to no end.

“For a start,” his father said, addressing the queen. “I do not kill children. You would do well to listen my lady. I shall say this only once. When the king returns from his hunt, I intend to lay the truth before him. You must be gone by then. You and your children, all three, and not to Casterly Rock. If I were you, I should take a ship for the Free Cities, or even farther, to the Summer Isles or the Port of Ibben. As far as the winds blow.”

“Exile,” she said. “A bitter cup to drink from.”

“A sweeter cup than your father served Rhaegar’s children,” Lord Stark said, a sharp edge to his tone. “And kinder than you deserve. Your father and your brothers would do well to go with you. Lord Tywin’s gold will buy you comfort and hire swords to keep you safe. You shall need them. I promise you, no matter where you flee, Robert’s wrath will follow you, to the back of beyond if need be.”

Suddenly, Cersei stood and stepped away. “And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?” She asked softly. “You should have taken the realm for yourself. It was there for the taking. Jaime told me how you found him on the Iron Throne the day King’s Landing fell, and made him yield it up. That was your moment. All you needed to do was climb those steps, and sit. Such a mistake.”

“I have made more mistakes than you can possibly imagine,” he said, Jon vaguely wondered what he meant, but didn't dwell on it. “But that was not one of them.”

“Oh, but it was, my lord,” she insisted. “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.”

Chapter Text

Jon waited in his father's chambers anxiously. He had gone to him that morning after his latest vision and asked to speak with him, but he was already meeting with the grand maester Pycelle, so Jon would have to wait. But Jon couldn't wait. Not after what he'd seen. He had spent the night thinking it over best he could, but the nerves in his stomach had made it hard to concentrate. He couldn't stop thinking of what Cersei had said- will say- about his mother.

He knew he shouldn't dwell on something like that, especially when it was said in anger and from someone he very much despised, but he couldn't get it out of his head. It was definitely something he would bring up with father, even though the man brushed it off every time Jon asked. But aside from that, everything else the queen said had felt like a knife to the gut, twisted slowly around for good measure. He didn't like how she had talked about the king, or about his late aunt. The way she did so, it made Jon think she wouldn't be too sorrowful to lose her husband.

Also, what was said between the two implied Cersei most definitely had something to do with Jon Arryn's death, and that he'd known something Cersei hadn't wanted him to before the event. It only made Jon even more nervous about what he and his father were doing, which was attempting to uncover what the last Hand had. But Jon knew that if things went bad, his father would lose his head. A secret worth killing twice for seemed far more serious than he had first assumed.

This whole thing was starting to seem more and more dangerous.

Jon pulled at the pendant around his neck. It had started to become a habit shortly after he got it. It was better than other children who bit their nails or tugged their hair, at least. And he also wouldn't have to worry about polishing it ever again if he kept it up. Of course, the only thing making him do it was nerves. And he would prefer NOT to let those become a constant.

The sound of the door opening jarred him from his thoughts, and he whipped his head towards the entrance to see his father enter the room, holding a large tome in his hands.

"Jon," he said in surprise. "I wouldn't have expected to see you here. Is something wrong?"

"Are you alone?" Was all Jon asked. The warden of the north gave a curt nod, allowing Jon to jump straight in. "I had another vision," Jon blurted. "It was about Cersei, she was talking with you in the godswood and-"

"Sit down, lad," his father said, setting the book down and stepping towards him, face full of worry. Jon nodded and did as he was told. His father sat next to him, and Jon took a deep breath to calm himself before starting again.

"Yesterday, I had another vision. I haven't had one since the night of the welcome feast for the king in Winterfell. But I saw you and the queen talking about king Robert, and how much she hated him. She despised him ever since their wedding night when they were," he made an awkward motion to explain what his words couldn't. "He called her," Jon paused, and in a smaller voice, said, "When he called her Lyanna."

Beside him, his father stiffened, as he always did whenever his dead siblings or father was brought up. Jon didn't like to cause him this pain, but it had to be said. He continued speaking.

"Then she offered you a deal. To forget the quarrel and become her ally. You asked if it was the same offer she made Lord Arryn. And then she slapped you."

Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Lord Stark's eyes narrow in thought. "Are you saying Jon Arryn most certainly knew whatever it was the Lannister's are trying to keep hidden?" He asked. Jon nodded stiffly.

"And Lord Arryn died because of it," Jon said firmly. "In the vision, you offered to let Cersei leave before the king came back from a hunt, and that when he did you would tell him if she had not. But please, I've seen what that woman can do. Do not give her that chance. She will turn and bite you like the venomous creature she is." He took a deep breath, blinking back the emotion that had swelled up in him, refusing to cry in front of his father. "I've seen you beheaded, Father. I don't want to see it again."

There was a long moment of silence between them, wherein Jon could only stare at the floor, unable to meet his father's eyes out of fear for what decision he would see in them. He knew he was a man of honor, and that he'd raised all of his children, Jon included, to be the same. But there were moments when you had to throw honor out in place of something else. Jon just hoped his father would see that this was one of those instances.

"It would not be the honorable thing to do," his father said. Jon felt his stomach sink at the words, and anger flared up in him briefly.

"I don't care if it is!" He shouted, standing up quickly and turning to face the lord of Winterfell. "You haven't seen what I've seen. I won't let things happen the way I've been shown they will."

"Jon-"

"And you haven't always been honorable, so don't wave that banner as though it were truth," Jon spat. "I'm proof of that. You had a wife, a child on the way, and you decided to sleep with some whore anyway." Jon didn't know why he was saying it, he wouldn't before, so why was he now? "You can't claim to do what's honorable as though it were the law and still bring home your bastard to be raised with your trueborn heir. So why does it matter that you refute your damned honor for this one time?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH JON!"

Jon took a step back at the sudden explosion from his father, eyes widened in shock.

"Never speak like that again," his father growled, tone harsher than anything Jon had ever heard from him before. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Jon gulped before speaking, truly frightened. He had never seen his father raise his voice like that, nor been so scared of him before. He was almost sure he would be hit across the face like he had seen Cersei do to him. Jon had hit a nerve, and he knew it. He just hadn't been expecting that reaction.

"Maybe I don't," he finally ground out. "But at least I told you." With that, he turned on his heel, ignoring his father, and stormed out of the room, face burning with anger as he slammed the door behind him.

All throughout dinner, Arya could tell something was bothering her father greatly. Sansa noticed as well, but kept her mouth politely shut, assuming it was something to do with the small council or another affair of the sort. Arya, however, had never seen him this tense after a hard meeting, so she suspected something else was troubling him. But, like her sister, she remained silent.

After dinner, she sought out Jon. Normally they would go and fetch Nymeria and Ghost together after they'd both eaten and take them back to their respective sleeping chambers, but tonight he hadn't met her. So she’d had to retrieve them herself. It was odd.

She wandered around the keep for some time before deciding to head to the training yard, knowing that whenever he was upset he would take his frustration out on a dummy or something of the sort. But instead of finding her brother, she found a raven sitting on an unlit brazier, staring up at her with eyes that seemed far too intelligent for an average bird.

Arya frowned down at the thing, Nymeria and Ghost mimicking her action, both turning to the bird. The only response from it was it blinked up at her.

"What are you looking at?" She asked in a clipped tone.

"No one," it cawed back. Arya was taken aback. She knew ravens could talk, that wasn't what surprised her. It was what it had called her.

"Excuse you," she spat. "I'm not 'no one'." In retrospect, it was silly of her to argue with a bird, but she wasn't thinking of such things when a bird had practically insulted her. "I'm someone."

"No one," it cawed again. "No one."

Arya huffed, glaring down at the bird. "You're just a stupid bird," she sighed, turning away from it. "Why am I even bothering?"

"Brother," it cried at her. "Bran."

"What!" She gasped, whirling around.

The bird blinked back at her again. "Bran. Bird."

"Are you saying Bran's a bird?" She asked in confusion, face twisting into something between a frown and a scowl.

In response, the bird bobbed its head. Arya would have said it was the strangest moment of her life to see, but that moment had already been taken sometime in the past few months. "Bran is recovering from his fall," she argued, feeling stupid for arguing with a raven, but doing so anyway. "He's just woken up," she said, recalling Robb's recent letter to them. "How could he be a bird?" She demanded.

"Now Bran. Not bird."

"He's not a bird now?" She clarified, raising an eyebrow in annoyance at the conversation.

"Not now. Not now," it confirmed.

"If not now, how could you be so sure?" She challenged.

"Me. Me."

Arya was more confused now than she had been before, and that was quite a stretch in and of itself. "You?"

"Bran."

"You... Bran?" She echoed, trying to piece together whatever the deranged bird was trying to say. "You Bran... You're Bran." Arya gasped loudly. "You're Bran!"

Again, the bird bobbed its head, eyes sparkling with intelligence in response to her realization. A moment later though, she felt so incredibly dumb, realizing that a bird was claiming to be her younger brother who was still up in Winterfell. Even though she had seen and experienced strange things lately, that didn't suddenly mean anything was possible. Least of all talking birds claiming to be her kin.

"This is stupid," she hissed, turning away again and starting to march off. "You're just a bird. Not my brother."

As she made her way back inside, she had to call back the two direwolves because they seemed to be enraptured by the strange raven, both looking upon it with something that almost looked like fondness. Arya scoffed, and called for them, making sure they were following before going off in search of Jon again. Before she was out of sight though, she looked over her shoulder once more to catch sight of the bird. But by the time she did, it was gone, leaving an empty brazier behind, as if it had never been there at all.

Chapter Text

Ser Barristan watched as Jon, his new trainee from Lord Stark’s party, hacked away at him in their lesson. It was the first day of their new regime, where the old knight had promised to instruct the boy, and so far, he’d proven himself quite the formidable opponent for a boy of five and ten. He hadn’t spoken much when they’d met earlier to go to a secluded spot to train, seeming to be caught up in his own thoughts. As this went on through the lesson, Ser Barristan was beginning to think it was just the boys nature to brood. He had seemed to do so the other times he had spoken with him. But a nagging thought at the back of his mind told him that wasn’t quite the case. Not this time anyway.

“I yield!” Jon breathed as Ser Barristan’s practice sword found Jon’s throat for the seventh time that hour.

Chuckling in amusement, the knight lowered his blade and offered a hand to Jon. The boy took it gladly and helped himself up off the floor from where Ser Barristan had tripped him.

“That markes seven times I’ve bested you,” the knight said with a teasing smile.

“I almost had you that time,” Jon puffed, not reciprocating the mood of the knight.

“And you would have too, if you’d been watching your stance,” Ser Barristan pointed out, walking over to some stairs to sit down and cool off. He set his practice sword down next time him and wiping the beads of sweat off the nape of his neck and from his brow, feeling how the moisture had dampened his hairline. “I have to say, you are quite good for your age,” he admitted, glancing over at the dark haired boy as he stood over the water barrel nearby and splashed the cool liquid on his face. Then, in afterthought added, “Not that I haven’t said it already.”

“And I thank you again, Ser, for the praise,” Jon responded politely, his mind still seeming to be far away.

“Maybe if you weren’t so distracted you would have done better.”

Jon turned at the comment, a scrunched up look on his face. “I’m not distracted,” he said defensively.

“And I’m not getting old,” the knight sarcastically retorted in light tone. Jon, seeing that the knight wasn’t easily fooled, dropped his gaze and turned back to the water barrel.

“It’s nothing that I’d burden you with at any rate,” he said. “Just personal matters.”

Barristan raised a greying eyebrow in intrigue. “A good knight is able to put aside personal matters for the sake of battle,” he professed.

“I won't be a knight,” Jon said firmly.

Ser Barristan scoffed lightly at his words. “If you’re thinking that because your from the north, than it applies all the same. The only difference between myself and the men up there are a few words and some fancy vows. You don’t have to be a ‘Ser’ to be a knight; after all.”

A small, sad smile showed on Jon’s face in response, but only for a moment, before it slipped back into his dower expression. An expression that reminded him so much of an old friend. A silver haired friend who shared the same melancholy disposition and skill with a sword. The old knight shook himself of these thoughts and focused back onto what was at hand.

“Come, sit.”

Jon looked up curiously at the knight before deciding to go along with it and sat down on the stone steps next to him.

“All men must learn how to put away their own issues and emotions when going into battle,” he started, giving Jon a long look. His grey eyes were off in the distance, but the knight knew he was listening. “And that can be hard. Because it’s very easy to be overwhelmed by every thought or emotion in the moment. But if you do that, you get distracted, and you make mistakes. And any mistake, no matter how small, can mean death.”

Jon looked up at him and considered what he’d said, his face long and drawn with thought. “Can it happen away from the battlefield?” He suddenly asked, his voice low. “With people instead of bannermen?”

Ser Barristan thought on it for a moment, then responded. “Yes, I suppose it could. In fact, I think that’s the most common. But they both happen because someone is protecting something. Whether it be themselves, a treasured item, or most often; for someone they love.”

Something sparked in the boy's dark eyes at those words, as if realizing something important. He frowned, turning to him with a searching gaze. “Truly?” He asked, his tone indicating he hoped it was.

Ser Barristan noted this expression before nodding solemnly. “It’s when people make the most mistakes.” The boy just nodded sullenly in understanding.

He and Ser Barristan lapsed into silence after that. They’d both long since caught their breath, the both of them, but for some reason neither seemed willing to get back up and continue the training. Instead, the old knight let his focus wonder, mind far off in the past when a mistake like the ones he’d just spoken of began a war, all with a simple crown of roses. And why he thought of that specifically, he had a feeling it had to do with the boy sitting next to him.

Suddenly, something caught the knights eye and he looked down to something small and shiny hanging around Jon’s neck.

“That's a fine pendant you have there,” Ser Barristan noted, gesturing to the dragonbone wolf that hung around Jon’s neck.

“Thank you. It was a gift from Lord Stark,” he said.

Ser Barristan raised his eyebrows in wonder. “I didn't think Lord Stark would be one to bestow his squires with such lavish gifts,” he said. Jon immediately flushed at the comment, berating himself for saying as much. No Lord it their right mind would do such a thing unless there was something else at play, such as bribery or favoritism.

“Or perhaps the north is more different than I thought.”

The knight's words made the tension seep out of Jon's shoulders. Perhaps he wouldn't suspect anything after all. “Aye,” Jon agreed readily. “That it is.”

“It's interesting though; that it's a gift from a Stark but made from Targaryen colors,” he commented. Jon frowned and looked down at it again, as if to inspect it. Sure enough, the black bone and garnets were the colors of the old Targaryen house.

“I hadn't even noticed,” he said, shrugging.

“Probably a coincidence,” he replied lightly, but inside he was thinking just the opposite.

Jon had been furious with his father all day and all of the previous day as well. Ever since he had stormed out of the room after shouting at him, and being shouted at; something that had scared him more than he cared to admit. He’d been so frustrated that his father wasn’t listening to him, even when he’d warned him what would happen if he didn’t, and it had hurt. But under the rage, he’d felt confusing and he couldn’t understand why his father had gotten as mad as he had. Overall Jon simply could make sense of anything and it was affecting more more than he’d thought.

But then Ser Barristan had said what he did about mistakes, and for some reason, Jon had thought of his father when he’d said that.

“Can it happen away from the battlefield? With people instead of bannermen?” Jon recalled his question.

“Yes, I suppose it could. In fact, I think that’s the most common type. But they both happen because someone is protecting something. Whether it be themselves, a treasured item, or most often; for someone they love.” The knight had responded. And then, “It’s when people make the most mistakes.”

Jon wondered if it was true.

‘If what he said though applied to father as well,’ he thought to himself as he made his way towards his meet up spot with Arya. ‘Then what’s he protecting if not his honor?’

On all his reflection of the conversation, or rather argument, they’d had, he come to surmise it wasn’t his honor that had Lord Stark so worried. Although it did seem like that on the surface. He’d ordered Jon to drop the subject and his accusations of what he’d done before finally snapping. But it hadn’t been him insulting his honor that caused him to lash out. It was when Jon had berated him for bring home his bastard and still acting like he was above such things. That was when he had snapped.

Jon had never known his father to lash out like that. Not even at the worst of time. He had been reminded of that moment when Ser Barristan had given his speech. Mistakes were only made when trying to protect something you love, and Lord Stark wouldn’t do something like snap at his children like that on purpose. It had been a mistake, a fact Jon had quickly come to understand.

But it still raised the question, if Ser Barristan was right about mistakes, and the fear of losing something, and it wasn’t honor that his father seemed so concerned about, what was he afraid he would lose? What was he protecting that he didn’t want Jon to know, as he had shown last night?

Jon couldn’t imagine what it was for the life of him, and that made him more frustrated than ever.

Chapter Text

Jon had went through what he would say a thousand times by the time he made it up the tower of the Hand, and he still had no idea what to say to his Lord father, even when he was standing at the door. Hesitantly, he raised his fist to knock, only after doing so regretting it. What if his father didn't want to see him? What if he was still mad at him? Was it even appropriate of him to be here?

Before he could change his mind and bolt down the stairs, the door swung open.

It was his father.

"Jon," he said, surprised. Jon took a moment to take him in. He look tired, like he always did whenever he had to deal with tedious squabbles and arguing lords back at Winterfell. Jon almost felt guilty for coming up here to make his day even longer, but he brushed the thought aside.

"My Lord," Jon managed, standing there awkwardly. "Um, may I come in?"

His father looked around the stairwell hall for a moment, as if checking to see they were alone, before nodding and stepping aside to let him through.

Jon walked over the a table and waited for his father to close the door before joining him.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out immediately. "For the other night, I'm sorry for my behavior, it was, I was out of place."

He expected his father to be angry again, like he had been then, but instead he let out a world weary sigh and sat down heavily on a chair.

"There's nothing to forgive," he said in a heavy tone. "You were right."

Jon balked.

"I was?"

His father nodded. "I do abide by my honor, perhaps too much. And if what you say is true, about Cersei and her threats, maybe I should listen."

Jon felt some of the tension that had been tightening inside him for the past two days loosen up. Not much, but enough to let him breathe.

Slowly, he eased himself into his own chair, to be at a more equal level with his father. He thought for a moment of what he wanted to say, choosing his words carefully. "It's not just that I am sorry for," he admitted. Taking his father's silence as an invitation to continue, he did. "What I said about my mother, whoever she was, it was wrong of me. And I apologize for that."

There was a moment of silence after he had finished speaking in which the only sound to be heard was the rustling of the wind in the silk curtains. There was no fire crackling in the hearth as there so often would be back at Winterfell in the evening, as it was now. The heat of the day chased away any desire for that down here. Thus, it made the silence even more stifling.

"I suppose it is my fault as well," his father finally said. Jon looked up, squinting somewhat in confusion. He went on to elaborate. "I've never told you of your mother," he admitted. "And it must only be natural to make assumptions."

Jon felt a flutter of hope and anxiety built up in his chest. Father never mentioned his mother, at least not of his own provocation. Maybe this was the time Jon would learn of her.

"When you left Winterfell, you said 'the next time we see one another, you would tell me about my mother'," he said, testily. The question in his words was left unsaid. But it didn't need to be spoken for his father to hear it.

"Aye, I did," he conceded. "You want to know about your mother."

Jon could only give a small nod in response.

His father sighed and dragged a hand down his face. He seemed even more wary now than he had when he had answered the door moments earlier. Jon almost regretted asking seeing at how much pain it caused him, but not quite. Jon had waited years for answers after all. But the answer he got was not what he had hoped for.

"Not tonight."

Jon barely managed to conceal the scoff he made.

"Why not?" He asked, trying to keep the whine out of his voice so as not to sound like a child. He felt as though it didn't work.

"I promise you, I will Jon. But here, now," he said, looking around the room as if making an example of it. "It's not right." He was met with a confused and frustrated stare. "You will understand," he sighed in defeat.

How could I? Jon thought to himself. You're making less and less sense, Father.

It took great strength for Jon not to shout again, having learned his lesson last time. He's only protecting me, he told himself, remembering what Ser Barristan had told him about mistakes. And you only protect what you love . He truly hoped that was the case.

"Alright," he said, trying not to let his voice betrayed him. "Well, good night My Lord."

His father nodded and watched as Jon left for the door. But right as he was about to grab for the handle, his father voice called out, "I've learned something which might interest you."

Jon paused in front of the door.

"Yes?"

"We talked about it some time ago, but you said we should share information we learn with each other, however trivial it seemed," his father continued. Jon frowned, he wasn' sure that was how the conversation had gone.

"Not in as many words," was all he said, but didn't bother correcting him. News was news, and he was in desperate need for some good news about now. At his father's insistence, he took his seat again.

"As you know, Lord Stannis Baratheon left for Dragonstone not so long ago," he started. "I learned recently that he and Jon Arryn were in close company before Lord Arryn's untimely death." Jon nodded along, showing he was listening. "Now, I've known Lord Arryn and Stannis for quite some time, they do not seem to be likely friends. In fact, I know they weren't. So that made me wonder why they spent so much time together in his final days. So I went digging."

"What did you find?" Jon asked, leaning forward slightly in interest.

"They would meet in brothels."

Jon blinked.

"Brothels?" He asked in disbelief. Maybe he hadn't heard that right.

"Aye, I thought the same," his father said, confirming Jon's thought. "Neither of them are the type of man to frequent such places. In fact, Lord Stannis tried some time ago to outlaw the institution entirely in the city." Then, in afterthought, added, "Obviously it didn't end up going through."

Obviously.

"But," his father continued. Jon sat in rapt attention again. "He also visited an armory. Both places quite strange for a man who had to care or need for either." Jon nodded along in understanding. A man who wasn't interested in whores visiting brothels, as well as being an old lord who had no need for armor visiting armories. The case of Jon Arryn was a very strange one indeed.

"So what did you find?" He asked.

His father looked him up and down before answering, as if measuring him up so he knew how to word his next sentence. "One of Robert Baratheon's bastards."

Jon sat in Arya's room on the floor with Ghosts head draped over his lap. He and his father had talked for some time about why Jon Arryn was meeting with Lord Stannis, and why he was looking for Robert's bastards, but ultimately, they had come to the conclusion that they needed to know more before they decided on anything.

Outside it was growing dark, as it was now evening, and Jon was waiting for Arya to return from supper to talk with her. In his lap, aside from Ghost, rested a large tome that might have been older than the last Targaryen king. Judging by the yellowing pages, new ones must have been added over the years while old ones had been left to rot and decay as maester after maester forgot about its existence until it became needed.

The book was called The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, With Descriptions of Many high Lords and Noble Ladies and Their Children . Lord Stark had given it to him to look over after their conversation about Jon Arryn and Stannis' disappearance with the comment that maybe Jon would find something in there that he could not. Jon had taken it, and immediately regretted doing so. It was a dull read. Just names and dates and descriptions of people who had long since died. This made Jon even more confused about the late Jon Arryn. Why one earth would anyone one in the right mind want to read this book?

Well, Jon thought. He was sick, maybe he hadn't been in his right mind.

That explanation would make this whole thing easier in Jon's opinion, but he had the sneaking suspicion that that wasn't the case.

Flipping to one of the first few pages, he found the Targaryen line. Just from skimming over the names, it seemed that they all purple eyes and silver hair. Jon tried to imagine what a person with those features would look like, but it seemed to strange to him to properly envision. Flipping a few more pages, he found a name he immediately recognized.

Aerys Targaryen. The Mad King.

The man who had burned his grandfather and killed his uncle. Who split the seven kingdoms apart. Hard to believe such a man could exist. But he had. Beneath him were the names of his sons, Rhaegar and Viserys. Jon didn't know much of Viserys, but from the books account he had the classic Targaryen features, as did Rhaegar.

But beneath Rhaegar, he was surprised to find the prince's daughter did not.

Rhaenys Targaryen , it read. Brown eyes, brown of hair .

For some reason that surprised Jon. She was a Targaryen, why wasn't she born with the classic look of one? Well, her mother had been Dornish, but another look at the page told him that Aegon, her younger brother, did have the look. Interesting. He didn't know why, but that bit of information felt important. He remembered how a Targaryen a few generations back had married into the Baratheon family, but none of the following Baratheon's looked remotely Targaryen. Maybe Baratheon blood was stronger. Apparently not strong enough compared to Lannister blood, as all of Robert Baratheon's children were a spitting image of their mother.

Well, Jon thought. Except for Gendry. It surprised Jon to learn he was the son of the king, but after remembering how the man acted, he wasn’t overly shocked. He remembered what his father had told him about his visit to the bastard on the Street of Steel. How Gendry had told him what Jon Arryn had asked him about, which was his mother, what she had looked like, and how he was fairing. Apparently she had looked like Cersei with her golden hair. Which was shocking to Jon because Gendry was the spitting image of a baratheon now that Jon thought back on it. Maybe that had something to do with the book in Jon's hands. Had Jon Arryn been doing research on the Baratheon lineage as a whole? Bastard or not? No, that couldn’t be right. The man was most likely killed. And this wasn’t something that would warrant such a crime. This was much deeper that it appeared to be if the man was dead and Stannis had fled.

Jon frowned to himself in thought. Just what were you up to, old man?

Chapter Text

It was the day of the tourney, and Jon was begging to go.

"No, Jon. Someone could see you," his father said sternly, pacing the room.

"I'm already in danger of that here in the keep," he argued. "I see no difference what being there would make."

"My men will be there, the king will be there, Sansa will be there," he shot back, clearly trying not to let his words sound too harsh. "Someone who doesn't know you're here will recognize you."

"But you're men swore an oath," Jon argued. "And I can avoid Sansa and the King, if he even knows who I am."

"Jon, please, I've done more than enough for you these past weeks," his father said. "Just do this one thing for me," he urged. His words sounded final, so Jon took them that way and decided not to argue the point anymore, not willing to invoke his father's wrath again like he had last time he'd pushed him.

"Alright," he sighed, shoulders slumped. "I won't go."

A deep sigh escaped his father out of relief. "Good."

Jon didn't like lying to his father, he ended up going anyway. Arya had insisted. She said if she had to sit through a tourney, so would he, even if they didn't sit together. Which was how Jon found himself wandering the pitch, trying to find  a good spectator seat, Ghost and Nymeria trailing along behind him.

Arya hadn't been allowed to bring her wolf, so Jon had offered to do so for her. He knew the sight of the beasts brought unwanted attention, but they could still be passed off a dogs from their size. they weren't full grown yet, so it wasn't as if they would truly scare anyone. Yet.

"You beasts look quite familiar," a voice suddenly said. Jon looked up in surprise and was shocked to see the queen standing there in front of him with her usual look of mild disdian plastered on her face. "The young Stark girl has one just like it," she continued, ignoring his gaping expression.

“Your grace,” Jon started, startled by the sudden appearance of the queen. She said nothing in response except looked him over with a somewhat disdained expression, as if he were a puddle of filth she'd stepped in.

“You're Lord Stark’s squire aren't you?” She said, taking note of his appearance. "Is that why you're walking his beasts?" The way she said beasts made Jon want to jump on the defence, but he restrained himself from doing so. Behind him, one of the wolves growled.

“I am, your grace,” he responded politely, although those were far from his feelings towards her.

“Yes. Ser Barristan has told me about you. Says he's seen you in the yard training with the other squires. He claims you're the next Rhaegar Targaryen when it comes to the sword. Maybe even when it comes to the joists, if you joined the lists that is.”

Jon frowned internally, confused as to why the queen was bothering to talk with him. He was certain it wasn't just because a kingsguard had mentioned him most likely in passing. He kept his thoughts to himself though.

“I'm honored by the praise, your grace,” he said. “But Lord Stark has forbidden me from entering them.”

“Pity,” she said, her voice offering no emotion behind the phrase. “I would have loved to see the Silver Prince ride again with a new face. Especially one as pretty as yours.”

The comment made a chill go up Jon’s spine, making him uneasy, but he did his best to hide it. It was moments like these he was grateful he'd adapted the northmen's guarded expression as his default, as rare as they were. He knew that he should respond, but how was he meant to respond to that? Especially when the one giving it seemed to be searching him for any reason make a scathing remark, just like the ones he was holding back.

Luckily he was saved from doing so by Cersei speaking again. “You're a bastard aren't you? A Snow.” Her tone suggested she was almost disgusted by the idea, but Jon couldn't be sure if it wasn't her natural voice or not. She always seemed so bitter.

Jon was silent for a moment before responding. “I am.”

She hummed in thought before replying.

“Tell me,” she said, taking a step closer. “Why would Lord Stark's squire be some northern bastard when there are countless other lords whose boys could have easily taken your place? Wouldn't they feel insulted,” she remarked, her eyes raking over his form as if looking for the truth, whatever that was in her mind. It took all Jon had in him not to make a scathing remark back at her. Insulting the queen would do him no good after all.

“Things are different up in the north,” he finally supplied. “We don't do things like they do down here.”

“But a bastard of some northern slut?” She scoffed, not even trying to vial the bitter mirth in her voice. “I find it hard to believe.”

“I can only say what I know, your grace,” Jon ground out, shoving down the rising anger he felt towards the woman. “I cannot speak for Lord Stark’s reasoning.”

“You know it is treason to lie to your queen,” Cersei said, her green eyes narrowing venomously.

“Aye, it is,” Jon agreed flatly. ‘But you are no queen.’

He held eye contact with her as he thought it, as if it were in defiance. A tense moment passed between the two before she huffed indignantly, picked up her skirts, and walked off. Jon watched as her guards followed after, the tension not leaving his body until they were out of sight.

“You don't seem to take kindly to the queen,” a new voice said from behind him. Jon started and turned around quickly, relaxing when he saw it was only Ser Barristan.

“You saw that,” Jon sighed.

“Yes, I did,” the knight confirmed. “But in your defense she was rather forward.”

“She is the queen,” Jon noted, straining to keep the edge off his voice. “It would be unwise to be rude to her.”

“Good thing you weren't rude then,” the knight said, starting to walk away. He gestured for Jon to follow. “The queen isn't known for her warm disposition. Never has been.”

“Are you sure you should be saying such things?” Jon asked cautiously. He didn't want the knight to get in trouble if anyone overheard.

“If everyone who spoke poorly of the royal family were put in chains, we'd live in a very empty country.” Was all the knight said on the matter. Jon took a moment to quietly appreciate his words before following him to the central jousting tilt.

Banners were strung up all along the lists and rows of seats extended up and along them, providing spectators opportunities to see men try to kill one another is stupid ways. Jon shook his head at the thought.

"You'll be joining Lord Stark in his box, I'd imagine," Ser Barristan said. "Seeing as you're his squire."

"No, I'm just here to watch, Lord Stark doesn't know I'm here," he said, trying to avoid any conflict with his father. He was here against his orders after all, there was no saying what trouble he would get into. "And why would a squire be allowed in the Hands' box?" Jon asked.

"Well, in this heat, men get thirsty," he said easily. Then, giving Jon a knowing smile, said, "And someone has to pour their wine."

"Wonderful," he sighed to himself. Ser Barristan, having heard it, chuckled and gave him a rough clap on the shoulder.

"Cheer up lad, many boys your age would be scrambling for that position. You should consider yourself lucky."

"I suppose I'm not like other boys then," he responded. Ser Barristan found that response amusing as well.

"Always so dower," he laughed to himself. Then, "Come then, let us find you a spectator's seat if you're so against sitting with your lord."

Jon rolled his eyes, but followed the knight anyways.

Just as the tilt came into view, a splitting pain erupted in Jon's head, causing him to double over in a cry of surprise and pain.

"Jon, are you alright?" He heard Ser Barristan cry out. But Jon wasn't listening.

'Not now,' he thought to himself. 'Not here!'

But despite his wishes, the pain only increased until he knew he would soon be overwhelmed and fall into another of his damnable visions. He had to get out of there fast. If people saw, they would question, or notice him. And neither of those was something Jon wanted.

"Ser Barristan," he gasped, clutched the man's arm as if it were a lifeline. "I need to get out of-" but before he could finish, his mind was swept away.

He stood on an icy tundra, wind whipping around and blowing his hair in front of his eyes and around his face. He knew that if he were actually there, he would have been frozen to the bone, but luckily, since it was a vision, he wasn't.

He looked around, trying to find why he would be shown this of all places. All his eyes found was the horizon made of craggy rocks, ice, and snow. Turning around though, he was met with a very different view.

Jon screamed.

White walkers, or as near as he could tell from all the stories he'd heard.

A giant army of dead and decaying men sprawled out before him, stretching farther than he could see. They wore furs, like wildlings, or nothing at all. Some had bones protruding from their withering frames, while others looked nearly alive, save for the empty, bright blue eyes and expressionless faces. All of them carried weapons of some sort, Some even rode horses. And all made a horrible chittering sound like ice cracking beneath his feet. it was terrifying.

"You have to stop it," a voice beside him said. He whirled around to see who had spoken.

It was a boy around his age wearing leathers, looking directly at him. How had he gotten here? Jon hadn't seen him before, and a boy dressed like that surely couldn't have survived in this wasteland long enough to be standing here with him, could he? And wait, could he see him?

"Yes, I can see you," the boy said. Jon took a step back in shock. "You have to stop it Jon," the boy said again. " All of it. If you don't, they will march south and destroy all of us. Please, Jon."

Jon couldn't comprehend that the boy could see him, let alone what he was saying.

"Stop what?" He asked dumbly.

"Everything!" the boy insisted. "The beheading, the war, the red wedding, all of it!"

He was so sincere, so scared, Jon couldn't help but wonder what this boy had seen.

"Who are you?" He asked, still bewildered by him.

The boy just sighed sadly, as if defeated. "You already know," he said.

Jon frowned. How would he know? How was he supposed to stop this, what it was. How was he supposed to do anything? Who was this boy and how did he know who he was? Jon meant to ask all those things, but he never got the chance, because all too soon was he dragged back to the world of the living.

Chapter Text

Ser Barristan didn't know what to do. Jon had cried out in pain, clutching his head, and then collapsed without any warning. He'd managed to catch the boy before he'd hit the ground, but it was still quite alarming to the knight.

"Jon, Jon?" He tried, hoping that would wake the boy. But his head merely lolled to the side, dark hair spilling across his brow. What had just happened? He'd seemed fine moments ago, there was nothing to suggest he was feeling unwell, and no sign of injury either.

What had he said just before collapsing? He'd needed to get out of... He was probably going to say "here", meaning he most likely didn't want to make a scene. If that was his last thought before collapsing, Barristan wondered, how often did this happen? it was worrying, but he pushed the emotion away to ponder on later. Right now he had to figure out how to help him. Deciding on his next course of action, Ser Barristan picking him up and made towards his own tent. If Jon wanted to be out of the way, that was as good as he could get. He just had to avoid making a scene. It wasn't everyday a kingsguard was seen carrying an unconscious squire around, after all. People would talk.

Luckily, he made it to his tent without too many people noticing. He immediately laid Jon down on his cot and tried to make him as comfortable as he could so that when he woke up he wouldn't have a sore neck or back. Barristan knew from experience that neither of those were fun to wake up to, especially now in his old age.

Something bumped his leg and he looked down in surprise to find the dogs Jon was walking looking up at him with what could almost be worry. Barristan had almost completely forgotten about them in all the hassle.

The white one looked up at him with its large eyes eyes and then to Jon, before back to him again, as if asking if his master would be ok. Barristan had no words for the beast.

Instead, the old knight sat down tiredly on one of the few chairs, sighing as he looked over at Jon, who hadn't moved an inch since he'd put him down. Worry bubbled up in his chest again, and he found himself thinking about what he should do if he didn't wake up soon. What if he'd been poisoned? Maybe that was why he'd collapsed. If that was the case, he should have taken him straight to a maester. But no... that didn't seem right. Jon hadn't seemed alarmed or surprised by whatever it was that had taken him so quickly, just scared. But not scared for his life. There hadn't been any panic in the boy's expression. Barristan had lived long enough to recognize it immediately.

He was surprised though by how much he cared about the boy. Here he sat, worrying over a squire that wasn't even his, and to bring him here, to his own tent, and to look after him himself, it wasn't something he would have done normally. He could have easily gotten one of the silent sisters, or even a maester. They were far more qualified to look after him. But for some reason, that didn't feel right to Barristan. And that troubled him more than he cared to admit.

Perhaps it was because the boy reminded him of an old friend. A friend who had the same brooding expression on his face at all times. Who cared for those he loved, and only wanted the best for everyone, regardless if he really knew them. A friend who could best him with a lance or a sword, like this boy would surely be able to do one day.

But no, those could only be coincidences, he thought to himself. Or he was seeing things that weren’t there, wishing they were. But it all made sense, and Barristan vowed that after this was over, he was going to have a long talk with Lord Stark about this boy. This boy who claimed to be his squire. But Ser Barristan wasn’t stupid enough to believe that mummer's farce.

But right now, there wasn’t much he could do, for his curiosity or for the boy. He couldn’t only wait until he woke up, whenever that would be.

Suddenly, Ser Barristan had an idea. Perhaps there was someone who knew something about whatever it was Jon just experienced. And he knew exactly where to find that person.

Ser Barristan found Ned Stark in his box looking rather uncomfortable as he watched the tourney. 'Surely he won't be missing much,' the knight thought to himself as he squeezed into the stands.

"My Lord," he said, leaning over Lord Stark's shoulder. "Would you come with me?" He seemed confused at first, but obliged. Perhaps the look in Ser Barristan's eye persuaded him. So he said a quick goodbye to his daughters and followed the knight out of the stands.

"What is the matter, Lord Commander?" He asked, stepping out onto the path with him.

"Your squire," was all he said.

Instead of waking up, Jon found himself in another dream. Though in this one, he wasn't watching some event take place, or learn some vital information. No, this time he found himself rather close to the ground, staring at- himself?

Jon frowned, what was going on?

Jon could see his body laying on a cot in what looked like a tent. But Jon himself was standing off to the side, or perhaps he was sitting. He was rather close to the ground, Although it didn't feel like he was sitting. Whatever was going on, it was quite strange.

Sudden voices interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see his father, Lord Stark, and Ser Barristan enter the tent, both looking rather worn with worry etched into their features. Jon could hear his father's heart beating rapidly in his chest, and could smell the nerves coming off him.

"You say he just collapsed on you?" His father asked, stopping by the cot and leaning down to check on Jon's body.

"Yes," Barristan said. "Although he cried out in pain first, like someone had injured him." Oddly, that seemed to calm his father. He heaved a sigh of relief and sank a little where he knelt.

"Then I know what it is," he said.

Jon watched from below as Barristan squinted his eyes in confusion, lights tightening into a thin line. There was silence for a moment as his father fussed over his body- a thought Jon was still having trouble getting used to- before the knight finally spoke.

"You care about your squire quite a bit, don't you," he mused. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw his father stiffen.

"Aye, what of it?" He asked coolly.

Barristan attempted a mindless shrug. "I only comment because most lords ignore their squires."

"Well I'm not most lords," his father replied, a hard edge to his voice. Jon titled his head in surprise.

"Clearly," Ser Barristan sidled.

Jon, not wanting the conversation to escalate, walked up to his father, hoping to comfort him in some way. The man noticed and smiled, patting him on the head.

"Hello Ghost," he said.

Jon woke with a jolt. And immediately there was a hand helping him up. It was his father, who was leaning over him. Just as he had seen him doing in the dream. And there was Barristan, standing by the tent flap, exactly like in the dream. And there, by the cot, just where Jon had been, was Ghost. Red eyes staring up at him.

Had Jon just seen through Ghost's eyes?

"Jon? Are you alright?" Jon was dragged away from his thoughts by his father, who was staring intently at him, as if expecting something.

"I'm fine," he gasped, still trying to come to terms with what he'd seen through his direwolf's eyes. What was that called again? He'd read it in the book Arya had lent him. Was it warging? Perhaps, but Jon would need to check to make sure.

"Are you certain?" Ser Barristan cut in, now in Jon's line of vision. What had they been talking about again Oh right, him collapsing like a girl who'd seen blood. Not embarrassing for him at all. The thought made his face flush red.

"Yes, I am," he nodded. He looked to father, trying to convey that they needed to speak without Barristan around. But he felt he didn't get the message.

"What were you doing here Jon?" His father exclaimed. "I told you not to come here."

Jon blinked. Why was his father angry at him? Oh, he'd said not to go to the tourney. And here he was. "Uh," he tried.

His father let out a large sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I think we should have this conversation back at the keep," he sighed. Jon couldn't agree more.

"Ser Barristan," his father continued. "Would you excuse us?"

The lord commander of the king's guard gave them a long look before agreeing, leaving the tent and giving them the privacy they needed for Jon to speak with Lord Stark.

Once he was sure the knight was out of hearing range, he turned to his father, who was giving him an expectant look again. "What did you see this time?" He asked.

Jon opened his mouth and began.

Chapter Text

Jon was sitting watching the feast from afar. The king seemed to be having a row with some of the Lannisters and was flirting with other women as usual. Jon could see Sansa and Joffrey speaking, and felt vaguely protective and angry at the sight. He couldn't quite place it, but something about Joffrey, it didn't sit well with him. After speaking with his father, Lord Stark had said he should go back to the keep and rest. Jon however had different ideas. After that last vision, he didn't think he could get any sleep or even think of relaxing for a long time. The sight of all those wights and white walkers chilled him to the bone- no pun intended. And he couldn't get the image of that boy out of his head. He seemed so familiar. Jon felt as though he should know him, or at least recognize him. But nothing had come to mind. And it infuriated him. Hence why he was sitting there, away from everyone else, a pitcher of wine at his feet and a full goblet in his hand.

Taking a sip from his goblet, Jon thought back to the conversation he'd had just before his father had left to return to the tourney.

“Lord Stark,” he'd started. “Why did you forbid me from coming here?”

It was a valid question, Jon thought. One he couldn't imagine an answer to. The only plausible explanation being he might have run into Sansa and she would expose him. Though what that would actually do to him he couldn't think of. It wasn't like he was under cover. It would just look strange to an outsider. Or he would be ridiculed. But Jon could probably take it. Theon had given him loads of practice.

A faraway look passed over his father's face at his question, grey eyes turning stormy.

“Call me overly cautious,” he said. “Starks and tourneys don't seem to mix. Not in my experience.” Jon frowned at the answer, but didn't push. His father seemed upset by the question, and he didn't want to push further. Even if it confused him.

Jon took another drink from his goblet, shaking off the feeling he'd gotten from the conversation. Unease. He couldn't explain why, but something about his father, the look in his eyes. There was something he wasn't telling him. But for the life of him, Jon couldn't figure out what it was, or why.

“Trying to get drunk?” A voice said behind him. Turning around, Jon saw a boy around his age, probably older, standing there with his own goblet. He was wearing rich clothing and had long golden curls that gleamed in the torchlight. Definitely a nobleman's son.

“Maybe,” he said, eyeing him warily.

“Forgive me,” The boy said, noticing Jon’s cold disposition. “I'm Ser Loras of house Tyrell. I had assumed you would have recognized me from the jousts today.”

Jon frowned. “And why’s that?”

“Well, because of the Mountain,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I was the only one to beat him. It caused quite a stir.” He chuckled slightly at the memory, whatever it was, before turning back to Jon. “Anyways, I'm sorry I interrupted your evening. I had only hoped to speak with someone my age.” Then, with a scowl, “All the other knights are far older than I.”

Jon huffed a laugh. “I know how you feel.”

Loras raised an inquisitive blonde eyebrow. “You do?”

“Aye, I'm Lord Stark’s squire. I'm rarely around others my age. It does get tiring.”

A thoughtful look lit up Loras’ expressions “How about this,” he said. “We go out to a tavern, one I know squires frequent, and get thoroughly drunk.” He smiled. “What say you to that?”

Jon gave it a moment's thought. He barely knew this boy, but he seemed nice enough. And he had a certain charm to him, a charisma if you would. And Jon did like the idea of getting drunk. He'd never done so before, but he heard from others that it made forgetting your problems easier. And how he wanted to forget his issues.

Jon found himself smiling at the young knight. “Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

And that was how they found themselves in some tavern back in the city near the red keep. It was packed with young people like himself all of whom had been at the tourney that day. There was singing, shouting, drinking games, and overall rowdiness. Jon found himself participating in quite a few of those activities, having more fun the more drink he had in him.

Ser Loras had offered to pay for all their drinks, having a fair bit of coin being the son of a major house. Jon wasn't about to stop him. It was around their sixth (seventh?) that found them at a table with a bunch of other squires, complaining about their lords.

“I'm telling you,” one said. “Yon Royce, fat fucker. I'm amazed he can get into that magic bronze breast plate at all.”

The table burst into a round of laughter.

“I mean it!”

“I'm sure you do,” Loras laughed, wiping his eyes of tears. His face was flushed bright red and he seemed to be giggling at everything. That and winking at Jon every other second, though the boy was oblivious to it.

“Alright then, what does your lord do that annoys you?” The squire challenged.

“Nothing,” Loras smirked. “I'm already a knight.”

The table burst into loud protests, all proclaiming he was too young, too pretty, or too rich to be a knight. Eventually the mayhem died down and they were back to their original topic. Now it was a different boy, younger than the first, speaking.

“I don't mind my lord much, if I'm being honest,” he said, taking a large swig of his ale. “But that Joffrey, I hate him.”

“What, the crowned prince?” Another asked.

“Yeah, my lord teaches him, so I have to be there during their lessons. Right prick, that one. Can barely use a sword.”

“I thought the son of King Robert would excel at combat,” Jon mused, causing the squire to scoff.

“One would think that,” he conceded. “But I swear, it's as if he hasn't got a drop of Baratheon in him. No, Joffrey’s all lion I say. Act’s like one too.”

Not a drop of Baratheon in him. All lion.

For some reason the word struck a cord in Jon, pulling him out of his drunken stupor.

All lion.

Green eyes, golden hair. Come to think of it, he was an exact copy of his uncle Jaime Lannister. Whereas Gendry Waters looked like what Robert had in his youth. So he was told. Infact, all the Baratheons aside from the royal family had those traits. At least, all of those alive did. He suddenly had an idea, but he had to check to make sure.

“I have to go,” he said, standing up abruptly, falling slightly before catching himself on the table. How much had he had to drink?

“What, why?” Loras moaned, put out.

“I just remembered something,” he lied. “Sorry.”

Loras’ looked crestfallen, but he didn't stop him. Jon took that as his cue to leave. Which he did. He had to get back to the red keep, to that old tome he had stashed away in Arya’s room. The one with all the descriptions of everyone born into any great house.

Somehow, he made it back to the keep without falling onto the ground, a danger he hadn’t foreseen upon leaving the tavern. He made it up the tower of the hand, knowing Arya would be back by now with the direwolves, whom he had sent off to her before going to the tavern. Reaching her door, he gave himself pause before knocking, the world starting to spin uncomfortable. He’d definitely had too much ale.

He knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times-

“What!?”

The door swung open to reveal a bleary eyed, annoyed, Arya. She was dressed in her sleeping gown, and her hair was more mussed than usual. Clearly he had woken her.

“I’m sorry Arya, but I need that book.”

“What book?” She asked, frowning.

“The one with the names,” he said, trying to think through his foggy mind. He was leaning heavily against the doorway, swaying slightly as he tried to keep himself upright. “The house names,” he finally managed.

Arya’s frown deepened, and she scowled up at him. A long moment passed where neither said anything, until, “Are you drunk?” She asked accusingly.

A pause. “No.”

“Seven hells,” she sighed. “Fine, just get it quickly, I want to go back to sleep.”

Jon thanked her and rushed into the room, looking around for where he stashed the book. He would make it up to her later. Perhaps when he was more sober. He was about to look on top of a table when he tripped over his own feet, embarrassingly enough, and landed face first on the cool floor.

“Ow,” he moaned. He received no sympathies from Arya.

“It’s your own damn fault,” she sidled. Jon couldn’t disagree. He shifted to get up, but stopped when his eyes landed on what he was searching for, under the bed.

“Found it!” He cried, reaching for it and pulling it out.

“Great, now can you please tell me why you need it so badly?” Arya sighed, hopping up onto her bed, sitting cross legged while watching Jon flip through the pages.

“I think I figured it out,” he said.

“Figured what out?” She asked. “There’s a lot of things to figure out right now.”

“Cersei,” he said. “I remember, I saw her talking with someone about Robert in one of my dream, vision, things. I think she wanted to kill him. I just never knew why.” He found the page about the Baratheons. “And we know she’s killed someone over her secret, the only question was, what secret is so dangerous you have to kill one of the most powerful people in the seven kingdoms over?” Blue eyes, black of hair, the entries read, over and over again.

“So, what is it?” Arya pressed.

“Here,” Jon pointed to the latest Baratheon entries. Under Robert there was a name he didn’t recognise, but knew it had been Robert’s and Cersei’s child, but had died. Beside the name were the words ‘blue eyes, black of hair’. Then, under that one, was Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. All with the words ‘green eyes, blonde of hair’.

“Robert’s not their father,” Jon told her. “They’re all bastards.”

Arya’s brows pulled close together, her frown reapering on her face. “If they’re not the kings, then whose are they?”

“That’s the bad part,” Jon said, turning to her. “They’re Jaime’s.”

Chapter Text

Jon had heard from older men before that the morning after one had gotten drunk was never fun. He didn’t know how right they had been. His head was throbbing in time with his pulse, and his stomach felt as though it were doing one of Sansa’s fancy dances, twisting and tugging around in his belly uncomfortably. Perhaps agreeing to Loras’ idea hadn’t been in his best interest. But then, if he hadn’t, he might not have discovered Cersei’s awful secret. A secret which he didn’t know how to find evidence for.

It was a lucky guess in its own right that he knew Jaime was the father. He’d just had to put vague clues together to come to that conclusion. How he’d done it while drunk though was a mystery on its own. But he wasn’t complaining. Well, not about that.

“Let me guess, fun night last night?” His squire friend, Alec said, coming up behind him. Jon was sitting in front of his morning meal nursing his head, pointedly not eating anything. Instead of responding with words, Jon simply let out a low groan.

“Well, I guess you can’t be a man without getting drunk at least once,” the other boy mused humorously.

“I never want to get drunk again,” Jon moaned.

“You say that now,” Alec retorted. “Just you wait.”

Jon sincerely hoped he was joking.

“But anyways,” he said. “Did you see the tourney yesterday?”

Jon shrugged. “Not really,” he admitted.

“Oh, you missed out on quite a bit. The Mountain sent a lance through this one knight's neck, killing him on the spot, only to be defeated by the knight of flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell.”

He hadn’t been joking then , Jon mused, thinking back to when Loras had been boasting about his victory of the day.

“And on that note, if you’re looking for Ser Barristan today, he’s been keeping vigil for that poor knight all night. Probably won't be around till later, so no training for you until then.” Jon made a mental note of that and tucked it away for later. Preferably when he didn’t feel like he’d throw up.

“You know I’m not his squire,” Jon said. “I don’t have to train with him.”

Alec rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Please,” he sighed. “He might as well be. It’s not often the lord commander of the kingsguard offers up to time to work with a squire. It’s nearly unheard of.”

Jon found he couldn’t exactly argue with that, and decided to hold his tongue on any retort he could have made. Alec made a good point. In fact, it retrospect, Jon didn’t really understand why the knight was so invested in him. He’d said it was because he was a gifted swordsman. Perhaps that was why, but there were other talented squires in the keep. Not nearly as talented as Jon, but he was sure Ser Barristan had noticed at least one of them over all his long years here.

“Anyways,” Alec said, realizing he wasn’t going to get a response from Jon. “The tourney is still going on today, will be for the rest of the week I hear. Are you planning on going?”

Jon shook his head, an action he immediately regretted doing. Alec snorted watching his friend suffer. “Perhaps you should find a healer,” he suggested. “They might have something for that headache.”

“If you suggest milk of the poppy I will strangle you,” Jon bit out, much to Alec’s apparent amusement.

“Fine, don’t take my seasoned advice,” he said. “I’ll just go eat my wonderfully greasy sausage somewhere else.”

This time the urge to throw up couldn’t be contained, and Jon ran off to find somewhere private, the sound of Alec’s cackles echoing behind him.

It was later in the day when Jon was finally able to speak with his father. After that morning's escapades, he decided to stay in bed until he felt better. Which, after a few hours, worked. It was well past midday now, with the sun turning to a more soft, golden color in the blue sky. Jon nodded to the Stark men he knew as he climbed the tower of the Hand, knowing his father would be in his chambers after conversing with a few servants. He made a pit stop at Arya’s room to grab the book before he went on.

Standing outside the Hands apartments, he knocked on the door, nervous energy fluttering inside him like a bird. He hadn’t felt so nervous last night when he’d figured it out. Then again, the only thing he could remember feeling was dizzy.

After a long few moments, the door opened to his father's haggard face. He looked awful, probably from dealing with the council and anything else the Hand of the King had to deal with. As if his father wasn’t aged enough by his usual duties, Jon thought to himself.

“Jon,” he said, surprise coloring his tone. “Is something the matter?”

Jon swallowed his nerves and held up the book in his hands. “I think I know why Jon Arryn needed this,” he said. “And why he was so interested in Robert's bastards.”

Lord Stark ushered him in without another word.

Jon quickly got to the point.

“I know why Cersei killed Jon Arryn,” he said quickly. Not waiting for his father's response, he barreled on. “Her children are all bastards. Jaime’s bastards. None of them have any claim to the throne. And Jon Arryn either found out or was about to find out when she killed him.”

Ned Stark just stood there in the wake of Jon’s revelation, blinking owlishly.

“How can you be sure?” He asked in a heavy voice. “That’s quite an accusation.

Jon swallowed, not sure how to convince him. The best he could do was try, though. “I was out last night with some of the other squires,” he started. “And we were talking and then one of them said Joffrey was nothing like his father. Like he wasn’t even Baratheon. I don’t know how but for some reason I understood then. I understood Joffrey isn’t a Baratheon at all. None of Cersei’s children are.”

“How?”

It was a valid question.

“You said Gendry’s mother looked like Cersei, correct?” Jon asked. Ned nodded in conformation. “Then why does he not have blonde hair like her? Why do all of Robert’s bastards have his look, but not his trueborn children?”

His words brought about an eerie silence in the room, so thick he felt he could cut it with Frostfang.

“The seed is strong,” Lord Stark finally murmured. Jon frowned, ignorant of its meaning. Seeing his expression, he elaborated. “Those were Jon Arryn’s last words. He kept saying them on his deathbed. For the life of me I could not understand what he meant, but now I suppose I do.”

“And?” Jon pressed.

“The Baratheon seed, the black hair and blue eyes,” he explained. “No matter what it always prevailed. Jon Arryn must have known this. And since All of Cersei's children look like her...” He didn't need to finish the thought for Jon to get the image. He felt disgust roll in his stomach.

“You can’t tell Cersei,” Jon said, thoughts already turning towards the icy queen.

“I know, I remember your warning, even if at the time I didn’t listen.” Faint relief flowed through Jon at his words, but it was short lived.

“How can we prove it though?” He asked. “We have nothing solid, just our word.”

“My word as a Stark is very strong,” his father mused. “But against the queen of the seven kingdoms, I’m not so sure. And finding someone who would listen, and believe. It would be a hard task to do.”

Frustration boiled through Jon. They had just figured it out! The one thing he had come south to do. And they were no closer to helping anyone with it. This was the reason the Lannisters had pushed Bran out of the tower, the reason Jon Arryn was dead, and the reason his father might die. And there was nothing they could do! He was not going to let the people who had destroyed their family, and might destroy it further, walk free. Something had to be done.

“Could we tell Robert?” He wondered. “Would he believe you?”

A brief flash of panic flitted across Ned’s face at the suggestion. “I suppose,” he conceded. “But I would not risk it. Robert would kill them. All of them. And they do not deserve that.”

The image of dead children wrapped in Lannister cloaks flashed through Jon’s mind, and he couldn’t help but agree with his father. Even if he didn’t want to.

“So what do we do?” He asked, now a hint of desperation in his tone.

A weary sigh escaped Lord Stark, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, grey eyes shut tight in thought. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

The next day, the King was pronounced ill. Just like Jon Arryn.

It was completely unexpected, and quite a shock to the kingdom. It was a shock to Jon though for a different reason. He knew the Lannisters wanted Robert off the throne, but to act so quickly, so suddenly? Something had changed. Something bad.

“Someone’s getting nervous,” Jon muttered to Arya, sitting across from her on the floor of her chambers. Ghost and Nymeria sat with them, each pressed against their respective owners, tired after their long night of playing in the godswood. Jon knew that because he’d dreamed of it again. Something he was starting to understand was called warging. He hadn’t told anyone yet though, it wasn’t relevant.

“Do you think it’s Cersei?” Arya asked, fingers combing through Nymeria’s soft fur. Jon shrugged.

“Perhaps,” he said. “There’s no love lost between the two. But it would be suspicious. Lord Arryn died of sickness and then so soon after, so does the king? No one would think it a coincidence.”

Arya nodded along with what he said, eyebrows furrowed in the way they did when she was thinking.

“Well, would you like to hear some good news?” She asked, changing the topic.

“Sure,” he nodded, adjusting where he sat to be more attentive to her.

“Well, a few days ago, father caught me sneaking out with Needle to practice,” she started, causing Jon to frown. “Before you say anything,” she cut in, watching him open his mouth to protest how in the seven hells that was good knews. “He said he was fine with it. And I didn’t tell him you were the one to give it to me.”

Jon scoffed. “You didn’t have to tell him for him to know.”

“Anyway,” she rolled her eyes. “He said I didn’t have to stop if I didn’t want to, and that he’d get a proper tutor for me. I’ve been training with him for a week now.”

Jon, despite his prior dower emotions, felt his face split into a large grin. “That’s wonderful, Arya,” he said. “Now you really can stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Arya rolled her eyes and smacked his shoulder playfully. Jon laughed good naturedly and reached over to muss her hair.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” he smiled. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, blushing.

“But remember what I told you when I first gave you Needle.”

Arya smirked a wolfish grin, and they spoke in unison like they always had

“Stab ‘em with the pointy end.”

“Yield!”

Jon smiled as he lowered his practice sword, wiping sweat away from his brow.

“That’s twice today I’ve bested you,” he said, watching as Ser Barristan set his own sword down and moved to the stone steps at the edge of the yard, sitting down to take a break.

“Aye, it is,” he agreed, breathing heavily. “It seems my age is finally catching up to me.”

“Or that my training is starting to pay off.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “That too.” He paused to take a breather. “If you keep this up, you might be the next best swordsman in the seven kingdoms. Like the sword of the morning, or Prince Rhaegar.” It was only after he said it did Ser Barristan realize what he'd done. He glanced over at Jon quickly, gagging his reaction.

“My apologies,” he said. “I forgot myself for a moment.”

Jon shook his head, dismissing him. “It's fine. By all accounts he was a good fighter.”

Ser Barristan let out a hearty laugh. “Beyond good. Bested me more times than I care to admit.”

Jon considered him for a moment. Ser Barristan was a good judge of character. If he trusted someone, Jon knew he had good reason to. He must have trusted and admired Rhaegar White a bit. The thought made him curious.

“Can you tell me about him?” Jon asked. Ser Barristan looked surprised, but pleasantly so.

“I can,” the knight said. “Is there anything specific you wish to know?” Jon shrugged. “Alright then,” he started. “He was a lot like you, actually. Quiet, with a sadness about him that never really went away.”

“I'm not sad,” Jon argued.

Ignoring him, Barristan continued. “He was also very skilled with a sword, as you are. But he hated violence.”

Jon frowned, surprised. “But he was one of the best swordsman alive, then,” he commented, remembering the tails of his battles.

“Aye, that he was,” Barristan agreed. “But that didn't mean he liked it. His true passions were actually books and singing.”

“Singing?” He asked, bemused. He had never heard that about the silver prince before. Then again, he’d barely heard anything about him before.

“Believe it or not, yes. He would often time drag me out to the city so he could perform for the people. I was there so he wouldn't be killed. He loved doing it.”

“I've only ever heard of what he'd done to Lady Lyanna,” Jon mused, wondering if those tales were even true. She had birthed him a child after all. He didn't know the circumstances, but from what Ser Barristan was telling him, it didn't seem to be as awful as everyone claimed it was.

A sigh escaped the lord commander, a dark look passing over his face. “I knew Rhaegar well, but when it came to matters of the heart, I'm afraid I am quite ignorant.”

“You don’t believe what they say about him, do you,” Jon noted, searching him. Jon could confidently say he was good at reading people, and this was one of those moments where it came in handy. He could tell the old knight had respected the prince. Whenever he spoke of him, it was never with malice or regret. And the twinkle in his eyes told him he had fond memories of their time together, all those years ago. It wasn’t something hard to see.

A heavy sigh escaped the knight, and he looked down in shame. “No, I do not,” he admitted. “And I never will. What Robert said about him, all those horrible things that made him out to be a monster, I didn’t believe them then and I won’t know. It simply wasn’t the type of person Rhaegar was.”

“What kind was he, then?” Jon asked.

“He was kind, loving,” Barristan mused. “He cared for the people, loved seeing them happy. Often times he would go out of his way to do so.” He paused. “He was nothing like his father.”

Nothing like the Mad King Aerys, Jon mused, who burnt people alive for the pleasure it gave him. Who burnt his grandfather and killed his uncle. Not much of a leap to be a better man. But the way Ser Barristan spoke of him, the love in his voice. It made him question whether or not Lyanna had been kidnapped by him, or run away with him.

He didn’t know much about his aunt. But she was a lady, and lady’s loved sweet, pretty things. Things like songs and poetry, which Rhaegar apparently loved making. It wouldn’t be a far cry to say she might have fallen for his charm.

Jon didn’t know what to make of that.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” Jon said. “For telling me about him.”

“Of course,” the knight replied, getting up from his seat and grabbing his practice sword, motioning for Jon to do the same. “Now let’s run that drill one more time to make sure you have it.

Jon was returning to his quarters with Ghost that night when the pain erupted in his skull. At this point it was more of an annoyance than it was shocking. That didn’t cancel out how painful it was though, and in turn he couldn’t help the cry of pain that escaped him. Then he was sucked into whatever it was he was about to see.

Instead of opening his eyes to a scene, where anyone there was oblivious to his existence, he stood facing a boy standing in front of a weirwood. Actually, it was the weirwood at Winterfell. But the entire godswood was covered in snow. It was winter. Something that hadn’t happened for a long time. And the boy was looking at him. Right at him.

He could see him.

Wait, he was the same boy from his last vision. The one with the white walkers. And he was so familiar. His auburn locks, blue eyes... Jon's eyes widened in realisation.

“Bran?”

The boy offered a small nod in response.

Jon was taken aback. This boy, this strange boy who was standing and talking with him, was his crippled brother. His brother who was still in Winterfell, years younger than him. How could this be possible?

“How?” He finally managed.

Bran was silent for a moment before speaking. “When father died, Robb called the banners and went south. I was acting lord of Winterfell. But then Theon betrayed us and we were forced to go north. Past the Wall I met the three eyed raven. A greenseer who helped me understand my powers as a warg and as the future three eyed raven.

“I learned everything,” he continued. “About the past, the present, and the future. But also how to manipulate the past.”

Jon frowned in confusion.

“Hodor wasn't always a simpleton,” he said cryptically. At first Jon didn't understand, his furrowed brow only deepening in growing confusion. Then something clicked in his mind, and realization struck him hard.

“You did something to him,” he breathed. “You were looking at the past and you did something.”

“I was watching father leave for the Vale, but in the present we were being attacked by the white walkers. So I warged into Hodor. But as I was still in the past, that Hodor felt it too.” He paused, looking down in what could have passed as guilt. It was hard to tell. “I changed him. I changed the past with my actions.”

Jon shook his head. “But Hodor’s always been that way,” he argued. “You didn't do anything to him, Bran.”

Bran merely shook his head dismissively. “You weren't there. You don't know what happened.”

Jon watched him curiously, not knowing what to say. This boy was very different from the Bran he'd left behind in the north. His usual adventures nature had seemed to have long since abandoned him. Bright Tully blue eyes almost lifeless and face nearly void of expression. What could have happened to him in those few years? How could this be Bran? Jon could hardly recognize him.

“You said you learned how to manipulate the past,” Jon said, breaking the silence. Bran looked up and met his gaze with a level one of his own. “How have you been doing that?”

“Isn't it obvious?” He asked in a cool tone. “Surely you knew your visions were coming from somewhere.”

Jon balked.

“You were sending them?” He asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” he answered. “I've been trying to communicate with you for some time now. But it's been hard.”

“How so,” he asked, intrigued.

“Warging and greenseeing are one thing. I've never done anything like this before. It's proved to be a challenge, and as such, I can only hold it for a certain amount of time.” Was his response.

“And I’m the one you chose to show these visions to?” Jon challenged, frustration and anger suddenly flaring inside him. “Me, a bastard, with nothing to prove or gain? With no way to really change anything or have any say in the wars to come?”

“That's not true,” Bran said.

“I have nothing,” Jon pressed. “Don't you see? I'm just some boy who happens to be the son of a lord. A lord who has far more influence than me. So if you had been sending your damned visions to anyone, it should have been father.”

“There are things you don't understand,” Bran said. “Things about your past, about your future.”

Jon scowled. Bran was making less and less sense. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Bran gave him a long, steady look, expression giving nothing away. “Goodbye Jon.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, but before any sound could pass his lips, the world melted away.

Chapter Text

Jon awoke in cold sweat, panting. His heart was beating like a dothraki war drum in his chest, as if trying to escape. Bran's words echoed hauntingly in his head. Father would die, he already knew that. But now, knowing that would be the catalyst for so many other things, so many awful things, it was near petrifying. Jon didn't think he could handle that responsibility. The responsibility of being the only one to know that, and the only one able to do anything about it. Not like he had much of a choice. He couldn't let father die either way.

Making up his mind, Jon threw off his blankets and got up, heading out of the dormitories and up towards the Tower of the Hand. He had to tell father. Now more than ever. He had to share this with someone else. He loved Arya, truly, but this was beyond her. Not even she could help him with this. Hells, he could barely do it himself. Hence why he needed an older, more experienced mind. It wasn't like he wanted to burden Lord Stark with this though, far from it. But Jon didn't see any other option.

He made good time, having rushed through the halls at break-neck speed. He knew Lord Stark wouldn't be in a small council meeting today, as the king's illness was taking up all the time everyone had, and there was none to spare for matters of state. Luckily, he was right.

He turned a corner and almost ran into Jory.

“He's in his the apartments,” the captain of the guard said, knowing exactly who Jon was looking for. Jon gave the knight a quick thank you and was off again, this time stopping in front of his father's door. He knocked.

“Come in,” his father's voice responded. It sounded weary, as if the king's illness was affecting him as well. Jon knew that wasn't the case though.

“My Lord,” he said, stepping into the room. His voice was shaking slightly? Both from the exertion used to get there and also from emotion. What he was about to tell his father wouldn't be easy by any stretch of the imagination.

“Bran?” His father asked incredulously. “How?”

“I don't know, but he's telling the truth, I know he is.”

“Then what do you propose we should do?”

The question came as a surprise to Jon, his father was asking him for his opinion? He was warden of the north, why would Jon have a better answer to something like that?

“We leave King’s Landing then,” Jon suggested. “None of what happens will happen if you don't die. And the Lannisters can't touch us up there.”

“I can't simply leave,” he argued. “I'm Hand of the King. A king who is ill right now. If I left now it would throw suspicion onto us, and we can't afford that.”

“No, you don't understand,” Jon tried again, desperation entering his voice. “If you die, there will be a war. A bad one. I don't know exactly what happens, but it won't end well. Not for the Starks.” Something in is expression must have gotten through to his father, and Jon watched as his face changed from scepticism to compliance. The sight sent a wave of relief through Jon.

“Alright,” the northern lord conceded. “But we still have to figure out how to expose Cersei and Jaime.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. There was a brief moment of silence before his father sighed and called out, “Come in.”

A young boy, a page, entered. He was dressed in Lannister livery, making Jon assume he was here on behalf of the queen.

“You have been summoned by the queen,” the page said. He was right then. Jon looked to his father and waited for his response.

He nodded, showing he understood. “Thank you. Tell her I will be there soon.” The page nodded and took his leave. Jon watched until he was out of sight and hearing range before turning to his father.

“Do you think she knows? Or suspects?” He asked.

His lord father shook his head. “It's highly unlikely. Besides, how could she know? We've told no one of our suspicions.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He was fairly certain Ser Barristan knew, even if he had no proof of the fact. But something about the knight, he knew more than he was letting on.

“Are you certain?” Jon asked wearily.

There was a pause before his father answered, and when he did, Jon wasn't entirely sure he wasn't lying. “I am certain.”

Jon narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but let the matter go. It would do no good to start an argument with his father. Not right now anyway. He sighed in resignation and stepped back. “Then we should be going.”

“Aye,” his father agreed. “We should.”

And so they gathered some of the Stark men and made their way down the tower of the Hand towards the throne room. Jon was worried about what the queen wanted. If she'd wanted to talk to Lord Stark, surely she could have done so privately. Why summon him to the throne room? What was so important that it had to be done there? Suddenly Jon felt much more nervous than he had before. Whatever Cersei wanted, surely it couldn't be good.

Upon entering the throne room, Jon saw queen Cersei standing a bit away from the iron throne, but still up upon the dais, above the rest of the assembled crowd. She had a cold, near furious expression set in her face, and Jons nerves tripled.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark said, offering a small bow. Her expression remained unchanged.

“I'm so glad you came, Lord Stark,” she said, malice evident in her tone.

Jon couldn't see his father's expression from where he stood behind him, but he was sure it was tight and uncomfortable.

“What can I do for you, your Grace?” He replied evenly. The queens eyes narrowed before she spoke.

“You’ve been harboring an enemy of the crown,” Cersei said coldly, green eyes like daggers pointed at his father. Jon frowned. He knew his father, and he wouldn’t do something like that. Not ever.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your Grace,” his father replied. But to Jon’s surprise, he seemed stiff and uncomfortable, as though he were lying. The thought shocked Jon. Why would he be lying? What didn’t he know?

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” the queen hissed, eyes flicking over to Jon for a brief moment. Jon blinked in surprise, quickly looking over to his father to see what he would say. He was confused by the interaction going on in front of him. Was the queen making up a lie? Why was she saying these things? But if it was a lie, why did Lord Stark look so nervous?

“Sixteen years ago, the realm fell into chaos,” the queen went on to say. “The Targaryen dynasty had met its end. Your King, Robert, led our Kingdom to defeat Rhaegar and the rest of them, exiling and killing any Targaryen left standing when he won the throne.”

Jon saw his father's jaw tighten.

“All except one.”

Lyanna’s son, Jon realized.

“Who is standing right behind you.”

The whole throne room had gone silent. Jon didn’t know what to think. He turned around, trying to see who the queen had been talking about. But there was no silver hair or purple eyes to be seen anywhere. Surely this was just an elaborate mummer's farce, even if the queen didn’t seem to be one to do such a thing. Jon kept looking around, trying to discern who the queen was talking about, but slowly, he saw all eyes had turned to him. What was going on?

“Lord Stark…?” He trailed off, looking back at his father. But instead of meeting the same confused eyes he had expected, his lord father's eyes were sad and downcast. Then, slowly, his gaze met Jon’s own, and the look was all Jon needed to know what was happening.

“ No ,” he breathed. The world fell out from under him, and he was sure his heart had dropped through the tiled floor beneath him. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be true. But the look in his father's eyes spoke more than any words ever could. The queen wasn’t lying. It was true.

“That’s right,” Cersei said smugly, as if proud of herself for revealing a lifelong lie to the court. “You never sired a bastard. You’re far too honorable for that, Lord Stark.” In front of him, Jon dimly noted how his father's hands clenched into tight fists, knuckled turning white from the strain. “Instead you saved your sisters rape spawn of Rhaegar Targaryen and harbored him in Winterfell for years, plotting to one day overthrow your rightful king and place your Targaryen nephew on the throne.”

Jon numbly shook his head. That wasn’t true. She was lying. None of this could be true. Lord Stark was his father. He wouldn’t lie about that. He wouldn’t... Jon didn’t know anymore. The world had slipped out from under his feet and his ears were filled with a buzzing noise. He wasn’t aware of it, but he had started taking steps backwards away from the queen, and only noticed when someone grabbed his arm, roughly. Glancing up, he saw it was Ser Barristan. But through the fog of his mind, Jon couldn’t quiet comprehend the look he was giving him, which was, knowing? Reassurance? Jon couldn’t tell.

“You have committed the highest crime against the crown,” Cersei continued, drawing Jon’s attention back to her. “Treason.”

“Your Grace-” his father tried, stepping forward.

“Seize him!”

Guards rushed forward and grabbed onto his father, who struggled against them but in the end, couldn’t free himself.

“No!” Jon cried, rushing forward. But the strong grip of Ser Barristan held him back.

“And kill the boy,” she ordered.

What?

“NO!” His father shouted, struggling harder. Jon froze, too stunned by the queen's order to see the Lannister men and the gold cloaks advancing on them. The sound of swords being drawn however drew Jon's attention to the other Stark men around them, who all had their weapons out, ready to defend either him or their Lord. Lannister men and gold cloaks rushed towards them, weapons out and ready for blood.

The forces met, and chaos exploded. Immediately the throne room was filled with the sounds of battle. Steel ringing against steel, the sound of bloodshed filling his ears as men gurgled and choked on their own blood or fell to the ground in a limp heap. Jon was frozen, unsure what to do. So much was happening, he had to do something, he had to help. His father was being taken away. They would kill him, he knew it. He couldn't let that happen! He tried rushing forward again, trying to escape Ser Barristan’s grip, but the knight pulled him back, arms wrapping around his waist and half-picking him up before heading toward the door.

“NO! PUT ME DOWN, LET ME GO!” Jon cried desperately, squirming against the knight with all his might. He needed to help his father, who he had lost sight of in the brawl.

Suddenly, he saw the flash of a sword coming towards him, some Lannister man following the queen's order to kill him. But before he could attempt to draw Frostfang, he felt Ser Barristan twist and take the brunt of the blow himself. The sword clanged off his armor, and with a swift motion, Ser Barristan drew his own sword and sliced the guard's neck, still holding on to Jon. Before Jon could see the man hit the floor, he was being dragged off again.

They rushed through the battle and somehow made it out of the throne room, before Barristan let go and instead grabbed his wrist, running off down the halls of the keep. Jon was too confused by the sudden action to resist. Why had Barristan saved him? Hadn't he been following the queen's orders? Why would he be helping him? He was so confused.

At last, they stopped in an alcove, the sounds of battle still filtering through the keep. It sounded like the Lannisters were attacking all the Stark men in King's Landing, not just the throne room. The thought made Jon’s blood run cold.

“Jon.” Ser Barristan’s voice pulled Jon back to the present and he looked up to see the knight’s serious face looking down at him. “We need to get the girls and get out of here. I know a way out of the castle, but we need to get your sisters before anything happens to them.”

Jon shook his head, confused. “Ser Barristan, what’s happening?” He begged, still thrown by the events of the past few minutes, unable to process any of it.

“I’ll explain later,” the knight said, and he sounded sincere. “But right now, my priority is getting you and your sisters out of here.” Jon nodded in agreement, and the two were off again, rushing to find them before it was too late.

“Arya will be with Syrio, training,” Jon called out. “I don’t know where Sansa will be.”

“I have an idea,” Barristan said, not offering any further explanation. They rushed through the halls and ended up following the sound of fighting. Suddenly, as they turned a corner, Jon crashed into someone and they both fell onto the hard stones.

“Jon?”

It was Sansa.

“Sansa, thank the Gods,” he breathed, helping her up. He noticed her wolf standing just behind her.

“What are you- how are you here?” She asked, voice shaking from either confusion or fear. “Why are the Lannisters attacking our men?”

“There’s no time to explain,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “But we need to find Arya and get out of here.”

“What about father?” She asked, voice shaking even more.

“I’ll explain later,” Ser Barristan interceded. “But we have to go now .” He left no room for argument as he was soon off down the corridor again. Jon had no choice but to follow, dragging Sansa along behind. He hoped her skirts wouldn’t get in the way too much, or he was going to rip them just so they could move faster. Her anger at him be damned.

“She trains with Syrio just down this hall,” Jon called to the knight. He received no response, but the man turned down the hall anyway, and they burst through the door to find a few Lannister men facing off against Syrio, Arya standing behind him with a wooden sword in hand. At the sound of them entering, everyone turned to them. But before any of the Lannisters could even say anything, Barristan had his sword drawn and was hacking away at them. In the distraction, Jon called out to Arya.

“Arya, we have to go!”

She didn’t even argue, just dropped her training sword and rushed towards them. Looking up, Jon noted that Barristan and Syrio had taken care of the Lannister men.

“We must go now,” the kingsguard said. “I know a way out through the dragon caverns.”

“I know where that is,” Arya piped up. “With the skulls?” Barristan nodded. “Then let’s go.” She grabbed her sword Needle and they were off again.

The sound of fighting through the castle was growing louder, and Jon worried about the men sworn to house Stark. They were fighting for the lives for reasons they didn’t even know. Hells, Jon didn’t even know. But they had to get out of there, and for whatever reason, Ser Barristan, who was sworn to the crown, was helping them. Jon had no idea where they were headed, or where they would go if they somehow managed to escape the keep. But Arya seemed to know the way, as did Ser Barristan, so that was a small comfort.

“Watch out!” Arya cried out suddenly. Jon only had a moment to turn and see three Lannister men standing over a few bodies of what looked like Stark men in front of them before they noticed too and were attacking, all armed with swords or spears. Jon didn’t hesitate to draw Frostfang, pushing the girls behind him.

The first Lannister rushed him, but was interceded by Barristan, who the second attacked as well. Which left the third for him. The man swung hard, Jon only just managed to block before attacking himself. He’d never been in an actual battle before, and it was much different from sparing. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, making him faster and stronger, but it was doing the same for the other man as well.

Jon blocked another swing and parried a jab. But failed to block the man from slashing at his side. Immediately, pain erupted from his side and Jon cried out, dropping to his knees. The man would have finished him off, but suddenly there was a sword protruding from his neck. Blood spattered onto Jon and he watched with morbid fascination as the man choked on his own blood before finally dropping to the ground, dead.

There wasn’t even a pause before Barristan was at his side, helping him up. “Jon, are you alright?” he asked, worry clear in his voice. Jon gave a shaky nod, pressing a hand to his side. It came away red.

“Damn,” he hissed, wincing from the pain. Barristan pulled up Jon's tunic to see the wound himself, before swearing and pressing hard on it as well. He led him to the wall where he had him lean against a puller to steady himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sansa’s face grow pale and Arya stare at him in worry. Was it really that bad?

“We need to move, fast,” Barristan said firmly, helping put pressure on the wound. It was starting to hurt more now that the fight was over, and Jon’s breathing was coming in shorter bursts, finding it hard to do so from the pain.

“What about your wolves?” Sansa asked. Jon swore under his breath. He had completely forgotten their direwolves.

“They’re in the godswood,” Arya said. “I can get them,” she volunteered.

“No, there’s no time,” Barristan ordered.

“ What? ” Arya shrieked. At Sansa’s heels, Lady let out a whine. “We can’t leave them behind,” Arya cried.

“We have no choice,” the knight said, regret evident in his voice. “We need to leave.”

“But where are we going?” Sansa asked.

“Dragonstone,” he supplied, picking himself up, hands now red from Jon's blood. Absently, he took a piece of his cloak and ripped it off before handing it to Jon. Jon took it and pressed it against his side. Immediately, it was soaked in red, which wasn’t a very good sign, he thought to himself. “Stannis is there now, he’ll understand the situation,” Barristan continued. He went on to loop an arm under Jons and pull him up. Jon groaned from the sudden movement, which caused pain to flare through his side, but let the knight do it.

“Now,” the knight side, looping one of Jon’s arms around his shoulder and one of his own around his waist, careful to avoid the injury. “We need to move.”

With a regretful glance back the way they came, Arya nodded. Jon hated to leave the wolves too. If he could, he would rush back there and get them himself. But as it was, he could barely stand, and his head was starting to feel light, which couldn’t be good. With a sudden pull, Barristan was leading them off down the hall again, leaving the dead Lannisters behind them. Hopefully they wouldn’t run into anymore trouble.

As the made their way down the halls, Jon found it was getting harder and harder to focus on what he was doing. His feet stumbled against his will, and his limbs were growing heavy. His breaths came in short gasps, and it felt like the world was tipping around him. Barristan seemed to notice this.

“Jon? Keep your eyes open for me,” he ordered, worried.

I’m trying Jon tried to say, but all that came out was a moan. They were nearing a stairwell that led into darkness. Arya grabbed a torch from the wall, and went in first, Sansa following behind with Jon and Barristan making up the rear. Jons feet slipped on the stones and he almost fell, but Barristan's hold on him kept him up.

“We’re almost there, Jon,” the knight said, trying to reassure him. Jon would have responded, but a shout from above stopped him.

“Down there!” The voice called. Jon looked over his shoulder. It was the gold cloaks.

“Shit,” he heard Barristan swear, and felt them picking up the pace. “Move!” He called.

“Get them!”

Jon watched as they closed in on him, and felt his feet scrape against the cold stone floor as they reached the base of the stairs. But his head was fuzzy and light, and dark spots were starting to take over his vision. Before he could even say anything, he slipped into darkness.

Chapter Text

Ned was shoved roughly into a cold dark cell, landing hard on his shoulder. He had a few cuts on his face from the battle in the throne room, and his body was still buzzing from adrenaline because of it. Before he could even stand, the sound of the cell door slamming resonated around the stone cell, officially locking him in. But the only thing in his min was the safety of his children and of Jon.

Oh Gods, Jon.

The confusion and fear he’d seen on his face had broken his heart. And worse, the comprehension . Seeing his world shatter in those grey eyes, so like his sisters, Ned couldn’t help but feel his world shatter as well. Damn Cersei. Damn her to all seven hells for saying those cursed words. He had wanted to tell him the truth, in time. And he would have if they had managed to leave the city. When they were safe and back at Winterfell. But it seemed that would never happen now. Another important question was how had Cersei of all people learned of it? Was it Varys who had whispered it into her ear? Or had she had her own suspicions and simply wanted to lock him away. If that was true, she must have known he had learned of her and Jaime’s affair. There was no other explanation. But again it begged the question, how did she know?

Ned sighed in defeat. He supposed it didn’t matter now. He was locked up, his men were most likely dead, and who knew what had become of his family. He remembered in the thick of battle seeing Barristan Selmy carrying Jon off, who had been kicking and screaming. Perhaps it was for his protection, perhaps he was following the queen's orders. Ned would never know. The sound of Jon’s cries still echoed in his head.

I’m sorry Lyanna, he thought to himself. I’m so sorry.

Ned must have fallen asleep sometime while he was down there, left alone in the cold dark cell, because the sound of the door slamming open startled him awake. He sat bolt up in alertness as torchlight was thrown into the dark space, making him wince and cover his eyes. Someone stomped into the cell and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Where is he?”

The voice was Cersei, and she sounded furious.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your Grace,” he managed, shying his eyes away from too-bright light.

“Don’t play coy with me,” she hissed venomously. “Somehow your bastard Jon Snow escaped from the keep before anyone could catch him. Now where is he !”

Jon was safe? That was wonderful news. He felt his heart lift at the thought of it, but refused to let it show outwardly, les Cersei see it. He couldn’t show her anything.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

A scoff.

“You’re already a traitor for raising that bastard Targaryen, don’t make it worse by lying to me.” Her words were said through clenched teeth, showing how truly mad she was. Ned couldn’t help but find some sense of accomplishment from it.

“It was never my intention to betray Robert,” he said truthfully. “I never planned to throw him from the throne.”

“But do you deny that you raised that dragonspawn in secret?” She challenged, kneeling down to his height on the floor. He could see firelight glinting in her emerald eyes, a cold, steely look to them that sent a chill down his back. “Do you deny you raised a traitor?”

“He is innocent,” Ned shot back. “No child should be blamed for their fathers sins.”

At his words, Cersei’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and she leaned back, pleased. “So you do admit he’s Rhaegar’s,” she smirked.

“I admit he’s my blood,” he said coldly. “And he’s done nothing to deserve what you say he has.” Cersei sneered in response.

“Well some believe your blood to be worth more than my own children,” she spat out, earning a confused frown from Ned. Rolling her eyes, Cersei continued. “Ser Barristan Selmy has not been seen since your arrest. It is in my belief that he took that dragonspawn away. And I have no doubt you knew about this.”

Ned's face remained a blank slate, giving nothing away.

“How did you even find out about him,” Ned asked dryly, staring her down.

A smirk graced her lips, eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint. “I have my ways,” she said slyly.

“Was it Littlefinger.”

The smirk vanished, telling him he was right.

Damn that man , he thought to himself. He never should have told Catelyn about him in front of Baelish. Now it had come back to bite him in the ass. Painfully.

“Littlefinger is one of the best informants I have, aside from Varys,” Cersei said. “One word about your bastard was all it took for him to track him down. It’s remarkable really,” she mused. “How much he looks like you.” Ned scowled up at her. “But as is his nature, Lord Baelish needed to know everything. Why hadn’t he heard of his arrival beforehand? Why wasn’t it common knowledge that Lord Stark’s bastard was in King’s Landing? Why was he pretending to be your squire? So many questions.” She chuckled and shook her head slightly, as if amused. “So he dug around for answers. And what he found, well, let’s just say it was quite interesting.”

Ned’s scowled deepened.

“Why is it that no one knew who Jon Snow’s mother was?” She said. “Or where he came from? Was it simply because you wanted to spare your wife the shame of knowing who this woman was that managed to make you forget your honor? Or was it another reason.” Her smirk slipped away, turning serious. “Luckily, Littlefinger thought it might have been another reason.”

“And that was how he found out?” Ned questioned. “By digging around?”

“By asking the right questions,” she clarified. Then, seeming to have grown tired of their conversation, snapped, “Now tell me, where are they!”

“Promise me my children are safe, and perhaps I'll consider it,” he shot back. The scowl he got from Cersei was better than any words she could give him. “You don't know where they are, do you?” Silence. He let out a bitter laugh, the sound resonating through the cell. “How proud must you be,” he scoffed. “Having one of your kingsguard run off with my daughters and a dragonspawn .” It was strange for Ned to take pleasure from rubbing salt in someone's wounds, but at this moment, he was beyond that. He was too relieved that his daughters as well as Jon were safe.

“Make no mistake Lord Stark,” Cersei hissed. “We will find that boy, and he will receive the same justice as his siblings before him.”

His siblings, which were brutally murdered by Lannister men before being presented to the king like hunting trophies. Now it was Ned's turn to scowl.

“If you did manage to find him,” he warned, voice low and serious. “He will have the entirety of the North behind him. You will start a war. A war that will tear the kingdoms apart.” He paused. “ If you haven't already.”

The queen let out a mirthless laugh at his words. “How poetic this is,” she scoffed. “A dragon and a wolf start a war that tears the seven kingdoms apart.  And now another, years later and for the same reason, but spawned of the first’s catalyst.” She let out another dry chuckle. One that sent a chill down Ned’s back. “This is something they will write songs about,” she said. Then her eyes hardened and her expression turned sour, gaze locking onto his. “It's a shame no Stark will be around to hear it.”

Jon came to slowly, and to the gentle sound of waves. There was a rocking sensation beneath him, almost lulling him back into unconsciousness. Wait, he didn't remember falling asleep, or being on a boat, which he'd deduced fairly quickly. What had-

“Father!” He cried, lurching upright. Which was a mistake, as his side flared angrily with pain. He cried out and dropped back onto the furs, clutching his side.

There was commotion outside, and suddenly three people burst into the room. And a wolf. Jon barely had time to collect himself before someone small and skinny had launched themselves into him.

“Jon!” It was Arya.

Any other time he would have been happily returned the hug, but right then, all he could do was hiss in pain.

“Sorry!” She cried, quickly pulling away, rushing her words. “I forgot.”

“It's alright,” he said through gritted teeth. Her expression told him she didn't believe him.

“I'm glad you're awake,” a new voice spoke up. Jon looked over to see Ser Barristan standing near the door, no longer donning his usual enameled armor or cloak. Instead he was dressed in a tunic and jerkin, looking to most like any other man instead of the lord commander of the kingsguard. The sight of him made everything prior to waking up come rushing back.

“Ser Barristan, where are we, where's father?” What had happened after he had passed out? Was father dead? Was he even his father? Had Cersei been right? No, she had to be lying. That's what she did. But father hadn't denied it. Had he? No, Jon was fairly certain he hadn't. But did that mean…? Gods, everything had happened so fast it was hard to tell.

Barristan seemed to sense his inner turmoil past the questions he had asked and gave him a grim look, ushering the girls out of the room. “I think you and I should have a talk.”

Jon waited for him to take a seat on his bed before launching into his multiple questions. “What happened, where are we headed, is father safe, what's going on, why did Cersei say those things about father?”

The knight took a deep breath before answering any of them. “To answer the easiest,” he started. “We're headed to Dragonstone.”

Dragonstone?

“Dragonstone?”

“Aye, Lord Stannis Baratheon is there with his wife and daughter right now. He will offer us safety and from there, passage north to White Harbor.”

“And what of father?”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause after he asked his question. “Ser Barristan, where is Lord Stark?”

“The Black Cells.”

“Why?” Jon demanded.

He didn't need an answer, but he didn't want to acknowledge the one his brain was supplying him with. The one he had heard from the queen's own mouth.

Ser Barristan gave him a sad, defeated look. “You know why.”

Jon gulped, his throat working hard to keep down the cry of anguish clawing its way upward.

No.

Jon felt his blood run cold. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. His father would never lie to him about something like that. He wouldn't.

But those dreams of his, those stupid dreams. Bran had shown him, possible countless times, of the truth. He had just been too dense to see it. Or didn’t want to see it.

Promise me.

The words that had been plaguing him for months echoed in his head. They had to be Lyanna’s words. Nothing else made sense. And father had found her in that tower, dying, but not dead. Those would have been her last words, no doubt. And Ned Stark wouldn't break a promise. He would most likely die before doing so. Especially a promise to his sister. His sister who he loved more than anyone else, even Robert. His sister who had just given birth, to a baby boy if he remembered right from that dream all those months ago. A boy Jon’s age.

Jon suddenly had the urge to throw up.

Ser Barristan saw the change in his expression and surged forward, helping him up quickly so Jon could lean over the bunk before emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

“Easy there,” he murmured, holding him up. Jon groaned from both the taste in his mouth and the emotions tumbling inside him. He was angry, sad, hurt, confused, and so on. But mostly, he felt betrayed. He had been lied to his whole life by the man he had considered to be his father. He had been told he was nothing but a bastard. A stain upon Lord Eddard Stark’s honor. And he had more or less come to accept that. But this, how could he accept this? He had been told by everyone that prince Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark. And to know he was that man's son ? Jon didn't want to think about what that made him. A king? A prince? A bastard?

Rapespawn? A small, nasty voice in his head supplied.

At that thought, Jon threw up again.

“Just take it easy, Jon.” Ser Barristan’s words brought Jon out of his whirlwind thoughts and back to the present. He coughed, spitting bile out of his mouth to rid it of the awful taste before speaking.

“Did you know?” He choked out, still leaning over the bunk, knuckles white from gripping the edge. There was silence from the old knight. “Did you know!” He cried.

“Yes,” was his response. “But Lord Stark never had to tell me.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. Jon didn't know if they were from anger or sadness. Possibly both. But he didn't care.

“How long?” He managed.

“I've suspected for some time,” he said cryptically. “But known, I suppose not truly until queen Cersei announced it in court.”

Jon struggled to sit back up in the bed again, the angle he was in started to pull painfully as his still-healing wound. He sat back against his pillow, pointedly not looking at the knight. Hot tears were streaming down his cheeks, but he didn't do anything to get rid of them.

“Would you please leave me,” he choked out, still avoiding eye contact.

“Jon-”

“Please!” He cried. “Just go!”

It might have been rude, or immature of him. But at the moment, he wasn't thinking of those things. He listened as Ser Barristan hesitated where he sat before getting up and moving to the door. The door opened and Jon waited for retreating footsteps to signal he had left. But there were none.

“He loved you, and he never meant to hurt you,” the knight said instead. “I hope you know that.” And with that, the door shut and Jon could hear his footsteps retreating down the hall.

In that moment Jon didn't know weather he was talking about Rhaegar or Eddard. And Jon didn't care. He just wanted to shut out the world and disappear into oblivion. If only the world would let him.

Chapter Text

Almost three days had past since leaving King's Landing, and in that time Jon had barely left his cabin in the ship. He could claim it was because of his injury, but it wasn’t. Not truly. In reality his mind was whirling about, trying to get a grip on his new reality. His mother, the person he’d longer for years to know, was in fact his aunt, and the man he had called father was really his uncle. And if that wasn’t confusing enough his real father had supposedly kidnapped his mother, starting a war. Even though Ser Barristan spoke highly of the dead prince, Jon couldn’t get the image out of his head. The image of him taking Lyanna by force, like a savage dog. In turn; Jon didn’t dwell on the fact long, too sickened by it to do so. Instead he focused on the other things. The better things, if he could call them that.

He now knew who his mother was. And to add to that, he knew what she looked like. Vaguely. He’d only seen her once in a dream months ago. And she had been in incredible pain, features warped from cries of anguish. But it did offer him a small comfort to know he’d seen her, and wouldn’t have to wonder for the rest of his life, with only a stone statue to go by.

Despite it, Jon could barely wrap his mind around it. His mother. In truth he had stopped expecting to be told about her years ago. Maybe he had never admitted it to himself, but with the gift of hindsight, perhaps he had.

I wonder, he thought to himself, staring vacantly up at the cabins ceiling. Is Jon even my real name? Or did she name me something else? Then, on that train of thought, I might not even be a Snow at all, but a Sand. He frowned. Jon Sand. It didn’t have the same ring to it as his name did. If it was his name at all. And he would bet good money it wasn’t. As far as he knew, Lyanna hadn’t known or been inspired by any man or lord named Jon. That had been his father- uncle. There was of course the kingsguard knight named Jon Connington, but he doubted they had been in close contact. The only kingsguard that had been at the tower had been Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Gerold Hightower. He knew so because he’d heard Lord Stark tell the story of defeating them plenty of times before.

Jon sighed to himself. Perhaps he would never know his real name. If he even wanted to. The only person who possibly could was locked away in the Black Cells, awaiting the queen's justice. And no one left the black cells. Not on their own.

Aside from his musings, Jon had spent his days in bed, his only visitors Arya and Ser Barristan. While Arya sat with him, occasionally asking questions or rambling about nonsense just to fill the silence, Ser Barristan said almost nothing. He only came during meals, making sure Jon ate, and was resting so he would heal. He had tried to make conversation, but it had failed miserably as his attempts went unreciprocated. Eventually he'd stopped altogether, much to Jon's appreciation.

But being cooped up in a cabin made him antsy, even if he was advised from getting up. But no one could stop him when they were asleep, so that was how he found himself in the prow of the ship in the dead of night.

Jon stood there in the deck, the ocean wind buffeting his clothing and hair. Dark locks whipped across his face, blocking his vision every so often.

Jon was angry. Angry at Cersei, angry at Ser Barristan, but mostly at his father, lord Stark.

At first he wasn't. He was distraught. And then confused. Or perhaps it was reverse. Either way, it didn't feel good. Then he started thinking about it, and that was when he grew angry.

Lord Stark had raised Jon as his son. A bastard, but still the son of one of the most respected lords in Westeros. As Jon was proud of that. Proud to know his father was Lord Stark. But now, that had been ripped away.

His real father was no high lord, he was a prince. The crowned prince. And perhaps that alone was something to be proud of, but that prince had started a war. A war that had killed his uncle and grandfather, set brother against brother and ravaged all seven kingdoms. He knew little of Prince Rhaegar, but he had been loved by the people, so Ser Barristan said. But aside from that, all the histories spoke poorly of him. How could Jon be proud to call a man like that father? And his mother, his mother was Lyanna Stark. And she was long dead. Lord Stark had rarely spoken of her. He knew nothing aside from how she'd died. And even that was a lie.

The wind buffeted hard against him, and something tugged at his neck. It was the pendant Lord Stark had given him on his name day. The one made of dragon bone.

The one with Targaryen colors.

The anger towards Lord Stark returned tenfold, and in a fit of rage, he tipped the necklace off, clutching it right in his fist. He hated this thing! Lord Stark knew what it meant. He must have. And that thought enraged him. For Lord Stark to have dangled it in front of his face like that. How dare he. Jon drew back his arm to throw it. Winding up to send the cursed thing into the depths of the narrow sea. He pulled back and-

Stopped. He stopped. He tried again to throw it, but found he couldn't do it. He simply couldn't.

Slowly, he lowered his arm, loosening his grip on the carved wolf. In his open palm, red stone eyes glinted back at him in the faint light, reminding him of Ghost. Ghost, who, if he was even alive, was still in King’s Landing. Alone. Afraid.

Like father, Jon surmised. Perhaps that was why he couldn't throw it. It had been given as a gift of love. And as much as he hated him right then, he couldn't ignore it.

Sighing in frustration, he lower his hand to his side, absolving not to throw it out. Not yet at least.

Another gust of wind hit Jon, and he was reminded of just how few layers he was wearing. And although he was of the north and early got cold so easy, his wound was still raw, and the biting wind wasn't helping.

The cliffs and Dragonstone rose high into the air as they approached. It was bleak, yet impressive. Massive towers rose into the air, the setting sun turning the dark stone orange. Giant cliffs rose straight up from the ocean, waves crashing powerfully against the coast. Jon had made it out onto the deck, despite protests from Sansa and Ser Barristan, to see it. It was never a place Jon had felt an urge to visit, but to see where Aegon the first Targaryen planned his conquest of Westeros, and to see what such an old dynasty had built, was reason enough to brave the cold salty air above deck.

“Did you know that there's a painted table in one of the castle’s rooms that’s shaped to look like Westeros,” Arya’s voice piped up beside him. Jon gave her an amused look.

“Aye, I think I heard that somewhere,” he assured her. “Probably from Bran.” Arya hummed in agreement. The two lapsed into silence again, watching as the harbor grew closer. It was their third day aboard the boat, and all four of them were glad to see land. Jon, having been confined to his cabin, was just glad to be in the fresh air again. His wound was healing, he could tell, but it still hurt, and Ser Barristan seemed to hover around him constantly, making sure he didn’t open it on accident and bleed out. Jon was starting to feel suffocated by it all, but didn’t tell him off. There was too much on his mind for that.

Footsteps approaching made Jon and Arya turn around to see Ser Barristan standing behind them. “When we land, I’ll speak with Lord Stannis about our situation,” he said, adjusting his new leathers, having stowed his armor away in a chest below deck.

“What will you tell him?” Jon asked.

The knight shrugged. “The truth,” he said simply. Jon grimaced at that. Did he mean the truth of why they fled or the truth of the Lannisters? Or perhaps both. Whatever it was, Jon didn’t want to be around for the conversation.

“Doesn’t Lord Stannis already know about Joffrey and the rest?” Arya asked beside him. Ser Barristan tilted his head in thoughtfulness before responding.

“I do believe so. Or at least, that’s what your father and Lord Arryn believed.” He looked to Jon for confirmation, which Jon replied to with a nod.

“He was in close communication with Lord Arryn before he died. And seeing as how he fled King’s Landing right after, it only makes sense,” he pondered, shrugging.

Arya shrugged in vague agreement. But then her expression turned sour. “Will he help free father?” She asked. Jon exchanged a glance with Ser Barristan.

“Your father is locked in the black cells,” the old knight said. “The chances of getting out of those are next to none. Not if Cersei allows it, anyway.”

“Which she won't,” Jon finished bitterly.

Ser Barristan grunted in agreement.

“I still don’t understand,” Sansa said weakly. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jon winced and turned away.

“No, he didn’t.” Ser Barristan agreed, noticing Jon’s behavior. “But Cersei believes what she believes. She can’t be reasoned with.”

If his words comforted her, Sansa didn’t show it. In fact, she looked even more miserable, as Jon suspected. They definitely didn’t comfort him.

“I just wish I knew why she did it,” she sighed.

“So do I,” Jon muttered under his breath. Luckily, no one had heard him.

The story they had told the girls about Lord Stark’s arrest was the briefest overview they could make up without straying too far from the truth. Of course they kept the real reason for Cersei’s arrest secret. Jon didn’t even know how he was taking the news let alone how his sisters would. So for the time being, it was best kept between knight and squire.

“Oi,” the captain called from the stern. “Better get your things ready, we’re about to make port.”

“Understood,” Barristan called back. “Alright then,” he said, turning to the three of them. “Better get your things, what little they are. We’re about to meet Stannis Baratheon.”

The man who met them at the docs was most decidedly not lord Stannis. He did have some guards with him, but from the second Jon lay eyes upon him, he knew this was not the lord of Dragonstone. For one, his clothes weren't as fine as a high lords would be, secondly, Jon thought he was missing some fingers. Maybe. He couldn't quite tell through the gloves he was wearing.

“Good day Sers, Ladies,” he said, nodding towards Jon and Barristan then Arya and Sansa. Then, looking down at Lady, adding, “And dogs.”

“Lady’s not a dog,” Sansa suddenly piped up, surprising all the group. Her voice was tired and worn, like the rest of them. She hadn't spoken a word since they'd told her about Cersei’s actions, closing herself off in her cabin for the entire journey. “She's a wolf.”

“My apologies,” the man said, his voice having a near jesting like to it. “I hope I did not offend.” It was said in complete seriousness, making both Arya and Sansa smile. That must have been his goal, Jon figured, letting himself smile as well.

“Where are my manners,” the man said again in his thick fleabottom accent. “My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, and I've been sent by Lord Baratheon to escort you to him. It’s not everyday we get unexpected guests.” The tone was light, but Jon could hear the underlying caution beneath them. They had arrived unannounced and uninvited, so of course Lord Stannis would want to know why as well as who he would be dealing with.

“You're a knight?” Arya's shrill voice piped up, breaking his train of thought. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sansa shoot their sister a venomous glare as if telling her to shut up. “You don't look like one.” This time Sansa stepped on her toe. “Ow!”

“No, it's alright my Lady,” he said easily. “I must confess I have not the proper training to be your average knight. I gained my name through different methods.” What those methods were though, he didn't expound upon. “Now may I ask who we have the pleasure of welcoming to Dragonstone?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard,” Barristan said. “Along with the children of Lord Eddard Stark.”

“That explains the wolf bit,” Jon heard Davos mutter. After a moment's consideration, Ser Davos gave them a curt nod and stepped back, gesturing for them to start moving, which they complied with. Ser Barristan took the lead with Jon just behind him, Arya and Sansa walking with him. Lady was close Sansa’s side, so it provided a buffer between her and Arya, which Jon thought was for the best.

As the made their way up from the docs, Jon took the opportunity to admire the island. It was just as bleak as it had looked from the sea, but now he could see more of the castle, and he had to say, it was very impressive. Large stone spires soured into the sky like knives, and a long, winding staircase led to the gates, which they walked upon. Jon tried to imagine what this place had been like during Aegon’s conquest. The three Targaryens of Dragonstone planning their invasion, with three dragons soaring through the skies. Jon could almost see them now.

Then he remembered what Cersei had said in the throne room, and his mood turned sour again.

“You alright, boy?” Ser Davis said suddenly. Jon looked up to see him walking close to him, eyeing him carefully. Jon tried to blow it off.

“Just thinking,” he lied.

“About?”

Jon could have rolled his eyes, but he decided not to. It seemed Ser Davis wasn't about to let it go. “Personal issues,” he said dismissively.

“It wouldn't have to do with Queen Cersei arresting you father, would it?”

Jon whirled to give him a sharp, warning look. “How do you-” he started, but a motion from the knight stopped him.

“News travels. Also, I know a Stark when I see one.” His words were cool and level. Something Jon didn't think he himself could manage right then and there.

“I'm not a Stark,” he replied immediately, wincing when he realized how true the words were now.

“Stark, Snow, what does it matter?” Ser Davis pondered, understanding what Jon had said to mean he was a bastard. “Blood is blood.”

Jon found he had nothing to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut and remained silent, following the guards up the long stairs.

Finally, they made it to the keep. Jon had to crane his neck just to see the top, it was so large. The doors opened and they were allowed in.

Walking through the halls, Jon saw yellow and black banners adorning every wall there was, tapestries of stags accompanying them. But despite all the fanfare and cloth, nothing could cover up the stone dragons carved into the pullers and floors, snarling wickedly down at everyone who passed them by, reminding everyone who had built it and ruled here.

They passed through another few corridors before entering what Jon assumed was Lord Stannis’ solar, it was hard to tell. They were told to wait outside while Ser Davos spoke with him before being allowed entrance. Which Jon was fine with. A few minutes passed before Ser Davos returned and beckoned them in.

Stannis stood in front of a window, gazing out onto the open sea, eyes hard and empty.

“Mi’lord,” Ser Davos said taking a step forward. “This is Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ned Stark’s children, Sansa and Arya Stark.”

Jon noted that he didn’t mention him, which he wasn’t sure how he felt about. It may be inappropriate to introduce a bastard as if he were on the same level as high born ladies.

Stannis turned around and gave them all a cool, measured look with his blue eyes. He truly had the Baratheon look. His hear, what was left of it, was black. Or had been. And Jon could tell he’d been strong in his prime, which had long since passed. But his mind seemed as sharp as ever, given by the reputation Jon had learned of him, and the sharp look in his eye. His gaze had turned to Jon then, curiosity and intrigue lighting up before Ser Barristan spoke.

“My Lord,” Ser Barristan said, dipping his head politely. Jon followed suit, not wanting to aggravate or insult him.

“I welcome you to my home, Ser Barristan. Ser Davis tells me you and your entourage are seeking asylum here. Although I must say it is strange to see the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard without his cloak and armor.”

Barristan smiled stiffly in response. “There is a good reason for that,” he replied. Stannis merely grunted in acknowledgment before turning to Jon.

“And who are you, boy?”

“Jon Snow, My Lord,” he answered, looking the man in the eye. For whatever reason he didn't want to seem pathetic in front of this cold, stern lord.

“A northern bastard?” He mused. “And why would a bastard be so far south looking to stay at a high lords keep?”

It wasn't accusatory, but it was hard, like wind worn stone, or the sky before a storm.

“I am Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue.

“Well, any child of Lord Stark is welcome in my home,” the stiff lord said. “Now what is it that brings you here? Perhaps it was the queen arresting Lord Stark, but then again, Ser Davos didn't elaborate.”

“We didn't tell him,” Jon said, jaw clenching at the mention of what Cersei had done.

Lord Stannis raised an intrigued eyebrow, noticing this.

“Queen Cersei has sent ravens to all the great houses telling them of what Lord Stark has done. Of his crimes against the crown,” Stannis said, staring Ser Barristan down as if challenging him.

“Lies,” the knight replied confidently. “Cersei has imprisoned Lord Stark on claims that hold no bearing. Her allegations are utterly false.”

“Then there must have been a reason,” Stannis continued.

Jon chose that moment to but in. “Aye,” he said. “We learned of the crowned prince’s heritage,” he said. And then, to elaborate, “His true heritage.”

Lord Stannis’ eyes narrowed slightly from the revolution, blue eyes sweeping over them with a calculating stare. Jon wanted to shrink and hide away from it, but held his ground. “Are you saying she arrested Lord Stark out of fear, then?” He surmised. Jon didn’t reply, instead staring him down. Stannis seemed to take that as an answer, satisfied. “So you came to Dragonstone to escape the queens madness?” It wasn't so much of a question as a statement, but Jon felt compelled to answer anyway.

“Aye,” he spoke up. “Cersei arrested our father and tried to kill us. We had to escape while we still could.”

“And what compelled you to do that?” He challenged.

“Because we knew you also fled the queens madness for the same reason,” Jon stated firmly. He held the Lord’s gaze whilst doing so, showing how serious he was. Or at least that was what he hoped it looked like. He didn't want the Lord of Dragonstone to think a bastard boy was challenging him. Luckily, it seemed he got the message.

“Fine,” he said in a clipped tone, surveying their group again. “But how did you learn of Cersei’s blight?”

Jon felt as though he owed the man the truth for offering them asylum. “I can tell you,” he said. “But you have to promise to have an open mind.”

Lord Stannis looked at him skeptically, but eventually offered a slow nod.

I’ll tell him about Cersei , Jon decided. But my heritage is none of his concern .

Jon took a breath in. “Alright,” he sighed. “It actually started a few months ago…”

Chapter Text

Danger. There was danger.

Lifting his white muzzle, he looked around the cavern, sniffing out his sister. He hadn't seen his master or his sisters master in days. Ever since everything screamed danger at him. The smell of blood had been nearly overwhelming, along with the sounds of the wounded. A sound he normally relished, as it meant he had successfully brought down his prey. But these wounded, it was different. It was more painful. It was terrifying.

He and his sister had then retreated from their small woods they always played in and left towards the darkest, emptiest place they could find. But even there the smell of blood followed them. Along with the scent of his master and the girl his master smelled like. But neither of them were anywhere to be seen or heard. All that was left of them was there fading scent and blood.

Some bodies were scattered around the cavern, which they picked at. But the leather and metal they wore prevented them from getting much. But it was better than going out and looking for food. Not when everything still screamed danger to his senses.

He let out a big huff, looking towards his sister, watching her grey/brown pelt ripple as she moved towards him, teeth and muzzle stained red from their meal.

How long were they going to be down there?

How long until there was no more danger?

Jon awoke from his dream with a sense of panic and dread welling inside him. That was Ghost he had dreamed of! He was alive!

But he was scared. That was why Jon felt that dread. They were alone and scared with no way out of King's Landing.

But they were alive. That was enough for Jon.

Jon sighed and sank back into his bed, turning his head to look out the window. Dragonstone was a cold and barren place, he surmised, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. After the long and uneasy conversation he'd had with Lord Stannis Baratheon about the past few months, excluding the part where he was Rhaegar’s son, he'd been led to his room. The room he had gotten was cold, drafty, and empty. One window looked out over the waters of the narrow sea, letting in a cold salty breeze. It was nice during the day, letting a breeze and sunlight in, but now that it was night, Jon had had to shut it.

But with that being done, now it was silent. Too silent.

He wished Ghost were here. He wished to bury himself in the direwolf’s fur, to forget about all his problems and take in the comfort Ghost brought him. But he was still in the capital. He knew his wolf wasn't dead because he'd been having dreams of him. If running around in his skin, scared and alone. Nymeria was there, but they were being hunted, and they knew it. It wasn't a comfortable thought to have, and often Kon found himself trying to avoid it, as guilty as it made him feel. But it never went away. It plagued him like an itch you couldn't scratch. And just as frustrating.

Turning over in bed, Jon tried to get comfortable. Ser Barristan had all but ordered he get some rest. “Proper rest”, he had said. As if being cooped up in a ships cabin for nearly three days handed rested him enough. He was itching to get out and do something. Had been since they'd first laid eyes on the island. But it seemed luck had not been with him. No, the only thing that had been with him all day was the ever-concerned Ser Barristan. Although he did not show it, Jon knew he was. He didn't know when the knights affection for him turned from friendly respect to near-fatherly, but Jon had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with his father. His real father.

“That's it,” he snarled suddenly. He threw his blankets off and jumped out of bed. Fuck what Ser Barristan told him, he’d been laying around enough the past few days. He had to get out.

He slipped out from under the covers and threw on some boots and a jerkin. Grabbing a torch from the walls outside, he went off through the castle, determined to get out.

The cold night air whipped at his face, sending his hair flying around, covering his eyes with every gust from the sea. From where he sat on the cliffside, he felt as though he could see all the way to King's Landing. The torch he'd brought with him flickered dangerously, threatening to extinguish at any moment. It didn't matter to Jon. It offered no warmth anyway, and the light of the moon would be enough to get him back to the keep where he could grab another torch for the trip back to his room.

Despite all that, the cold really was getting to him. Perhaps he should have brought a cloak after all.

"Enjoying the view?" A voice spoke up behind him. Jon whirled around, startled, only to see Ser Davos bundled up against the wind. He couldn't see it very well, but in the faint torchlight, he could have sworn the onion knight was smiling in amusement.

"Perhaps," Jon deflected, eyeing him.

"I brought you a cloak, thought you might be cold," he offered, holding out said cloak.

"I'm fine," Jon lied, turning back to look over the ocean.

"Thought you might say that," Davos sighed, stepped forward. The weight of something dropping onto his shoulders didn't surprise Jon, and soon he was wrapped up in his own cloak, the chill of the wind finally being blocked by something other than his jerkin. Next to him, Ser Davos settled down into the grass, huffing as his old bones protested the movements.

"Can I help you with something?" Jon asked, tone somewhat harsh. If Ser Davos noticed it, he simply shrugged it off.

"Just figured you might want the company," he replied easily.

"You don't need to be concerned for me," Jon prodded. "That's Ser Barristan's job." Even if the knight was trying to be subtle about it. It wasn't working though.

"Who said anything about concern? I was thinking we could have a nice chat."

"About what?"

"Whatever's on our minds."

Jon huffed in frustration. This was exactly what he had been avoiding.

"Nothing's on my mind," he tried. A laugh escaped the older man.

"And I wasn't a smuggler," he chuckled. Jon frowned. How did a smuggler end up working for a high lord on Dragonstone. It was very peculiar. He pushed the information away for later though, returning to his "conversation".

"You're not going to leave this alone; are you?" He finally asked.

"I'm afraid not," was the response he got. "So is there anything you have on your mind?"

Jon sighed, looking back to the sea.

"My father, Lord Stark, isn't really my father, but my uncle. He lied."

He didn’t say who the real father was, nor the mother, betting that Davos would assume it was Brandon. He had been wild in his youth after all.

"How do you know?" Ser Davos asked.

"What does it matter," he said. "But I know it's the truth." The onion knight hummed in thought, but didn't bother to press, sensing Jon would only clam up if he did.

“I’m assuming this revolution is quite troublesome for you, isn’t it.”

Jon let out a hearty scoff. “I suppose you could say that.”

"Well,” the knight mused. “I said this to you when you arrived at the docs, and I'll say it again. Blood is blood. So what does it matter if your father isn't really your father? He's still family. And that's what's important."

"Yes, but-"

"He raised you, did he not?" Davos interrupted.

"Aye?"

"He loves you?"

"I always thought so," Jon replied uncertainly. His response drew a sad smile from Ser Davos.

"I promise you boy, he loved you. As every father loves their children."

"But he's not even my father," he argued.

"So what? He is in every way that counts. So what are you making a fuss about?" Jon, who was about to argue further, shut his mouth, taken aback. "The way I see it, you haven't lost anything. Your siblings are still your siblings. Your father is still your father. The only difference now is that you know who your mother is and happen to have another father. But that doesn't matter because he's gone." He paused, letting Jon take in everything he had said. "So what are you still complaining about?"

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

"Aye, that's what I thought." And with that, he got up and left for the keep, leaving Jon to his thoughts on the cliffside.

"Arya! Stop it," Sansa gasped, watching as her sister stabbed the table yet again with the knife meant to cut her breakfast.

"Why should I? I need the practice," the younger girl shot back.

"Practice for what?"

"The queen."

The sound of Sansa gasping again both in fright and astonishment filled the small room where all the Stark siblings breaking their fast. Jon, seated next to Arya, had half a mind to tell her to stop it and eat her ham and porridge and half a mind to laugh. He chose the prior.

"Sansa's right, Arya," he sighed, picking at his own meal. "It's distracting."

Arya turned on him, fury blazing in her stormy eyes. "Since when are you on her side?" She accused.

"I'm not on anyone's side," he tried.

"Yes you are, you agreed with her!"

"Because you're stabbing the table!"

"I told you, I'm practicing for Cersei!"

"That's enough!" All three of them stopped and turned to Ser Barristan, who was standing at the end of the room, having just left his own adjacent quarters, glaring at them, eyes hard as steel. "This is pointless squabble is getting us nowhere. It would be best if we all just ate our meals."

Grudgingly, Arya set down the knife and picked up her spoon, fiddling with her meal.

"Told you," Sansa muttered.

" All of you," the knight growled, before disappearing out the door. Sansa dipped her head in shame and returned to her meal, keeping her mouth shut. Beside her, Lady whined.

“I was talking with Ser Barristan earlier,” Jon said, trying to change the subject. “He says we'll be leaving for White Harbor soon. If Lord Stannis grants us a ship anyway.”

“So we're leaving father behind,” Arya said numbly.

“That's not what I'm saying,” Jon sighed.

“It might as well be!” With that, she pushed her plate away roughly and stood up, storming off out of the room.

That night,Jon had a vision. If he was being honest, he had been expecting it. It had only been a few days since the last one, but Jon had many questions to ask and a lot to talk about.

“Bran,” he said, scowling at the older version of his younger brother.

Older Bran frowned, looking him. “Something happened,” he surmised.

“You could say that,” Jon bit out. Seeing Bran’s confused face, he continued. “Cersei Lannister announced to the whole court that my father Eddard Stark was plotting against the crown by harboring the son of Rhaegar Targaryen with the intent to put him on the throne. Who was this mysterious Targaryen you may ask,” he spat. “It was me.”

Bran said nothing for several moments, instead watching Jon fume in silence.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” was all he said.

“You knew,” Jon hissed, bitter resentment boiling in his gut. His own brother!

“I see everything,” he replied simply. “Of course I knew.”

“And you wouldn't tell me?” He cried, now enraged. To his frustration, Bran didn't even seem fazed. Face still stuck in that bland expression he'd worn from the beginning.

“It wasn't my place,” was all he replied with.

“But I saw my mother! You showed me Lyanna at that tower,” he argued.

“That was a mistake,” Bran defended. “It was the first time I was successful in getting through to you,” he explained. “I meant to show you what would happen should you join the Night's Watch as you were planning to.”

“And what would have happened?” Jon challenged.

Without blinking, Bran looked him in the eye and simply said, “You would be stabbed to death by your brothers.”

Jon blinked, taken aback. The brothers of the Night's Watch didn't do that. They didn't betray one another. Why on earth would they do that to him? If Bran was even telling the truth, that was.

“Wait,” he said, coming to a realization. “That day in the woods, when I was riding with Robb, Maester Luwin said I had been stabbed, but they'd healed. Was that you?”

Bran didn't even have the grace to look guilty.

“Yes.”

“Why?” He growled. Why would he do that to his own blood? It was cruel.

“As I said, it was an accident,” he explained coolly. “I didn't mean for that to happen.”

Jon growled low under his breath, growing tired of his excuses. “If all you've come to do is explain yourself to me, I might as well wake up.”

“No, wait,” Bran said, a hint of desperation finally entering his vice. The sound gave Jon a faint glimmer of sick satisfaction. His levelheaded attitude had started to grate on him.

“You can't let father die,” Bran said. “If you do, Westeros will descend into madness and we'll never be able to prepare for the long night.”

Jon rose an eyebrow cautiously. “Well what am I supposed to do?” Jon challenged. “He's in King's Landing, and were headed to White Harbor soon.”

“I don't know, but you have to do something,” Bran pressed. “Please.”

Jon considered him for a moment. Through his general facade of disinterest, Jon could see the faint hint of desperation in his eyes. Bran was really worried about this! Somehow that surprised him.

“There's nothing I can do,” he sighed.

“Isn't there?”

Jon frowned.

“What are you saying?” He asked cautiously.

“If you can sneak out of King’s Landing,” he said. “Why not sneak in?”

Chapter Text

“A rescue attempt? Are you mad?”

Jon frowned in frustration as he stared his mentor down. He had brought up the idea of going back to King’s Landing and retrieving the lord, but Ser Barristan had immediately disapproved of the idea, and was trying to convince him not to. “If Lord Stark dies, the kingdom falls into war. I can't let that happen,” he argued, face growing hot from anger.

“And I can't let you go,” Barristan shot back. “I'm sorry Jon, but you're still recovering, and you're still but a boy. I can't let you do this.”

“I'm not asking permission!” He cried. “I'll go anyway. I just need some men to go with me.”

Normally the glower Ser Barristan was giving him would have him tucking his figurative tail, intimidated more than he'd care to admit. But right now, the only thing in Jon's mind was convincing the knight of his plan, and he cared little for his opinion.

“I mean to protect you and your sisters,” Barristan said forcefully. “I won't fail my duty because you sacrificed yourself on a suicide mission.”

“It won't need to be one,” Jon pressed. “Please, Ser Barristan.”

Something in his voice must have done something, because the knights expression suddenly softened. His shoulders slumped ever so much, and an almost defeated look passed over his face.

“No matter what I say, you'll do it anyway, won't you?” He asked. Jon didn't need to respond, his hard expression enough for the knight.

Ser Barristan sighed, running a tired hand down his face.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I know I can't convince you. But at least ask Lord Stannis for aid. If you're going to risk your life you better be smart about it.”

The sense of accomplishment Jon felt was almost enough to make him smile. Almost.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan, for agreeing to this,” he said.

“Don't thank me yet,” the knight said. “Your father’s still in King’s Landing.”

Yes, Jon thought. But he won't be for long.

The conversation with Lord Stannis had gone about as smooth as Jon had expected it to. He had explained the plan to the lord of Dragonstone and explained that they would need men if their attempt of rescuing Lord Stark could even dream of being accomplished. Stannis had the same stony, thoughtful look on his face the entire time Jon talked.

At last, Jon had finished and looked to him expectantly, waiting for his response.

“I will lend you a ship to rescue your father, that is all. And if any of men wish to aid you, that is fine as well.” Stannis announced, letting relief flood through Jon. “But I will not order any to do so. I would not risk their lives like that.”

It wasn't preferable, but it was enough for Jon. “I understand my Lord,” he said, nodding. “Anything you can give us is more than enough.”

“I will give you a ship, and any men who are willing to volunteer,” the stone faced Lord said. “Aside from that, I wish you the best of luck.”

Jon gave his thanks profusely and watched as the lord of Dragonstone took his leave.

“If I may, my lord,” Ser Davos cut in, stopping him from leaving. “I would like to volunteer my services to this cause.”

Stannis turned around and gave the onion knight a strange look of something between surprise and disbelief. But he didn't look angry. “Alright,” he said. “Of that is your wish.”

Ser Davos offered a short nod.

“Then you have until tomorrow to collect as many men that wish to help before you leave,” the lord said. “Again, I wish you well in the battle to come.” And with that, he departed the room.

Jon turned to Ser Davos with confusion.

“Why did you offer us your help?” He asked bluntly. “Not that I'm not grateful,” he added. “But I don't understand.”

The onion knight shrugged. “Lord Stark is a good man. And a good leader. People look up to him and respect him. A world without Eddard Stark is world that's a little bit darker and untrustworthy.”

Jon wanted to believe that was the truth, he really did. But he suspected it had more to do with he'd said to him in private.

“Alright,” Ser Barristan said, giving the man a thoughtful look. “The more hands, the better. We can use all the help we can get.”

“Well, can't say I'll be much good against those gold cloaks or Lannister men,” he said. “But I can get as close to the black cells as you could ask for.”

“And how's that?” Jon asked, intrigued.

“Simple,” he said, a hint of pride about him. “I'll smuggle you in.”

“You promise you'll come back?” Arya asked, following Jon down the gangway towards the ship. Over one shoulder he had packed a bag of what he would need for the trip. Just some armor and clothing, nothing much. On his waist hung Frostfang, cranking against his leg as he walked, offering a comforting weight.

“Ser Barristan and I have got ten men willing to help us free father, nine if you don't count Ser Davos,” he said. “I can't say what the outcome will be, but I'm optimistic.” It was a lie, and Arya knew it. He had no idea how this rescue attempt would go. They didn't have the numbers they hoped for, nor a decent plan of action, though they hoped to make one on the trip there.

“That's not what I asked,” Arya said, voice wavering slightly in worry. “I asked if you'll come back.”

Jon sighed and stopped walking, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself before turning around. He saw Arya standing there, tears pricking at her eyes. She looked so scared, so uncertain. It was heartbreaking, and an exact mirror to what Jon felt inside him.

“Oh Arya,” he sighed, kneeling down to her height. He hated seeing her like this. He put one hand on her shoulder and wrapped his other around her hand. So small and skinny, just like the rest of her. His large callused hand engulfed it completely, and he was reminded again just how young she was. Only nine years and having to go through this. It wasn't fair. Not to her, or anyone.

“I can't make a promise I don't know I can keep,” he said. “But I will try my damndest to free father. You know that, don't you?”

She gave a shaky nod, lip quivering as tears started to slide down her face.

“I'm just so scared,” she whispered. “For you and for father.” She sniffed. “I don't want to lose you. You’re my favorite brother.”

A hard lump wormed it’s way up Jon’s throat, and Jon found he couldn't say anything to that, the pain in his throat not letting him. So instead, he pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her thin arms around his neck and squeezed, like she never wanted to let go. If given the chance, she might have done just that.

But the world had different plans, and eventually he pulled himself away.

“Maybe I'll even bring back Nymeria and Needle,” he tried, hoping to lighten the mood. Arya smiled softly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Promise me you'll be safe,” she said. “Please.”

Jon offered a small nod in response. “I promise,” he said.

“Jon.”

Jon looked up at the newcomer, surprised to see Sansa standing behind Arya, clutching something in her hands. She must have walked up to them while they were talking.

“Sansa,” he said. “I thought you were staying back in the castle.”

“So did I,” she admitted, somewhat ashamed. “But I wanted to wish you luck. Here.” She held out her hand and showed him what she'd been holding. It was a token, like the kind ladies gave to knights at tourneys. It was a handkerchief with the Stark direwolf sown into it. But instead of the stitching being grey, it was a white wolf, with red eyes. It was Ghost.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said softly, taking it from her outstretched hands. “It's lovely.”

She mumbled a bashful thank you in response, blushing softly. Then she did something unexpected. She hugged him.

For a moment, Jon didn't know what to do. But eventually he remembered himself and hugged her back.

“Please be careful,” she whispered into his ear. “I don't want to lose my father and my brother.”

It was the first time in a long time she'd called him brother, Jon realized. Emotion griped his thrust and he fought to swallow the unwelcome lump.

“And Jon,” she said, pulling away. “Make the Lannisters pay for what they've done.”

A wolfish grin slid across Jon's face before he said, “Aye, I think I can manage that.”

The salty spray of the sea buffeted Jon's face as they sailed towards King’s Landing. Davis promised the journey to be quite quick, as they had the wind on their side. It had hardly been a day, yet the knight's words held true. Although there were no landmarks or anything of the sort to mark their distance from the capital, Jon knew they were getting close.

“Thought you'd be below deck.”

The sudden voice brought Jon out of his musings and he turned face Ser Davis, who was standing behind him.

“I like the fresh air,” Jon said. “It's cool, like the north.”

“Aye, I guess that would do it,” the knight conceded. It's always cool on the sea. The wind kicks up the ocean spray, making it feel damp and cold. I suppose I would want to be outside in it too if I were from the north.”

Jon smiled lightly at the man. Davos was nice to be around. He always knew what to say in any occasion. Weather it be trying to convince someone of something or cooling down the tension between two parties. He was also funny, in a serious sort of way. Able to lighten the mood without really trying. He also brought good council, which Jon appreciated very much.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Jon asked politely, wondering why the man had joined him.

“Yes, there is,” he said. “The other men are coming to meet below deck to try to work out our plan to rescue Lord Stark. Would you care to join us?”

Jon nodded and followed the man below deck. It took a bit for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he ignored it and followed Davos to the galley, where the rest of the men were gathered around a table, a map of the red keep spread out in front of them.

“Finally, we can start,” one man said. Jon was tempted to roll his eyes, but eventually decided against it. Aided also by a quick look from Ser Barristan, who’d seen the thought flash across Jon’s face.

“Now we can begin,” another said. “Are there any plans on how to get into the keep? Preferably one without guards?” Jon assumed this to be the leader of the group.

“There's a secret entrance that leads directly into Maegor's holdfast,” Jon said, stepping forward. “It's supposed to let out by the shore. We used it as our escape route when we fled the capital.”

“I can show the captain where it is so he knows where to dock the boat,” Barristan added.

“I think I know where you're talking about,” Davos cut in, nodding thoughtfully. “And if I’m right, I can get us there easily. It'll be a quick in and out if we pull this off right.”

“But what about the guards?” The second man said. “And I highly doubt the black cells are left devoid of any men, regardless of how well built they are.”

“You are right about that,” Ser Barristan agreed. “Unfortunately I don’t know much about the station of the guards, but I know if we plan it right, we can make it around them easily.”

“But what about finding Lord Stark?” The man continued. “It's practically a maze down there.”

“I think I have a way of helping with that as well,” Jon said. “There are two Stark direwolves still in the keep. If I can get to them, we can send them ahead of us and hopefully they'll be able to find Lord Stark by scent.”

“That's a big gamble there, boy,” one man said. “You don't even know if they alive, or where they'd be.”

“They're alive,” Jon said firmly, remembering his dream of being inside Ghost.

“If you say so,” he huffed, unconvinced. Jon scowled, but chose to remain silent. Nothing good would come if arguing.

“Alright, let's say we get past the guards and get to Lord Stark. Do we have a plan of getting out?” The other man asked, looking around at them.

“Just like when we go in,” Jon offered. “Send the wolves ahead to take care of any men before we get to them, so they're easier to deal with, before going back to the boat. Simple.”

“We have to assume the worst things that could happen and plan for those, as well,” Barristan cut in, giving Jon a measured look. “Best case scenario is that is how it goes down. But there are a lot of unknown factors involved, so we have to plan for those as well.”

Jon nodded stiffly in agreement, wishing it could actually be as simple as a best case scenario. Logically he knew that would never be the case. But it was the only plan that was coming to mind.

“Alright, this is what we'll do,” the man said eventually, and they started their plan to rescue Lord Stark from the clutches of the Lannisters.

Chapter Text

Cersei stood on a balcony looking out over the blackwater, watching the ships sailing into and out of the harbor. In her hand was a glass of sweet summer wine. It was her fifth in the past two hours. But she had good reason to drink. Robert had just been pronounced dead almost a week ago. Not that that was the reason for her drinking. No, it had to do with her son. Joffrey's coronation was that morning. It quite a rushed affair, but she had insisted on it being done as soon as possible. Her reasoning being that with the knowledge of a Targaryen out there, the houses that had once supported them would go flocked to join him and take advantage of the crowns vulnerability, ultimately casting them off their seat of power. Hence, the rushed coronation. Of course that wasn’t the true reason. She just wanted a Lannister on the throne as soon as possible. But his first act as King had immediately been to call forth Eddard Stark for a trail for his crimes. And Cersei knew this trail would only end one way. In death.

And that was why she stood there on the balcony, her fifth glass of wine in hand, draining it just like the others.

"Your Grace," a guard said from behind her.

"Has it started then?" She asked dryly, not bothering to turn around.

"Not yet, your Grace," the guard said.

She took another long sip of her wine, draining the cup in one go. "Alright," she said, putting the chalice down. She took one last look at the harbor and the setting sun before turning around. "Best not make him wait then."

The sun was setting as they sailed through the blackwater towards King's Landing. Jon stood at the prow of the ship watching the city come ever closer. At the stern, steering it in, was Ser Davos. The man was just as good, if not better, than he had claimed to be at sailing. It was as if the salt water flowed through his veins like his own lifeblood, rejuvenating him and sending them flying towards the mainland. They had made excellent time. Whereas it had taken nearly three days to sail to Dragonstone, it took only a day and a half to sail back. Jon as quite impressed.

"Nervous?" A voice asked behind him. Jon turned around to see Ser Barristan standing there in his armour, save his white cloak. It seemed as though that had been left behind.

"Perhaps," Jon admitted. "But it doesn't matter what I'm feeling. We have to do this."

Ser Barristan smiled widely at the response, somehow finding it amusing. "Spoken like a true knight," he mused. Jon scoffed in response.

"I'm not a knight."

Ser Barristan shrugged in response and walked up to join him at the railing. One hand was resting lightly on his sword, an automatic motion for a knight of the Kingsguard. His keen eyes were searching the shore like a falcon searching for a rabbit. He was on edge.

"Are you nervous?" Jon asked.

"Yes, but not of dying," was his cryptic response. Jon narrowed his eyes in confusion, but ultimately let it go, decided not to dig into its meaning.

"Better get your things ready lads!" Ser Davos called down across the deck. "We'll be ashore soon."

And so it begins, Jon thought, stomach tightening in anticipation.

They weighed anchor in a small, tucked away alcove Ser Davos had pointed out. Jon hadn't even seen it from the water, and knew from looking at it that no one would be able to see from shore. A perfect hiding spot for a ship. How Ser Davos had even known it was there was a mystery to him. Jon was starting to understand why this man was such a good smuggler.

"Alright, I'll wait here with the ship while you all go in," Ser Davos told them as they loaded into the rafts that would take them to the hidden entrance Ser Barristan had told them about. Jon waited tensely in the boat as they made their way towards it, knuckles turning white as his grip on Frostfang tightened. The last real battle he'd been in hadn't ended well, much to his frustration. He was determined not to let that happen again.

The boat pulled up onto the shore, and all the men got out.

Now it was time for part one of the plan.

The dragon caverns truly lived up to their name. In the light of their torches, Jon saw skulls larger than a horse as they made their way into the keep. It was breathtaking. He paused before the largest one he saw, trying to take it all in.

This must be Balerion, he thought, looking onto the empty eye sockets of the long dead beast. For a moment, he forget all the politics and wars that the Targaryen dynasty had created towards the end of their reign and let himself be amazed that his ancestors had ridden these magnificent creatures. It only lasted a few seconds though, and soon he was dragged back to the present. The present where he was trying to rescue Lord Stark and ensure the realm wouldn't destroy itself in war.

"Beautiful, aren't they," someone whispered to him, having noticed his pause.

"Aye," he whispered back. "They are."

They continued through the caverns in silence, torchlight flickering across the walls and skeletons ominusly.

Then a bone snapped.

“Halt!” Barristan hissed, hand shooting for his sword. The rest of the men followed suit, hands on the hilts of their respective weapons, ready for a fight.

“No, wait!” Jon called up to him. Everyone turned to look at him with bemused and bewildered expressions. Ignoring them, Jon slowly made his way out towards the source of the noise, heading into the dark.

“Jon!” One of the men hissed. He waved them off, slowly sinking into a crouch as he scanned the darkness.

“Ghost,” he called in a harsh whisper. Then holding out his hand, he called, “To me.”

For a moment there was silence. He could feel all the eyes of the party boring into him, as if he were mad. But again, he ignored them, instead focusing on even the littlest detail, hoping to spot the white coat of his direwolf.

Minutes past in silence, and Jon had almost given up when something moved in the corner of his vision. He turned and gasped audibly as the site of a large white figure came stalking out of the darkness, wine red eyes sparkling in the fire light.

“ Ghost! ”

The creature bounded forward and suddenly Jon had a face full of fire and a tongue dragging roughly across his cheek.

“This is your beast?” One of the men asked, breaking the moment between Jon and his wolf.

“Yes, this is Ghost. He’ll help us find Lord Stark. Just like I said he would.” Ghost huffed in agreement. The sound of another creature making its way towards them made Jon look up. It was Nymeria, thank the Gods. Arya would have been devastated had she died.

“Can we go now?” Someone groaned. “We don’t have much time.”

No, we don’t, Jon thought to himself.

"How do we get to the Black Cells from here?" One man asked, looking to Ser Barristan.

"Follow me," was his response. He led the group through a maze of tunnels and passageways before they found what must be the prison. Jon could see torches mounted on walls throughout the hallway, but even so, it was far too dim to see into the cells themselves without another torch. He was glad they had found Ghost and Nymeria so they wouldn’t have to look into them.

Jon crouched down onto the floor, eye level with Ghost.

“Alright boy,” he said quietly. “I’m going to need you to sniff out father. You think you can do that?” Ghost licked his face in response.

“If you honestly think he understood that, you must be mad,” one of the men said. Jon grit his teeth but said nothing in response.

“Go on,” he whispered, nudging the wolf lightly into the hallway. “I’ll be right behind.”

Without hesitation, Ghost took off into the hall, nose low towards the ground. Jon wasted no time getting up to follow him. Ghost led them through the cells, taking twists and turns with no hesitation. It was a long few minutes before they finally came to a stop in front of a cell door.

Jon motioned for the men behind to halt, to which they complied. Ghost scratched impatiently at door, signaling to Jon it was the right one. Jon took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Lord Stark was in there. They almost had him! He stepped towards the door, trying to peer through the bars.

“Watch out!”

A flash of steel was all Jon saw before he ducked. The clang of steel on steel resonated through the hallway as his attackers sword hit the bars of the cell door, missing him.

“Intruders!” His attacker cried out. “Intruders!”

The sound of heavy footfalls filled the corridor as more guards ran to the first one’s aid, coming from both ahead of and behind them. They were trapped!

Without thinking, Jon kicked out at whoever his attacker was. They stumbled from his attack and fell backwards, allowing Jon to get to them and sink his sword into their neck. Blood spurted up from the wound, hitting Jon in face. He ignored it as he yanked his sword out, going in again to make sure the man died quickly.

Glancing around briefly, Jon saw everyone else was caught up in their own battle. They had no hope of leaving anytime soon.

Something knocked into his knees and Jon was knocked to the floor. Frostfang dropped from his hand and went clattering across of the ground, out of reach. He immediately turned onto his back and saw Ghost inches from his face, turned around and snarling silently at his would be killer, who must have tried to stab Jon in the back before Ghost had pushed him away.

The man shoved Ghost aside and lunged towards Jon.

Jon kicked out, landing his foot in the man's nose. Something cracked and the man reeled back, clutching his face. Jon took the opportunity to reach for Frostfang, hands closing around the hilt and dragging it back to him just in time to parry a blow.

Then Ghost was back and attacked the man's legs furiously. He cried out in pain before trying to shake him off to no avail. Jon used the distraction to swing at him, successfully taking him down as well.

He went down fast, Ghost finishing him off by ripping at his throat, white muzzle stained red.

Now it was silent.

Bodies littered the cramped hallway, laying in odd positions as their lifeblood slowly drained out of them, wetting the stones beneath. Only one of his men had fallen, and Jon knew just be looking that there was no hope for him. Just as there was no hope hope for the guards lying at his feet, the one’s whose blood dripped off of Frostfang.

Jon paused, struck with sudden realization. He’d just taken his first life.

He stared down absently at the blood pooling around his feet and shining on his hands. He hadn’t even thought anything of it either, and that almost scared him. But he determinedly pushed it aside, for he had other things to worry about.

“Lord Stark,” Jon breathed, rushing back towards the cell door.

“No use,” someone choked out just as Jon reached it. Scowling, he whirled around to find one of the guards propped up against the wall, hand pressed to his stomach in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding.

“What do you mean?” Jon growled.

"He's bein' taken to the king," the guard laughed, blood gurgling in his throat from the effort. "You're too late."

Jon ignored him and turned back to the door, peering into the cell. The window was small, and the light was dim, but he couldn’t see any sign of a person in there. The chains on the walls were empty, laying on the ground forlorn.

“Like I said,” the guard said again. “You’re too late.”

Jon turned and growled in anger before thrusting his sword hard into the man's chest. The force of it drove the sword clean through him, the tip hitting the wall behind him. He let out a garbled choking sound before falling limp. Dead.

"We can't let him get to the king," Barristan announced.

"I know," Jon growled, yanking his sword out. Blood dripped off the end in thick droplets, the blade shining darkly in the torchlight. "Let's go."

The group nodded and rushed off down the passageway, Ghost taking the lead with Ser Barristan right behind.

Wait , Jon thought to himself. If he’s being taken to Robert, surely the king wouldn’t pass judgement too harshly. They’re like brothers after all. Jon had to admit it confused him. But then another thought hit him. King Robert was sick when we left, He realized. Could he have… Jon didn’t dare finish that thought, too sickened by it to try. For if he was no longer king, that meant his “son” had now taken up the crown.

And if it’s Joffrey passing the sentence, he thought bitterly as he raced down the corridor with the other men. There’s no hope for him.

Chapter Text

When Ned had been taken out of his cell, he knew it was the last time he’d see it. Weather that was a good thing or not had yet to be seen.

The guards said nothing as they led him down the dark passageways of the black cells, but he knew where they were going. He was being taken to his trial. He wasn’t a fool to think Robert would be there. He was certain Cersei had made sure his old friend was still abed, if not worse. He had little to no doubt it would her he would be facing. She would undoubtedly be one of the jurors or witnesses, along with whoever else hated the Targaryens or simply wanted more power. Littlefinger might be there as well, that damned weasel. If it were possible, he would break out of the chains restricting him and hunt that bastard down for what he had done to his family. For what he had done to Jon.

He wished he had never told Cat that Jon was in King’s Landing. Then this whole mess would have been avoided, and he wouldn’t be marching to his death.

But then again, if he hadn’t then who knows what would have happened. Cat would have been out for Lannister blood. And while she wasn’t wrong in her need for justice, he was sure her way of doing so would be a good way to start conflict. Raising tensions between two major houses wouldn’t have been a good way to start off his position as Hand, and would have put more pressure on him. The point was moot now though, as he was currently in chains and accused of treason. But that was something that may have been a long time coming.

Is this you’re doing, Lyanna? He thought to himself dryly. Punishment for not raising your son better? As humorous as the thought was, he knew she would never had wanted this. But it was suffice to say he could have done better. He had never shunned Jon or anything of the sort, but there had always been that distance between them. A distance he didn’t have with his own trueborn children. Deep down, or maybe not so deep down, Jon must have known this. And it must have hurt.

Yes, Ned could have done better, but he hadn’t. And now he was paying the price.

“Where could he be?” Jon hissed to himself as they turned down another corner. Ghost and Nymeria kept running on ahead, the noses to the floor as they tracked his scent.

“Don’t stop now,” one of Stannis’ men hissed as he rushed past him. Jon grunted in acknowledgement and picked up the pace.

They had only encountered a few guards in their mad dash through the cells, but those had been taken care of easily. Now they were almost out of the cells entirely, as Barristan had informed them. Which wasn’t very good for them, because if Eddard was back in the castle, there was no way they would be able to do anything. They would lose him, and everything Jon had worked to avoid for the past few months would have been for nothing. A frustrated snarl ripped through him and he pushed forward, desperate to make it in time.

“Jon!” he heard Barristan shout. He only had a moment to process it before a sword came swinging towards him from his blind spot.

Barristan’s sword came between them, the sound of metal on metal ringing in his ears as Jon jumped back.

They had come to another corner, but instead of being met with an empty hallway this time, there was a group of men, all gold cloaks, who seemed to be escorting a prisoner.

Jon barely had time to see who it was before launching himself into the fray.

It was his father.

"Jon!" Ned cried in surprise.

Jon wasted to time rushing forward and dispatching the first guard, swiping low and getting his stomach, which was protected only by leathers, which his sword cut through easily.

The men behind them took that as their cue and rushed forward as well, swords raised ready to fight.

“Call for backup!” Someone shouted, and Jon watched in dismay as one of the gold cloaks bolted down the hall towards the keep. Damn!

They didn’t have long then, Jon realized. They needed to finish this fight and get out before reinforcements arrived.

Ducking under a blade, he felt someone kick him in the back and he went sprawling forward onto the stone floor. Pepples scraped his cheeks and hands, but the pain was trivial and he pushed it aside, righting himself and turned to face his opponent.

This one wore a white cloak. Jon immediately recognized him for who he was.

"You're that Targaryen bastard, aren't you.” It was Ser Jaime Lannister of the kingsguard.

Jaime growled, raising his sword. Jon gulped nervously, but followed suit. Ser Jaime was one of the best swordsman in the seven kingdoms. And despite how good Jon was, Jaime had much more experience.

"I suppose it doesn't matter," he continued. "You'll be dead soon anyway."

Jaime lunged towards him and it was all Jon could do to parry the blow. He was much faster than he'd anticipated. Jaime came at him again and Jon met him blow for blow. A sharp sting on his arm told him he'd been grazed by the knight's sword. Meanwhile, he hadn't landed a single blow himself. But that wasn't the goal. The goal was to get away, not to kill. As tempting as it was.

Jon raised his sword only to block another swing made by the Lannister. He was fast! Jon had of course heard the stories of his skill, but hearing about it and seeing it up close were two very different things.

He managed to just narrowly avoid what would have been a killing blow by backpedaling  and parrying awkwardly, which resulted in his sword flying from his grip and him running into the wall. Damn, cornered. The Lannister smirked, realizing the same thing as Jon. He stepped forward and brought his sword up again for a finishing blow.

Only to cry out in pain as Ghost clamped down on his exposed knee.

“Damned beast!” He cried, kicking him away. Something snapped loudly and Jon saw Ghost’s leg twist into a sickening angle.

Anger flared hot in Jon’s belly as he watched what Jaime had done to his wolf. Without thinking he rushed forward while he was distracted and punched him square in the face. It wasn’t tactical, but damn did it feel good. The man's head snapped back from the force, and Jon kicked him hard in the knee, the same one Ghost had just bit.

“ARGH!”

He fell to his knees, one gloved hand holding his swelling jaw, one still gripping his sword. He slashed out blindly at Jon, but the boy ducked under it, picking up Frostfang while he was at it.

“This is for Bran,” he growled.

Then he rammed the pommel as hard as he could into the man nose, and he crumpled to the ground. Unconscious.

All was still for a moment.

Then Jon realised why as he looked around.

Everyone was dead. Or rather, all the gold cloaks were. Stannis’ men however were fine. Or rather, as fine as one could be after a battle. Some clutched onto still bleeding wounds while others were leaning against a wall. But all around they were alive and didn’t have any serious injuries.

“Jon.”

The voice brought him out of his reverie.

He turned and saw in the dim firelight Eddard, the man who had supposedly been his father, staring at him. Alive.

“Father,” he sighed, the word slipping out before he could stop himself.

There was a long moment between the two where neither spoke, just stared. He had saved his father. He had done it. He wasn’t going to die! The realization made his breath catch in his throat. He could hardly believe it. Months of seeing his father’s decapitated head rolling down steps and he had managed to stop the real thing.

He had really done it.

He didn’t even realize that his feet were moving until he’d engulfed the man in a bone crushing hug. His nose was buried in the man's shoulder, the his scratchy clothing tickling Jon’s cheek. He had dropped his sword somewhere along the way, the metal still ringing from hitting the floor. The man smelled like sweat and shit, but it didn’t matter, because he was alive. Long seconds passed before anyone said anything. And thankfully, it was Ned who broke the silence.

“Jon.” It was little more than a whisper, but he heard it as clearly as he would have if it had been spoken aloud. “It’s good to see you.”

Jon had to try hard to suppress the smile trying to split his face open as he pulled away.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” was his response.

He would live to see another day. To help them stop the wars that were coming. To ensure no red wedding would happen. To avoid everything Bran had told him about, all the horrors they would have faced otherwise.

They had successfully saved Eddard Stark.

But one question still remained. How the fuck were they going to get out of here?

Chapter Text

Eddard Stark was alive. He wasn’t going to be beheaded for treason or any other reason a Lannister could concoct. He was a free man, and would remain so until the day he died.

If they could get out of the Black Cells.

The realization of the fact dawned on Jon and the smile that had come from seeing his father alive and well slowly slipped off his face. Only half of the rescue was finished, they still had a bit more to do.

“We need to start moving,” he said seriously, turning to his men.

“What about him?” one asked, pointing his bloodied sword at the Kingslayer, who lay in a heap on the ground where Jon had brained him with Frostfang. He had wanted to kill man, had wanted to run his sword through his neck and watch the life leave his eyes, but he hadn’t. Jaime Lannister was an important figure, whether he liked it or not. Killing him would have been an act of war against the Queen. Whereas treason against Cersei, unfounded or not, was one thing; killing her brother and lover was another. Even ignoring that, he was part of a mager house. It would be like declaring war.

As if rescuing Lord Stark wasn’t , a small part of his brain reminded him. He shoved the thought away for later. One thing at a time. And right now, they needed to deal with the Kingslayer and get out of King’s Landing.

“We should take him hostage,” Jon said, finally answering the original question. “We can use him as a bartering chip against Cersei and the Lannisters in the future. There’s no way they would simply let him die.”

His men nodded in agreement before two of them hauled the man up. His head dropped forward onto his chest, golden hair falling in front of his face. It was the least distinguished Jon had ever seen the man, and if it were any other circumstance he might have laughed.

“Now, how the fuck do we get out here?”

Jon couldn’t have said it better himself.

It was a maze down here, and they would never get out without a proper map or guild. Not without risking the lives of his men.

He didn’t have the opportunity to answer though as voices and the sound of footsteps started to sound from down the hall.

Reinforcements.

“Let’s figure that out later,” Jon said. “Right now we need to move.”

No one seemed to disagree and the party started off down the corridors. There was little to no firelight to lead them, and they were left stumbling blindly through the dark. It was a dangerous way to go, and one that would surely lead to them getting caught, and Jon didn’t want to risk that. Most of his men were injured, and were slowed down due to their prisoner and Lord Stark himself, still fatigued from his stay in the cells.

They needed a solution. And fast.

Skidding to a stop, Jon whirled around, looking down at Ghost and Nymeria. The rest of the men also halted, following the actions of their leader. Clearly he seemed to have a plan.

Jon looked down at the direwolves, thinking. They were covered in blood, some of it their own. They knew they were trapped too. They’re sense of smell could get them out, but…

Nymeria’s nose was bleeding heavily, an angry gash across it being the source. She would be no help whatsoever. That meant it was down to Ghost. But one look at him told Jon he was in no condition to run anywhere. His paw was twisted in a gruesome way, and he could barely stand on his own.

On his own.

That’s it!

Then an idea sprang to him. Without pause, he turned to Ser Barristan, who was pulling his sword out of some gold cloak, blood splattered across his clothing. Jon didn’t waste a moment grabbing his attention.

Gods, I hope this works, he thought desperately.

“Catch me,” Jon said.

Confusion flashed across the knights face. “What?”

Without bothering to explain, Jon’s eyes rolled back into his head and he crumpled where he stood. Ser Barristan immediately rushed forward to grab him, stopping him from crashing into the stone floor.

Somewhere else, Ghost perked up and turned to look knowingly at the knight, blood red eyes giving him a hard look that seemed to say demand his cooperation before bolting off down the passageway, forcing him and his men to follow . The very confused and worried knight but no choice but to go along with it, tossing Jon over his shoulder like a sack of flower.

The smell of blood hit him before anything else did. Blinking his eyes, Jon realized his plan had worked as he looked around. His leg- or rather Ghost’s leg- throbbed. But he could push through it, even if Ghost couldn’t. Looking up at Barristan, he saw the man had followed through with his request when he saw his limp body slung over the man's shoulder. There would be questions, for sure. But that came later.

With a quick jerk of his head, he motioned for everyone to follow before bolting off down the passageways, the sounds of reinforcements already reaching his ears. They didn’t have long.

The cells smelled like shit and blood, so it was hard to make out their owns scent trail.

And yet-

There it is!

It was faint, but it was there. Sticking his nose to the ground, he rushed forward. Ghost could have done this on his own, he knew, but with his paw the way it was, the reinforcements gaining on them would have easily caught up. Jon hated to do this to his wolf, but it had to happen, so he pushed forward at a rough gallop, paw throbbing painfully all the while. When Jaime Lannister woke up, he was going to tear him a new one for hurting Ghost like this.

The hallway curved sharply and it was all Jon could do to not ram into the wall as he skid around the corner. A faint salty scent reached his nose suddenly. They were nearing the caves!

“Almost there,” he heard Barristan breathe from over his shoulder, the encouragement spurring his men on.

Finally they burst into the dragon caves, the smell of dust and old bones hitting his nose like a hammer. But it was also when the sound of the men who’d been chasing them started to seriously echo in the hall behind them.

If Jon had had use of his mouth, he would have sworn.

Luckily, he didn’t have to, because someone else in the party did it for him. “Fuck!” The cried.

“We’re almost there,” Ser Barristan shot back. “It’s just around the corner.”

Hopefully the knight wasn’t wrong.

Skidding around another corner, moonlight suddenly spilt over everything like a silver torch, and Jon could see the cliffs and a beach. They’d made it!

“Oye, stop them!”

Fuck, the guards. Glancing back as they rushed across the sand, Jon could see ten armed men running at them out of the tunnel, swords all drawn. They were fucked. The party rushed onwards though, towards the tugboat and the smuggler manning it. They had to push off NOW or else they were all going back to the cells. And that was not going to happen.

Letting out a silent growl of frustration, Jon leapt forward and landed in front of the boat, pushing against the damp wood as hard as Ghost’s body and his twisted paw would allow. It barely budged from its place in the sand, and the only thing he accomplished was sinking his paws into the gritty stuff from the force. Davos seemed to get the hint and jumped into action, forcing the boat out of the sand and into the surf, others joining quickly as well. Finally, the boat was pushed forward into the oncoming waves.

Soon enough cold water started to lap at him, soaking him through, and finally they got to a point where Ghost’s paws no longer touched the ground. But now he was faced with another problem. Getting in the boat. Then someone grabbed his scruff roughly and pulled him up, dropping him harshly into the boat. Not exactly the best way to get on, but he supposed he shouldn’t be too picky, considering.

Muffled shouting from the shore meant they had managed to get out of range. A quick glance back confirmed it, as he watched smugly as the guards were standing waist deep in the chilly water, shouting angrily as they made their escape.

“Pick up a damn ore and start rowing,” Davos shouted at the men, startling Jon. “This boat wasn’t meant for this many people, we’ll capsize if we don’t get back to the ship soon.”

Well, still not out of the woods, he thought. But good enough, Jon let himself think, releaf flowing into him. A quick sweep of the boat and he confirmed that everyone had made it. His father, Ser Barristan, his men, everyone. Even, he thought perterbled, his body. It was weird to see it, slumped against the prow like that. Perhaps he should return to it, if he could figure out how.

It couldn’t be too hard , he thought. After all, he’d just escaped King’s Landing. So this should be a quinch.

Hopefully.

It should be fine though.

Chapter Text

Ned had been worried when Jon had collapsed in the tunnels unexpectedly. He had warned Ser Barristan right before, but that hardly explained anything. So he was beyond relieved when on the boat ride back to the ship, he had woken up.

He hadn’t seemed disoriented in the least, which surprised him, simply shooting him a look that said “we’ll talk about this later”. Ned couldn’t tell if that reassured him or not.

Reaching the ship, Ned climbed out of the tugboat and landed roughly on the dec, feet threatening to slip on the wet wood. It was dark, no lanters or torches lighting the deck. It was a miracle they even found the ship at all.

"Is that everyone?" The man with a heavy Flea Bottom accent from the beach asked once they were all aboard. He must be the captain, Ned thought absently.

"Aye," he heard Jon call back in a tired voice. "Everyone alive that is," he added miserably. If the captain heard, he didn't comment.

"We'll light the lanterns once we're a safe distance away. Don't want no one following us. Not after all the trouble we went through to get here."

Ned couldn't agree more.

The sailed for what felt like hours before Davos finally gave them the all-clear. He said light could travel for miles, and he didn’t want to risk anyone from Kings Landing or the Blackwater rush seeing anything out of place.

Soon enough, the lanterns all flickered to life, and Ned was allowed to get a good look at his rescuers.

"Jon," he breathed, finally getting a good look at his nephew. His nephew whom he hadn't seen since Cersei had ordered her men to kill him. His nephew who, at the moment, was covered in blood.

"Oh Gods, Jon!" He cried, grasping him and checking to see where all the blood was coming from.

"It's not mine," he rushed out. "I wasn't hurt. I swear." Ned breathed a deep sigh and stepped backwards, relieved.

"Thank the Gods," he breathed. Jon ducked his head, uncomfortable under the sudden attention and concern. At his side, Ghost reached up and licked his hand comfortingly. He scratched his ear in return, still feeling guilty for forcing his wolf to run on his injured paw. He would have Stannis' maester look it over once they landed on Dragonstone, but not before splinting it up.

An awkward silence suddenly stretched between the two northmen, and Jon realized just how much he wanted to ask the man now that he was safe. How much he had to say to him. Before, in the cells, it hadn’t mattered as much. They were under attack after all. It hadn’t been the place. But now, with the buzz of the battle winding down, his brain was almost exploding with everything unsaid, and with no outlet to let it out.

Ned seemed to realize this, thank the Gods.

"We should talk," he said quietly, glancing around at Stannis' men. They didn't need to hear what he had to say to Jon.

A stiff nod from Jon was all he got before they went below deck.

They stood in the small galley, Jon sitting on one of the rickety stools while Ned leaned against the wall, staring each other down. The ship rocked about in the waves, causing the lantern that hung from the ceiling to swing about, throwing shadows across the wall.

“So what was that earlier,” Ned finally asked. “In the cells.” He didn’t need to elaborate before his nephew replied.

Jon gave him a measured look before responding. “It’s called warging,” he said simply. “It’s when someone can slip into the skin of an animal. I discovered the talent recently.” He offered no further information than that.

Ned sighed. He could see it on his face, there was something else he wanted to talk about. And Ned knew what.

"Did you ever plan on telling me?" Jon asked stiffly, grey eyes hard as steel.

"Jon-" he tried.

"Did you?"

A pause. "No."

Jon face contorted into a deep scowl, eyebrows drawn together tightly and lips drawn into a silent snarl, much like the ones Ghost wore when threatened.

"Why?" He demanded.

Ned sighed in frustration, running a tired hand down his face. "It was too much of a danger to you, and to the family. You have to have known that," he said. "I didn't want to have that threat hanging over your head."

"So you let me believe I was your bastard son for years?" Jon accoused. "That I was the product of your one moment of weakness? The blemish on your perfect honor?"

"That was never true of you," Ned growled, growing angry.

"How could I have known that?" he retorted. "I spent my whole life not knowing why I didn't have a mother. And there was no one there to tell me why. Except you, but you refused! Do you know what that was like?"

"Well what should I have done!"

"You could have told me the truth!" Jon cried, enraged. "Then I wouldn't have had to find out from Cersei Fucking Lannister that you're not even my father right before she tried to have me killed!" A pause. "You could have done that!"

"Jon-"

Instead of listening, Jon stormed out of the room, slamming the door violently behind him. And that was that.

It had been well over an hour before he finally found his nephew in one of the ships cargo rooms, sitting on a crate and looking out the window. It wasn’t a large ship, but Ned had figured Jon would need some time to cool off before he sought him out. It was dark in the cabin, as there were no lanterns or candles lit, and the window was pushed ajar; letting in the cool salty night air. Jon sat there on a crate, looking off into the starry night. Ned could see the ghosts of tears on his cheeks and the faint red rim around his eyes, telling him that he’d been crying. But had long since stopped. His direwolf Ghost sat at his feet, looking sadly up at his master. Ned was sure if the animal made any noise, he’d be whining sorrowfully, feeling his master's emotions like they were his own.

“Are you here to tell me more lies?” Was the scathing remark he was met with. Ned felt as though he’d been punched hearing those words, and hated to admit they hurt as much as they did.

“I’m here to make sure you’re okay,” he said calmly, taking a seat opposite Jon, who was still staring out the window, refusing to meet his eye.

“Why did you do it?” Jon finally asked.

“Do what?”

“Lie.” This time he did turn to meet his gaze, and Ned was surprised to see the hollow, broken look in his grey eyes, so much like his sisters. “You lied to me all my life, to everyone. You said I was your son, you’re bastard, when really I was the son of your sister and Rhaegar Targaryen.” He paused to collect himself before going on. “I went my whole life thinking I was a mistake, a stain on your honor when in reality I wasn’t.”

“I did it to protect you,” he said.

“I could have lived with someone else,” Jon tried, voice cracking with emotion. “You wouldn’t have had to deal with me, the supposed stain on your honor. You’re wife wouldn’t have had to deal with me. I could have been hidden away with some family who would have happily taken me in. So why did you lie?”

Ned let out a great sigh, unsure what to say. “You deserved better than that,” he managed. “You’re a Stark, you deserved to be raised in Winterfell alongside your family. You deserved to walk the halls your ancestors did, to learn to use a sword as your father did, to ride across the moors as your mother did.” A pause. “And I couldn’t bare to lose the last part of my sister left in the world.”

Jon was silent for a long moment, his gaze dropping to his lap where he fiddled absently with his tunic, fingers twisting and pulling the fabric around. At his feet, Ghost stood and gave his hands a lick of comfort. Jon in turn stroked the wolf’s fur, unable to do anything else.

"Jon's not my real name, is it," Jon said suddenly.

"No," Ned replied. "It's not." Jon grimaced and turned back to the window, hand carding through Ghosts fur. "Would you like to know what it is?"

"No," Jon clipped. "Not yet, anyway."

Ned sighed. He hadn't thought so. There was a long moment between them before anyone spoke up again.

“Will you tell me about her?” Jon asked quietly. Ned didn't need to ask to know who he was talking about.

He took a deep breath before speaking, assessing his nephew. He looked small, more so than his height made him. His normally brooding face seemed longer than usual and his grey eyes, his mother's eyes, were stormy with conflicting emotions. Ned felt his heart pull from guilt and regret. He wished Jon hadn't had to find out this way. That he could have sat him down in his solar and discussed it more in depth. Have him understand it all rather than this. But it had happened, and his nephew was in pain and in need of answers. Answers which only he could give.

“Of course,” Ned replied. “What do you wish to know?”

Jon didn't look up from his hands before asking his question. “Did she love him?”

Did Rhaegar kidnap and rape her, was what he clearly meant. But to talk of his mother that way, Ned imagined he wouldn't do that to her memory.

“Aye, I believe so,” he said. “I can't imagine Lyanna going willingly with someone she didn't love.”

The comment brought a small smile to Jon’s lips, and Ned knew he was doing something right. So he decided to continue.

“She was a fierce woman, your mother,” he said. “She was unstoppable on horseback, and she learned how to use a sword and a bow just like myself and my brothers. ‘The blood of the wolf’, my father called it. Much like Arya. Willful and strong.”

This time a full, if not sad, smile lit up Jon's features, and he turned his gaze back up to his.

“They would have gotten along wouldn't they?” He asked. Ned chuckled and nodded. “Lady Stark might not have liked that, though,” he added with his own chuckle.

“She wasn't just wild, you know,” he said with a sad smile of his own, lost in his memories. “She loved beautiful things, too. Blue winter roses were her favorite. In fact, she was a beauty in her own right, like Sansa. That was why Robert was so enraptured by her.”

“That's why he started the war,” Jon added somberly. Ned could only give a stiff nod in response. “Why did she do it? She had already been betrothed to Robert, had she not?”

Ned took another deep breath to collect himself before answering.

“When Rhaegar crowned her the queen of love and beauty at the tourney of Harrenhal, Robert was enraged. Hells, the whole country was enraged. Rhaegar already had a wife and two children. It was considered a slight against them. Robert was furious, Brandon was furious, I was furious. When Brandon crushed the crown of winter roses afterwards, that might have been her tipping point.

“She didn't want to marry Robert. She knew what kind of man he was, even if I couldn't quite see it yet. She didn't want that kind of life for herself. So when Rhaegar showed her his favor, perhaps she saw it as a way out. Perhaps not. I'm not one to speak for her wants or desires. But in the end she ran away with him and they married in Dorne. I knew none of this until after. None of us did.”

Across from him, Jon was silent. His face bore an expression Ned found he couldn't read, and it worried him. What was he thinking? Did he resent him for keeping the truth hidden all these years? Was he mad at his mother for what she'd done? His father? There was so much that could be going through his mind, but Ned couldn't tell what.

Finally, his nephew spoke up, his voice cracking only slightly when he asked, “Did she want me?”

Ned didn't even hesitate to reply. And in his most sure, most sincere tone possible, said, “Yes.”

Jon perked up with a hopefulness Ned couldn't describe.

“Her last words were of your safety. She begged me to promise her I would do whatever I could to protect you.”

Promise me, Ned. Promise me.

This time the memory didn't leave him  feeling hollow.

“She loved you with all her heart, Jon,” he said, noticing his nephew’s cheeks were now stained with tears. “And she would be so proud of the man you've become. I know it.”

He watched as Jon wiped at his cheeks, trying to dry them of the now free flowing tears. Without saying anything, Ned stood and wrapping his nephew in a hug. At first, Jon stiffened, as if he wasn’t sure what to do, but soon he loosened and sank into it, letting his tears flow freely and the occasional sob leaving him. Ned had never shown Jon offection like this much back at Winterfell, because he couldn’t. But here and now, Jon needed a father. And Ned was there.

“For years,” Jon hiccuped, voice muffled by Ned’s furs. “All I wanted was to meet her. To see her. To know if she even wanted or loved me.”

“She did,” Ned reassured him. “So much.”

“Do you promise?” He asked quietly.

Promise me, Ned.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

Cersei was in a rage. Pacing across the stone floor of her room, she glared furiously at anything that came into her line of vision, green eyes sharp as daggers. The wine goblet in her hand had already been refilled thrice now in the span of the last half hour, a true testimony to her mental state. It was now nearing the the last few drops again, meaning she would have to call in a serving girl to refill it, which didn’t help her resolve not to accidentally kill someone in her rage.

And why was she so angry, one might ask? Well, there were many reasons.

For one, the traitor Eddard Stark had managed to escape under her very nose, from the black cells themselves. And on the day of his trail no less! From Littlefinger’s reports, it seemed as though he was close to discovering her and Jaime’s secret, so something had to be done. Now she knew he knew the truth. And he was gone. That was something that would have sent her into a fury in and of itself, but unfortunately it wasn’t the only thing that had happened. No, the second thing testing her ability to not murder anyone who came within ten feet of her was the fact that her brother, Jaime, was missing.

No, he wasn’t missing per se, she knew exactly where he was.

Kidnapped by the Starks.

It seems as though in their escape from the Black Cells, they managed to apprehend the knight and take him as a hostage. How on earth anyone could have managed that was beyond her. Her brother was one of the greatest swordsman in Westeros. Almost no one other than Barristan Selmy and a few others could best him. Then again, Ser Barristan had most likely aided in Eddard’s escape, so she wouldn’t be all that surprised if it really was the old knights doing that her brother was captured. But still, he was an old man. He might be good, but there as a point where old age started to really take its toll. She was certain he was at that age now.

But if not Barristan, who could have beat him?

Growling in frustration, Cersei chucked her goblet at the wall, and the glass shattered with a satisfying crash as it met the stone.

It felt good to destroy it. But it didn’t help any. Logically she knew she wasn’t going to get anywhere by smashing wine glasses. And if Cersei was anything, she would say it was clever and intelligent, so she might as well live up to it.

Sweeping out of the room, she stalked through the halls, focused solely on her destination.

She swept into the council room and was met with four pairs of eyes. “Everyone out,” she ordered, green eyes burning cold as ice. “Except Baelish,” she reprimanded. “I must speak with him.”

The mousy smile she got from him told him he already knew what she wanted to discuss. Slowly, everyone filled out of the room, leaving her alone with the master of coin.

Finally. They had plans to make.

Jaime came to to the sound of something clanking against metal. Slowly, he blinked open his eyes, the sudden light stabbing at his eyes and making his headache worse. The next thing he realized was the incredibly uncomfortable position he was in. His arms were tied behind his back and his cheek was pressed hard against what he assumed was a wooden floor. It didn't seem that whoever his kidnappers were that they were very concerned for his comfort. Slowly, his vision sharpened until he was look at a barred gate.

Great, he was in a prison cell.

Well, judging from the slow rocking and the sound of waves outside he was actually in the brig. Even better, he thought morosely.

The tapping persisted, and he was forced to look up to meet the culprit.

"Aw, good. You're awake."

Standing behind the bars of the cell he was in stood the Targaryen bastard himself, squatting down to be at some semblance of eye level with the knight. He was holding a dagger hilt-side up. That must have been what he'd been hitting the bars with to wake him up.

Jaime scoffed under his breath. Impatient little bastard.

"I see that I'm now your hostage," he grumbled, squirming to push himself up in a sitting position. The movement jostled his aching head and he winced, mouth twisting in discomfort. If the bastard saw it, he showed no signs of sympathy.

"Unfortunately," he replied tersely. "I wanted to kill you, but that would have just made things worse."

Jaime scoffed again. "As if kidnapping doesn't."

"You call it kidnapping, I call it leveredge," the bastard said, making Jaime narrow his eyes. This boy couldn't be older than sixteen, and here he was taking advantage of situations for a tactical advantage. It reminded him of Rhaegar and his brains. It seemed that this boy had inherited that, unfortunately for him.

"So you're taking me back north to your barbaric wasteland?" He surmised, assuming the ship they were on was sailing north towards White Harbor. It only made sense.

"Not quite," Jon admitted. "We'll be making a stop on Dragonstone first, then will depart towards White Harbor and the north."

There was a reason for telling him this, Jaime realized. He wasn't just blabbing their plans. If he was that meant he was incredibly stupid. Which he wasn't. That meant he knew there was no way Jaime was getting out and away from  them. Meaning he was thoroughly screwed and stuck with the bastard for the foreseeable future. Damn.

“So why’d you bother waking me at all? Surely you could have left me to rot here until we made port?” He asked bitterly,  green eyes boring holes into grey ones.

“You’re our prisoner, not a dead man,” he shot back, eyes like ice. “Besides, someone had to bring you your meal.” It was then Jaime noticed the small plate sitting next to the boy, a meager meal of cheese and bread sitting idly on the metal platter.

“Eat up,” he said, pushing the plate under the door. “Can’t have you starving to death on us.”

Being completely at someone’s mercy was not a feeling Jaime was accustomed to, and it infuriated him. A grimace twisted Jaime’s mouth and he couldn’t help the small grumble that escaped him. “Bastard,” he growled out.

His captures lips quirked into an almost smile before he responded. “Not quite,” he said smugly.

Jaime only response was to deepen his glare. Jon smirked dryly before standing up, brushing off his knees as he did so.

“Enjoy your meal,” was all he said before leaving the brig.

Jaime was tempted to throw the plate at him as he watched the boy go.

Dragonstone loomed before him yet again as the ship pulled in towards the docks. But this time, instead of a bleak sense of despair, Jon was elated. Or, as elated as one could be in the given situation. But his father was by his side, safe and sound, along with Nymeria and Ghost, who’s paw was now splinted and healing. The rescue had been a success, and that was wonderful. But they still had to get home to Winterfell, and before that, pick up the girls.

“How is the prisoner doing?” Ned asked, breaking the silence.

Jon let out a small huff. “Not pleased with his predicament,” he answered vaguely. His uncle let out a small snort of amusement before they lapsed back into silence.

"Should we tell them?" Jon asked, watching as the island grow ever closer. His father didn't have to ask what he meant before he responded.

"That all depends on you," he said warmly. "I'll stand by you whatever you choose. And if you choose to tell the girls, I’ll be there with you."

A hot sense of pride blossomed in Jon's chest, but was quickly tempered by remembering what Cersei had said.

"Cersei will tell everyone," he grimaced. "We won't be able to keep it hidden forever. Better they find out from us than her."

A gramice from his uncle told him he agreed.

The two lapsed into silence again, watching as the ship sailed around the island to the port where he had no doubt the girls were waiting. They hadn’t sent a raven ahead, so the two had no idea what the outcome of the mission was, just that their ship was returning. They must be worried out of their minds, Jon figuered.

As the docks came into sight, so did the image of the two Stark girls and Lady, standing impatiently at the end of the pier, watching eagerly, just as he’d thought. Arya was shifting from foot to foot, hands twitching anxiously while Sansa wrung hers nervously, occasionally stroking Lady’s fur for comfort.

Jon saw the moment they found their father standing next to him. Arya’s face lit up and she started bouncing where she stood, pointing and shouting indiscernible words. Sansa also seemed to have the weight of the world lifted off her as she brought her hands up to her mouth, overwhelmed with joy.

As soon as the ship docked and the gangplank lowered, the girls were off.

"Father!" The girls cried in unison, rushing towards Lord Stark. Jon stood off to the side and watched their reunion, a smile pulling at his face. He watched Lord Stark scoop Arya up into a big hug, setting her down to do the same for Sansa, who blushed fiercely, mumbling she was too old for such things. She clearly didn't mean it though, judging by the wide smile on her face.

"Father, I was so worried," Arya cried, wiping at her eyes.

"Well I'm here now, sweetling," he said softly, brushing her hair aside affectionately. "And that's not all."

Arya scrunched her face up in confusion as Lord Stark stepped aside. Then it burst into joy as Nymeria raced up to her, followed by a limping Ghost, who both attacked her with licks and playful bunts.

"Nymeria!" She squealed. Jon watched with a wide smile on his face as the two wolves covered her in kisses, tails wagging like crazy.

“They’ve missed you,” Jon said with a smile, watching as Arya was dragged to the ground by the two wolves jumping all over her.

“Jon.”

Jon looked up at Sansa, who was looking at him with warm blue eyes. “Thank you for coming back.”

Jon let himself smile confidently back at her. “Well I promised, didn’t I?” The smile she gave in return was by far the kindest one she’d ever given him before.

“Well if that’s enough catching up with each other,” a heavy flea-bottom accent cut in. “We really must get all the men back to the keep. And there’s still that prisoner on the brig we have to worry about.”

Jon’s smile immediately slipped away at the thought of the Lannister currently being held below deck.

“You’re right, Ser Davos,” he sighed. “Let’s go.”

After hauling Jaime Lannister out of the boat and up to the keep, they threw him in a cell and assigned some guards on him to ensure he wouldn’t get up to anything suspicious. Not that there was much he could do in a cell anyway, but it never hurt to be precautious.

After that, the girls were sent back to there rooms with the wolves while Ser Davos led them to Stannis Baratheon, who’d been informed of their arrival as well as their hostage. Jon wasn’t really looking forward to what the lord of Dragonstone had to say on that matter.

Ser Davos gave the door the Stannis’ solar a sharp knock once they arrived. Not even a few seconds had passed before the lord's response came through the reinforced wood.

“Come in.”

The door was eased upon and Jon and Eddard stepped slowly into the room. Immediately Jon could sense how tense the air was. He wasn’t sure if it was just because two high ranking lords were occupying the same small space, or if it was because of Lord Stannis himself, and the wary edge he gave off. Jon strongly suspected it was the latter.

“Ah, Lord Stark,” the lord of Dragonstone said, getting up from his seat. “I’m glad to see you well.”

“I’m glad to be well, My Lord,” Eddard replied. “I have it in my understanding that you are partly to thank for that.”

“And you would be correct,” Stannis said evenly. Without giving much pause, he continued, blue eyes cold as the ocean they resembled as he said, “And I have it in my understanding that you brought the Kingslayer here in chains.”

It wasn’t an accusation, per say, but it sure sounded like one. What he said next only drove the point home further.

“If this is traced back to me, Cersei will be out for my head.”

“I assure you, Lord Stannis,” Jon tried, jumping to defuse the growing tension between the two lords that now seemed to be choking the room. “We had no intention of putting pressure on you by holding a Lannister. But in the situation we were facing, it was the only option.  If we had killed him we would only be faced with more trouble.”

Stannis’ eyes narrowed at his reasoning, but he didn’t appear to be about to argue. Jon considered that to be a win.

"We'll sail for White Harbor on the morrow," Ned suddenly said. “So you won’t have to worry about him more than you already have to.”

Lord Stannis gave a stiff nod before turning his attention over to Jon, who stood awkwardly behind his uncle.

"I will allow you to use one of my ships," he said, eyes turning back to Ned. "But I'm afraid I must ask, Lord Stark, are Cersei's allegations true?”

Jon frowned, confusion flitting over his face before Stannis went on to explain.

“She claimed your supposed bastard isn’t quite what he seems,” he said, shooting a hard look at Jon. And if there was still any confusion left over what he was implying, he said, “The son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, that is.” Both Jon and his uncle stiffened, but otherwise remained silent. Stannis watched this with his careful, calculating gaze before speaking again. “Now, I'm inclined to believe they're simply the ravings of a woman trying to cling to power, but I must admit they were quite believable." A pause. "Considering the circumstances," he added, giving the warden of the north a hard stare.

So, Cersei had sent out ravens already. It wasn’t as if it wasn’t to be expected. She would want all the kingdoms on her side for whatever fight she thought was coming. And to paint Lord Stark a traitor in everyone’s eyes was the closest she would get to allying everyone as the lioness could get.

Jon swallowed and looked up at his uncle, trying to read his expression. It would be easier to lie to Lord Stannis, but this was Lord Stark, he never lied. Unfortunately. It seemed that Lord Stark was having the same dilema, Jon noted from watching his expression. What would he say?

"Aye," he finally spoke. "It is true."

Both Jon and Stannis stiffened considerably, Jon from uncertainty and Stannis from, well, Jon couldn't tell.

"I see," was the lord's stiff response. "Well then, it seems we have a predicament."

That was one way of putting it, Jon thought.

"I am the rightful king of the seven kingdoms," Stannis said, rising from his seat. "After my brother took the throne from the Targaryen's, his heir, since he had no legitimate children, is me. However, here you are," he gestured to Jon, who almost shrunk away in discomfort. "The child of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna.” His scowl deepened. “I’m afraid you hold no claim to the throne, seeing as my brother usurped it.”

“I’m not asking for the throne,” Jon replied evenly. “You can have the bloody thing for all I care.”

The lord of Dragonstone rose a grey eyebrow, blue eyes raking over him as if searching for any reason to doubt him. Jon gave him none.

“Very well then,” he finally said. “Pledge yourself and your family to me and I see no reason this should end in your arrest.”

“Surely you wouldn’t arrest a guest in your own home,” Eddard cut in.

“I will do as the law demands,” was he easy reply. Cold and concise. Just like the man himself.

“I thought you were the law,” Jon said testily. “Now that you’re king.” That earned him another cold glare from both parties. He met them both with equal strength. “Besides, I don’t have to pledge to anything. I’m pledged to Lord Stark, that’s where my allegiance lies. If he decides to pledge himself to you, so be it. But aside from that, respectfully, I owe you no such thing.”

The air in the room was tense for a few long moments as the lords took in what Jon had said. It was a risky claim, he knew, easy to end in punishment for him from the proud lord of Dragonstone. But still, it needed to be said.

Jon watched with tensed muscles as he waited for Stannis’ response. At long last, it came. And while he might still have been looking at Jon, he knew he was talking to Lord Stark.

“Truly, he has to blood of the wolf,” the lord commended. “He speaks plainly, but fairly.” Now he turned to Jon’s uncle to give him the same hard stare he’d been giving Jon only moments before. “If he’s pledged to you then I can not ask him to pledge himself to me. I respect that.” A pause, just long enough for both Jon and his uncle to let their tensed muscles relax some in relief. “But, as your new king, I must ask you pledge fealty to me, and that you will serve my house as the Warden of the North.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Eddard replied coolly.

“I expect you to do so tonight in the audience hall, so as to make it more official,” Stannis continued. Then, turning back to Jon, “You will be there as well, boy,” he said. Jon nodded in understanding.

“Good. Now that that is settled,” the lord of Dragonstone said. “I will have my servants lead you to your rooms and have baths drawn for you. I expect to see you both tonight.”

And with that, Stannis took his leave and swept out of the room, giving them both polite nods before doing so.

The exchange hadn’t gone quite as he had thought it would upon landing on the island, but it could have gone much worse, he figured. Stannis was a cold and stern, and possibly even intimidating man, but at least Jon didn’t have to worry about losing his head to him. Just from that he was already a better king than his brother Robert. Which in the grand scheme of things wasn’t saying much, but it was still something, Jon supposed.

It was still something.

Chapter Text

The throne room of Dragonstone was stifling even with the large windows and open spaces. Or maybe it was just stifling because of the nerves flitting about in Jon’s stomach. After having been led to a room after the conversation with Lord Stannis, servants had drawn up a bath for him and laid out fresh clothing for him to put on after. The clothing of course was on the fancy side, and just a tad scratchy from all the starch put into it. After freshening up, he’d been led down to the throne room, where Stannis had said for them to be. And now he was about to swear his allegiance to the man.

The only problem was that it went against everything Jon’s gut was telling him to do.

Lord Stannis had still yet to arrive, which left Jon ample amount of time to simple take in the majestic space. The throne was carved into what looked to be volcanic rock, set on a dias at the back of the hall. The lofty ceilings reached up higher than he would expect, and large bay windows stretched up the wall to greet it. Below him set in the polished floor was the Targaryen symbol. The three headed dragon. In fact, all around the keep were stone dragons. They were carved into the wall, guarding doors, holding up torches. Anywhere one could be, it was there. Jon was sure that the Baratheons had eliminated every other trace of their old rulers, but the carvings refused to budge. It was stone after all. Not as easy to erase as history.

The sound of the great doors opening chased him from his thoughts. Jon turned to see Lord Stannis strut down the length of the hall with a few of his men trailing behind him. Jon saw Ser Davos amongst them.

“Is your ‘father’ coming, boy,” Stannis asked upon reaching the dias.

“Aye, my Lord,” Jon reported. “He was held up by another matter, but he should arrive shortly.” Another matter being the girls, who had dawned on him ever since the two had left Lord Stannis’ solar. Arya had refused to let go of him for nearly five minutes, tears streaming down her face. Jon was sure that because of that Lord Stark would be late to the meeting.

Eventually the sound of footsteps sounded in the hall, and Jon turned to see his fath- no, uncle, walking towards them. He had cleaned nicely, hair pulled back and beard trimmed. His clothes were much nicer than the ones they arrived in. No filth or grime to be found. Jon was pleased by the sight.

“Lord Baratheon,” Lord Stark said, inclined his head in a small bow upon reaching Jons side.

“Well, now that we’re all here,” Ser Davos said from Lord Baratheon's side. “Let’s get this over with.” It was said with little tact, but nobody seemed to be ready to fault him for it.

Lord Stark went first, sinking to his knee and giving his oath to Lord Stannis, pledging his men, his sword, and his land to the man whenever he had need of it. It was over surprisingly quickly, and when it was, everyone turned to Jon.

“Now, Jon Snow,” Stannis said firmly. “Kneel and swear yourself your fealty.”

With a glance to his uncle, Jon did just that. Slowly, he sank to the floor, the cold of the stone seeping into his knee. The room was silent as they waited for him to speak.

“I, Jon Snow,” he started. “Swear to-” for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. It felt wrong. Like a lie. He simply couldn’t do it.

“Swear to…” Ser Davos continued, encouraging him to finish. But Jon did no such thing. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath, trying to calm his mind.

He couldn’t swear fealty to Stannis. Not when there was a war looming on the horizon. He refused to be apart of an army that would put him on the throne. Not because he would have made a poor king. No, far from it. It was because no southern born Lord would ever take the threats the future promised to bring seriously. And Jon needed to be able to act upon those threats and stop them before anything worse happened. Bran had shown him the White Walkers. They were the real enemy, that was the real war. Not a fight for some throne with some other house.

He couldn’t swear fealty to Stannis.

“I’m sorry My Lord,” he finally said. “But I can not swear fealty to you.”

The resounding silence in the throne room rang with shock.

“Excuse me,” Stannis managed to say.

Gulping, Jon lifted his head to meet the Lords eye. Squaring his jaw, he said, “I can not swear fealty to you, My Lord.”

“Jon, what are you doing,” Lord Stark hissed next to him. Jon ignored him, choosing to focus instead on the Baratheon Lord.

“I instead will pledge myself to Lord Stark, warden of the north, and renounce any claim I might have had to the throne,” he said firmly. “I will not oppose you, but I will not serve you. Not directly at least.”

The lord of Dragonstone gave him a long, measured stare. His blue eyes were as hard as the ice they resembled. For a moment, Jon thought he might have made a mistake, and that Stannis would have him thrown in the dungeons for treason. At long last, the man spoke. And when he did, it was with a strained tone, one that told Jon he was trying not to express anger.

“And why, pray tell, is that?”

Jon had to force himself to calm down just so he could continue. “There are forces beyond your understanding, My Lord,” he said. “Beyond the Wall. It’s an army like none we’ve ever seen.” Someone off to the side of the dias scoffed. “You don’t have to believe me,” he pushed on fervently. “But I can’t let myself serve someone who’s war is to the south when the north holds the true enemy.”

“Surely he’s mad, My Lord,” one of Stannis’ men said, wary eyes watching him. Jon clenched his jaw and forced himself not to snap back and insist he wasn’t.

“He might be,” Stannis said carefully, eyeing him. A frustrated bubble of helplessness sank in Jon’s stomach, and his shoulders dropped. “And he might not.”

What?

“I’ve met a woman who sees the future in flames,” the Baratheon mused. “Who’s to say other magics can not exist in the world. Even if they are from the stories our wet nurses used to tell us.”

Jon frowned in thought. Was he saying he believed him? No, more so that he had an open mind. Whichever it was, it didn’t seem like he was about to be accusing Jon of insanity.

“So what will you do, My Lord,” Lord Stark spoke up, voice even, if not careful. Stannis gave him another long, thoughtful look before responding.

“I will let you swear to Lord Stark, boy,” Stannis finally said. “On the condition you never opose my claim to the throne.” Jon and Lord Stark both let out a small breath of relief at the man's judgement. “I’m intrigued by what you claim lies north. And if you believe it is our true enemy, i will not get in your way.” The implication that he wouldn’t help them went unsaid, but it was enough for them for now.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Jon said. And he meant it.

It was one thing on the list of many that he didn’t have to worry about now.

The cells of Dragonstone were cold and dank as Jon made his way down into the depths. A torch rested in his hand, throwing flickering light around the stone walls. He had come down here to speak to their Lannister prisoner. He had a few questions to ask him.

“Ah, the half-breed finally shows his face,” Jaime sneered as Jon came upon his cell. “What? Get bored feasting with stags?”

Jon ignored his comment and squared down in front of the cell, resting the torch upright against the metal bars.

“I didn’t come to bicker,” he said. “I came to ask some questions.”

“Oh, and what would those be?” The Lannister asked patronizingly.

Ignoring the taunt, Jon pressed up against the bars, one hand wrapped around cool metal. “You say your a loyal Kingsguard, that you’re worthy of honor.”

Jaime’s green eyes narrowed. “You’re point,” he growled.

“Why did you betray your country?”

Jaime’s scowl deepened into something bitter. The shadows cast by the torch threw his eyes into shadow, so all Jon could see of them was the faint reflection in their pupils.

“You claim you loved Rhaegar just as much as the next Kingsguard, but where were you at the Trident?” Jon accused. “Hiding away in the capital like the coward you are.”

Suddenly Jaime stiffened, eyes turning hard and serious as he turned to him. Anger seemed to be radiating off of him, directed solely at the only other occupant in the cell. “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” he hissed our through clenched teeth. “It’s very unbecoming.”

“Then enlighten me,” Jon growled back.

Jaime’s eyes became very hardset, the green taking on a darker hue as he turned his face away from the light.  A long moment passed before he spoke.

“I was as much a prisoner of the Targaryens as your mother.”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Explain,” he bit out.

“As if you can’t figure it out yourself,” the golden lion scoffed. “You and I both know you’re smarter than the average squire. So go ahead and do us both a favor and use that blasted head of yours to figure it out,” he spat back, venom lacing his words.

Jon scowed, but didn’t rebuke him. So he claimed to have been a prisoner? Why? King Aerys and Tywin Lannister had been friends. But Tywin hadn’t yet truly joined the war, meaning he hadn’t taken a side. King Aerys might have felt threatened by this and had maken a show of keeping Jaime close to prove to Tywin that his eldest son could be killed at any moment should Tywin step out of line. It made sense, Jon admitted grudgingly. But if so, why had no one ever thought of that before?

“Ah, I see you’ve figured it out,” Jaime drawled, noting Jon’s pensive look take a darker turn. “So you see, things aren’t so black and white after all,” he said. “Not like how history would like us to believe anyway.” Then, “You yourself are a shining example of that.”

“You’re one to talk,” Jon retorted. “You were sworn to protect the king and his family. And yet somehow you find yourself with the name ‘Kingslayer’. How did that come to happen, I wonder. Not by accident.”

“You’re humor is much appreciated,” was Jaime’s dry response. “And if it was really that big of a deal, I suppose I could have just let all of King’s Landing burn instead. But no, breaking a vow is so much worse.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at his sarcasm, layered thick and dry.

“What do you mean?”

This time it was the Lannisters turn to scoff. The sound was humorless and empty. For a while it was silent, the occasional crackling of the torch the only sound to be heard. Jon wasn’t sure if he would speak again, and was ready to get up and leave when at last the Lannister spoke.

“Did you know,” he said, stopping Jon in his tracks. “That underneath King's Landing, there lie huge caches of wildfire.”

Jon paused and turned back around, eyes boring into the Lannister. Noticing that he had his attention, Jaime continued. “They’re buried underneath the castle, underneath the sept, underneath the entire city.”

“And?” Jon  pressed, wondering where this was going. A sinking feeling in his stomach however told him he already knew.

“When my father finally stormed King’s Landing, do you know what King Aerys ordered happen?”

“No.” Yes.

“King Aerys, the man sworn to protect and defend the seven kingdoms, ordered his pyromancer to set all of the caches aflame in hopes of destroying the city, just to stop a siege.” A bitter edge creeped into the man's tone. And out of the corner of his eyes, Jon saw the knights fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white. “Five hundred thousand people,” he bit out. “Would all have been blown apart if I hadn’t killed that man.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. It didn’t sound like a lie, it was far too bitter to be one. Finally finding his voice, he said, “So you consider yourself a martyr for killing him.”

“I don’t consider myself anything,” was all the Lannister said. “I suggest for your sake, my prince, you start doing the same.”

Chapter Text

Their ship left Dragonstone the next day, all three Starks, a Snow, three direwolves, ex-commander of the Kingsguard, and a Lannister prisoner in tow. Ser Davos had offered to sail them, as he insisted he was the best sailor on the island. Jon didn’t have the heart to decline the offer, and found himself glad to keep the mans company as they sailed north.

They had docked some days ago now and were riding towards Winterfell. They hadn’t sent raven in fear of one of Cersei’s spies intercepting it and sending men after them. They didn’t like it, but they agreed it was for the best. And thus the five of them rode across the moors and through the forests of the north, three horses between them and with scarce provisions so as to remain inconspicuous. But despite the precautions, it had been a miserable journey.

The harsh northern winds buffeted the party of five as they rode over the hilly landscape. Jon's cloak was wrapped tight around him, months of staying in Kings Landing having deterred his immunity to the cold. Not so much as Ser Barristan’s though, who lips were turning only the faintest hints of blue. Even though he refused to acknowledge it.

They had been riding for almost nine days now since leaving White Harbor. House Manderly had been very generous and welcoming to them and promised they would not send word of Lord Stark’s arrival, knowing they would be marked enemies of the crown if they did. Despite that, they still offered to keep Jaime Lannister in their cells until Winterfell could send a transport to fetch him. Because even with Barristan Selmy and the Warden if the North, Jon didn’t have faith that they would have managed to keep him long.

As they continued on, Jon wished they could have at least sent a raven or a rider to Winterfell, but the risk was too great. So instead they accepted the horses and gear and rode towards the seat of house Stark themselves. They didn't even have a carriage.

It had been eight days of Jon astride a horse, listening to Sansa’s mild complaining and accidently slipping into Ghost’s skin. The first time he’d done it he’d fallen off his horse and worried everyone for half an hour before he managed to get back to himself. After that, he made sure to only do it at night or when they were resting the horses. But even then it wasn’t a sure thing. Warging wasn’t easy to master.

Suddenly, the crested a hill, and the great keep of Winterfell stood solemnly in front of them. It’s stone towers rose into the sky like sentinels, banners fluttering in the breeze welcomingly. But that wasn’t all Jon saw. There were rows upon rows of tents pitched around the keep and Winter town. Banners from all over the north flew proudly above each house.

Robb must have called the banners.

“We’re home,” someone said from behind. Jon turned in his saddle to see Arya and Sansa’s chestnut trot up to him, Arya beaming in excitement.

“Aye, that we are,” he agreed with forced smile. In truth he had been trying not to think of it. Yes he was excited to be home, but being home meant facing his brothers, who were really his cousins, and Lady Catelyn. He had discussed with Lord Stark about what to tell them and had eventually decided on the truth. But it was easier said than done. The prospect of telling Robb that they didn’t share a father was harder to face than he thought.

“Who do you think will be more excited to see us,” Arya continued. “Bran or Robb?”

“Rickon,” he japed, a humorous glint in his eye. “Definitely.”

“He’s three!” Arya cried incredulously, laughing. “I doubt he even knew we left.”

“Well even if he’s not excited to see us,” Sansa cut in. “I will be thrilled to see him.” Beside their horse, Lady let out a high pitched bark in agreement.

All three of them laughed good naturedly at that before Sansa and Arya’s horse started off again, leaving Jon behind, his smile fading as he remembered what awaited him down in the keep.

“We don’t have to tell them if you don’t want,” Lord Stark’s voice sounded behind him. Jon didn’t look back as he responded.

“It’s not what I want, it’s what honor demands.” He didn’t have to see him to know Lord Stark winced. It was the honorable thing to do, to tell the truth of where he’d come from. But Lord Stark had neglected him that right his whole life. He couldn’t help being a little petty because of it, even though they’d settled things.

“It’s still your choice,” he reasoned.

“I know,” he managed. “But they deserve to know. Even if I wish I didn’t.”

Jon saw Lord Stark cast him a sorrowful look out of the corner of his eye.

“We should get going,” he muttered, looking away. “I know Robb is missing us. The sooner we arrive the better.” And with that, he spurred his horse into a gallop down the hillside towards the keep and his waiting family.

Riding through Wintertown in and of itself was a challenge. The streets were crowded with smallfolk and bannermen. People dressed in rich furs and armor intermingled with people carrying woven baskets, trading conversation and exchanging money for goods. If nothing else, war was good for the economy. For now.

It was a miracle they didn’t get recognised as they made their way towards the keep. Perhaps it the crowds, or perhaps it was because no one was looking for them. Either way, they made it in relatively good time.

The gates of Winterfell were much more heavily armed than when Jon had left. And for good reason. House Stark had officially declared itself enemies of the crown. The risk of someone trying to get in and kill one of their house was too great. Extra protection made sense.

“Who goes there?” A guard called down from atop the portcullis.

“Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and his two daughters,” Lord Stark called back, much to the surprise of the guard. From down on the ground, Jon saw the man’s eyes widen before narrowing in suspicion, searching their party carefully.

“And the other two?” He called back anyway, eyeing Jon and Ser Barristan.

“Jon Snow and Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard,” Lord Stark called back.

“What’s  a member of the fucking Kingsguard doin’ up here?”

Under his breath, Jon muttered, “Minding his own damn business.” He received an elbow in the ribs and a glare from the knight in response.

“He is here at my behest,” was Lord Stark’s response. “Now let us in so I can see my family.”

“Wait here and I’ll get Lord Robb,” the guard responded, still eyeing them warily. “He can confirm you are who you say you are.” And with that he disappeared.

As soon as he was out of sight, Arya let out a scoff. “How could he not recognize you?” She asked, turning to her father.

In response, he let out a great sigh. “With all the lords and the men coming in from all across the north, it’s not a stretch to say Robb would have had to expand the household guard. We might be seeing many new faces around the keep now.”

Jon grunted in agreement.

Minutes later, there were muffled shouts beyond the wall and suddenly the gate was lifted, allowing them entrance. Jon wasted no time before he trot through them, finally home.

The courtyard, which he hadn’t seen since the night he’d left, was bustling with activity. True to his uncle's words, there were many new faces milling about. Both in the household guard and as simple workers. He saw a young girl help tote hay to the stables, and watched an elderly man help buff out armor near the blacksmith. Many new faces indeed.

But still, it was good to finally be home.

“Father!” Jon turned to see Robb, standing in the courtyard, gaping at them. It was as if he could hardly believe his eyes. Or as if he were looking at a ghost. Either was an apt description to how Robb looked.

“Robb,” Ned breathed in relief, seeing his son. It only took a moment t for them to collect themselves before launching into the other's arms.

“Father, I was so worried,” Robb said into his lord father's shoulder as he clinch to him. “I thought you had- that Cersei-”

“It's alright, I'm here now.”

The two clung to each other for just a few moments longer before Robb remembered himself and pulled apart.

“Well, we should get you inside,” Robb rushed, remembering his manners. “I’ll have hot meals prepared, and, and anything else you need.”

“I think we would all like that very much,” Lord Stark smiled.

The six of them had gathered in the great hall, all congregated around the head table. Arya was stuffing her face with everything she could find, occasionally “dropping” scraps onto the floor Nymeria to eat. Sansa also had forgotten her manners. Well, not nearly as badly as Arya, but the girl was much less proper compared to her usual self. She hadn’t even bothered unfolding her table cloth. Meanwhile, Jon, Ser Barristan, and Lord Stark had hardly their meals while they filled Robb in on all that had happened since Cersei called for their arrest.

“You managed to capture Jaime Lannister?” Robb gawked, staring open-mouthed at Jon. Jon could only manage a humbling shrug in return.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Robb said, holding his hand up. “You said Jaime Lannister was the one who pushed Bran out of the window, correct?”

Jon had told him about his “hunch” earlier on in the story, so he nodded to show he was correct.

“Then why isn’t he dead?” Robb demanded, gritting his teeth. “He tried to kill Bran!”

“And if Jon had killed him he would have surely started a war,” Lord Stark cut in calmly, diffusing the tension. “You can hate the man as much as you want, but you’re a Lord now, Robb. You must think about these things logically.”

Robb seemed to mue it over for a moment before sitting back with a huff. Jon always envied how cool and collected his half-brother was. Especially when it came to matters of state. But apparently even he could still act like the teenager he really was. Like they both were.

“Do you understand, Robb?” Lord Stark pressed.

“Yes,” he insisted grudgingly. “I understand.”

It was at that moment that the doors to the hall were flung open and Catelyn Stark herself flew in like a summer storm.

“Robb, is it true, is-” she had started to demand, but stopped when her eyes landed on her husband. Her face then crumpled into painful relief, tears springing into her eyes.

“Ned,” she gasped. Immediately Lord Stark was on his feet and rushing to greet his wife. The two met in the middle to exchange a passionate kiss. It was  tender and heartwarming, but at the same time, incredibly uncomfortable.

“Mother!” Arya gasped, appalled. Hearing her daughters words, Lady Stark broke apart from her husband and saw her children, eyes watering even more at the sight of them safe and sound.

“Oh Arya, Sasna, come here my darlings.” Despite seeing their parents sharing a passionate moment just a moment ago, the two girls eagerly jumped up to meet their mother in a large hug. At this point Jon had gotten up from the table, sensing it was time for him to leave the room. Robb had followed suit, sensing the same thing from Jon. Before he could make any moves to leave however, Catelyn caught sight of him.

“And what is he doing back here?” Catelyn spat, glowering at him. At her side, Arya let out a frustrated huff, but was silenced by Sansa. Jon’s hands balled up into fists at his side, but aside from that he remained neutral. “You vanished in the night months ago. Only to turn up back here telling us some impossible story about visions and three eyes birds?”

“Catelyn,” Ned gasped.

“You have no place here,” Catelyn continued, ignoring both her angering husband and unsettled children, all of whom were all arching the exchange with worried looks. “We were happy with you gone!” She spoke as if her words would have an affect on Jon. Like they would make him go running off crying like they used to.

“I am no longer the boy who cowers under your gaze, Lady Stark,” he said harshly, meeting her steely blue eyes with his own. “That boy disappeared the night I left Winterfell.”

“If only you had stayed away,” she hissed in response. Jon felt the anger rise up in him, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. He didn’t owe her an explanation or an excuse. She had no right to treat him this way. She never had.

“I think what she means to say, Jon,” Robb cut in, trying to defuse the situation. “Is that we’re all glad you left to help father and the girls.”

“That’s not what she meant and you know it.”

“Enough!” The sound of Lord Stark’s voice echoed through the hall, successfully silencing them all and demanding his attention. “We’ve all had a rough few weeks,” he said, gaze sweeping over all of them. “What we all need is some rest. We can reconvene after that and discuss things then at more length. Alright?” Despite his phrasing, his tone suggested no room for movement, and that he was set on his request.

“Of course father,” Robb said quickly. Noticing Jon’s lack of response, Ned turned to him with a wary look.

“Jon?”

“Aye,” he spit out. “I suppose we’re all tired.”

He didn’t look as Lord Stark’s shoulders slumped slightly in either defeat or exhaustion as all his brood slowly started making their way out of the hall and towards their designated quarters.

“You should take Ser Barristan,” he suggested.

“No need,” Jon said. “I know the way.”

Chapter Text

“That was uncalled for,” Ned growled at his wife, nearly slamming the door behind him as he followed her into their chambers. He hadn’t said anything in the hall when she’d attacked his nephew, but now he had plenty to say. And as much as he loved his wife, it was hard to keep his temper in check at the moment.

“What would you have had me do instead,” she countered. “Welcome him back with open arms? I have never loved him. I’ve only tolerated him for your sake, my love.” Her voice was strained with the barest hint of withheld venom, face contorted in a deep scowl. She was trying to refrain from blowing up at him, but she was barely holding it together.

“Decency would have been appreciated,” Ned shot back.

Catelyn merely scoffed in response.

Heat rose in Ned’s chest, anger making him clench his fists. How could his wife still be so heartless about Jon? He had never expected her to love him like her own. But this was outrages. Yes perhaps she had the excuse of being strained as of late, but still. It was an unfounded excuse to treat his nephew like she just had.

“He’s the reason I’m even standing here now,” he explained, voice straining to remain level. “Why Arya and Sansa are here and not back in King’s Landing under the Lannister’s control! Without him, I could very well be dead.”

A pregnant pause filled their chambers after his proclamation. The only sound between them was he crackling of the fire in the hearth. Across from him, Catelyn’s scowl had deepened, hands fisted around her shawl so tight her knuckles had turned white. She looked pensive, and at the same time frustrated. Like she was conflicted with what she knew and what she felt. For all he knew she very well could be.

“Is that so?” She finally asked, voice tight.

“Aye,” he confirmed. “It is.”

Catelyn shifted where she stood before finally sitting down on the bed. She was still clutching her shawl fiercely, mouth a thin line across her face. Ned could see the lines of stress that had formed on her face that hadn’t been there when he’d left. Or perhaps he just didn’t remember them. She seemed more frail than before, as well. Stretched thin from the events of the past few weeks.

“How?” She finally asked, voice dull.

“When Cersei ordered my arrest, he and Ser Barristan got the girls and escaped to Dragonstone before coming back for me. He and a few men broke into the black cells and we managed to get away.”

Catelyn hummed absently, eye’s distant as she muled her husband's words over. It was silent for a long time while she processed it, in which Ned offered nothing further, except to sit at her side.

“Did you know Cersei never even sent a raven explaining why you were arrested,” she finally said. She wasn’t looking at him, but Ned saw her eyes were staring past the wall ahead of her. Distant and unfocused. “Or perhaps she did and Robb never told me. But whatever it was, I knew you were innocent. I couldn’t fathom anything you would do that would warrant you betraying the crown.”

She looked down at her lap, eyes glistening with unshed tears. Ned knew he should say something. Comfort her, give her an explanation, anything. But his mouth remained abstonetly shut, no words offering themselves to him.

“Tomorrow, my love,” was all he managed. “We all need rest.”

And that was that.

The next day brought about a chill in the air. Summer was truly over, and in its stead came biting winds and the promise of snow. A frost had settled over the grounds during the night, and bit at any fool who bothered to step outside without the proper attire to combat such weather.

But while it was cold outside, the inside of the keep remained nice and warm. Since it was built over a natural hot spring, Winterfell was never truly a cold place. Jon was reminded of that bit of information as he prepared for the day in his chambers, deciding to forgo his cloak as he was only headed to the kitchens to break his fast.

As he made his way through the keep, he was surprised to find it rather empty. Perhaps he was just used to getting up earlier in the capital. The sun rose earlier down there and stayed in the sky longer. He was sure if he had asked a maester they would have a scientific explanation, but as it was, he hadn’t.

The halls remained empty as he made his way down to the kitchens. Lucky for him, it seemed they were already bustling with early morning cooking. Well, perhaps bustling wasn’t the right word, but they were filled with kitchen staff going about their business, baking bread for the day and tenderizing meat on the counters.

One of the girls looked up from kneading dough and spotted him, her face splitting into a warm smile.

“Jon,” she said. “I’d heard you come back, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

The girl, Myra, was around his age and had started working in the kitchens a few years ago after her mother had passed away. She had been the previous kitchen maid, and so Myra had taken up the role in her stead. She was quite good at it too, often giving Jon extra helpings of a meal, or sneaking him a role from time to time. She hadn’t cared in the least about his status as a bastard, as others might have. It was for these reasons Jon liked her, and why he as well broke out into a grin at the sight of her.

“Myra,” he smiled, strolling up to her. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you too, Snow,” she said. Then her smile slipped, a shadow passing over her face. “I honestly wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” she admitted. “The rumors of what had happened down in the capital were pretty scary. Most of us thought you all were dead, or worse.”

Jon sighed. He didn’t know what kinds of rumors kitchen staff and maids were spreading, but he could be sure they weren’t good.

“Well, we’re back now,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face. “So you don’t have to worry.”

Her expression softened. Not quite smiling again, but not as dower as before. “Well that’s good,” she sighed. Then, brightening somewhat, added, “Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with all these extra roles if you weren’t!”

“How about give them all to me so I can finally break my fast,” he joked. Myra rolled her eyes but did so anyway.

“I swear, you’ll get me in trouble some day, Snow,” she chuckled, handing him his plate, now loaded with cheese, bread, and fruit.

He just smiled and took it, shooting her one last grin before disappearing back into the lonely halls.

Only once he back in the safety of his room did he let his mind wander to the fight last night. Perhaps he hadn’t acted very mature, but neither had Lady Stark. She had no right to say those things. Especially after everything he had done for this family.

But she doesn’t know about it yet , he thought grudgingly. Because we haven’t yet told her.

But still, what was he to tell? That Bran from the future was sending him visions? That he was Lyanna and Rhaegar’s son? That he helped save all the Starks in King’s Landing? There were too many aspects to consider, and it was all giving him a headache.

He’d already settled on telling everyone of his rescue of Lord Stark. That was just a given, but the other things… If it came to light, it would change how everyone saw him. And he didn’t know if he wanted that. Arya wouldn't be his little sister anymore. She’d be his cousin. The same with Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon. Perhaps that was already the case in his mind, but speaking it aloud seemed to make it real, and some part of him still wanted to deny it.

But they deserve to know , he thought to himself, resigned. There should be no more secrets between family. That’s what got us into this mess in the first place .

Stealing himself, he threw himself off his bed and headed to the door. His breakfast had long since been finished and the plate rested on his desk. Ignoring it, he threw the door open and headed out, aiming for his uncles solar, Ghost trotting at his heels. He knew what he had to do.

“Are you sure about this?” Lord Stark asked once again, grey eyes looking searchingly into his own. Jon nodded. He’d already made his decision.

“Alright, I’ll bring them in.” And with that, his uncle got up to get the rest of the Starks, leaving Jon alone in the Solar. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth, offering some comforting white noise while Jon mulled over his decision. He was going to tell them the truth. All of it.

He didn’t necessarily like it; but it had to happen, he understood that. But still…

“Am I doing the right thing, Ghost?” He asked aloud, looking over to his direwolf. As always, the beast remained silent, instead fixing him with unsettlingly intelligent wine-red eyes. Glancing down, Jon noted the bandage on his paw would need replacing soon, the fabric having turned brown in the few days it hadn’t been replaced. Jon still felt awful about the paw, but it had been a necessary sacrifice. A bad one, but necessary.

A clattering in the hallway brought his attention back to the matter at hand, and he was soon faced with the sight of Robb, Lady Stark, Sansa, Arya, and his uncle entering the room. Suddenly the air felt a lot thicker.

“Jon,” Robb said, taking a seat in of the empty chairs. “What’s this all about? Father said you had something to tell us?”

Jon waited until everyone had settled in some form or another before even daring to speak. And even then, he found the words were hard to muster.

“First of all, I think we can all agree last night we were all rather…” He searched for the right word. “Uncivilized,” he finally settled on. When no one berated him for his choice of words, he continued. “And I also feel that you deserve an explanation for… everything.” Just what “everything” was, well, he was getting to that.

Before he could continue, Lady Stark cut him off. “Before you say anything,” she said in her usual, clipped tone. “I believe you are owed my gratitude.” She didn’t meet his eye when she said it, still too prideful to do such a thing. “You saved my family,” she continued. “Therefor, I thank you. So, you have my gratitude, Snow.” Always Snow. Never Jon. But that would be changing soon.

“Thank you, My Lady,” he sighed, surprised by how much he meant it. But now, back to what he had to say.

Jon took a deep breath, knowing that was he was about to say would change things for the better or worse, and that there’s be no going back once it was out. Steeling himself, Jon closed his eyes and said, “Lord Stark isn’t my father.”

The room immediately went silent. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard.

Opening his eyes, Jon found he was met with a myriad of expression from everyone in the room, mostly confusion, but some shock and disbelief as well. It was as he had expected. “He lied,” he continued. “To all of us.”

“I don’t understand,” Catelyn spoke up, brows furrowed deeply, creasing her forehead. “Ned never lies about anything, why would he for you?”

Now was the moment of truth, he supposed. “Because he’s my uncle.”

Silence. Then Catelyn scoffed.

“You lied to me all these years to protect my honour?” She said, turning to her husband, drawing a confused frown from both Jon and Ned. Seemingly ignorant of that, she continued on. “I mean, of course of knew of Brandon’s tendencies , but to go this far to protect one of his bastards!” She scoffed again, shaking her head.

Ah, so that was it. She thought Jon was her fiance’s bastard, conceived before her wedding to the Stark. Jon could see how she could think that, but it was still wrong.

“I’m not Brandon’s,” he said, getting her attention. “And I’m not a bastard.”

Ever so slowly, Jon watched the realization dawn on her face. At first it was confusion, then understanding, then finally something akin to horror.

"My Gods, Ned," she breathed, turning her wide-eyed stare to her husband. She had figured it out. Lord Stark could only meet her gaze with his own guilty one, telling her all she needed to know.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw the same expression on Robb, except he was staring hard at the floor, eyebrows pinched together in something resembling betrayal. But not quite…

“Robb?” He asked. His cousin flinched slightly, eyes squeezing shut as he reigned himself in.

When he finally did respond, his words were quiet and horse. It was almost harrowing.

“She sent a letter,” he said. The words were flat, as if spoken at the funeral of a loved one.

“Who sent a letter?” Lady Stark breathed, voice trembling only the slightest.

“Cersei,” he said, blue eyes finally looking up to meet the rest of theirs. “She sent a letter after she took father prisoner explaining his crimes against the crown. I didn’t think- I didn’t want to believe what she’d said was true. That father would have done something like that. I couldn’t accept it.”

“Done what, Robb?” She pressed.

“She said he had been harboring a Targaryen bastard with the plan of putting him on the throne. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t believe it but…” He trailed off, eyes drifting over to Jon. “It’s true then?” He asked. “You really are Rhaegar’s?” Jon nodded solemnly. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who his real father was, after all.

“And aunt Lyanna?” He continued. Another nod. Tears pricking at his eyes, Robb turned to his father with contempt, shaking hands balled into fists at his side.

“How could you lie to us,” he demanded. His voice was stained with tears, wether of anger or sadness Jon couldn’t be sure, but they resonated with him deeply. “To all of us! He deserved to know, we all deserved to know!”

“Robb-” Ned tried to cut in, but it fell on deaf ears.

“No, you raised me to be honorable. How can I be that when you’ve never been so yourself?” His words were spoken out of anger, but there was truth to them. It might have been selfish or immature of him, but Jon agreed with his cousin. “You’re just a liar!”

“I did it to protect him!” Ned cried back, shocking everyone in the room. This was the man known to all the North as the Quiet Wolf. To hear him raise his voice was… frightening. “To protect all of you. Cersei was never meant to find out,” he continued. “No one was.”

The room fell into silence after that. Not even the fire in the hearth seemed to make a sound, as if it were holding its breath for whatever came next. Eventually, it was Lady Catelyn who spoke. Her eyes were downcast at the stone floor, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

“Did they love each other?” She asked. She didn’t specify who, but it was clear who she spoke of.

Lord Stark only gazed solemnly back as he gave his response. “I can’t speak for my sisters heart, but her dying words were for Jon’s safety. But yes, they were married.”

Catelyn gave a stiff nod, eyes hard as ice.

The next person to speak up was Sansa. “So Jon, is not our brother?” Not half-brother, as she always referred to him. But brother.

“Aye,” Jon said in a hoarse voice. “I’m your cousin.”

“Oh,” was all she said.

Off to the side, Arya was looking up at him with tearful eyes, red rimmed and puffy. Without saying anything, she stood up and tackled him in a hug. He stumbled back from the shock of it, but soon found his arms snacking around her skinny shoulders to hold her as she cried.

“I don’t care if you’re our cousin,” she sobbed into his tunic. “You’re my brother, and nothing will take that away.” Her arms were tight around his waist, as if fearful he was going to be taken away. Maybe some part of her really thought that. She was only a child after all. A child who had just been told her closest friend and confidant wasn’t even her blood brother.

“I know, little sister,” he managed to say. Because that’s what she was. His little sister. “I know.”

The two held onto each other for a good few moments longer before someone broke the scene.

“Ned,” Catelyn finally said, voice softer than it had been before. “Would you mind taking the girls out of here. I wish to speak to Jon alone.” Ned didn’t miss the implication of Robb staying behind, but figured it was for the purpose of a medium between the two. Even after the revelation, there would still be friction between his wife and Jon. Nodding, Ned ushered the children out of the solar, heading them off to their rooms.

Only once they were gone did Catelyn speak up again. The room was empty except for the three of them, weak autumn light filtering in through the windows, casting everything in a pale glow. Jon and Robb exchanged unsure glances before Lady Stark spoke, uncertain as to what she would say, and as such, apprehensive.

"When you were a babe and had just been brought to live with us," Catelyn started, her voice hollow and yet full of grief. Jon shrunk in on himself slightly as he readied himself for whatever onslaught of prejudice Lady Stark was about to throw at him. "I couldn't stand the sight of you. There you were, a bastard of my Lord husband, already living in the nursery meant for my children, looking more northern than the trueborn son in my arms.

"I hated you. I prayed for the gods to take you away. To take away the remainder of my honorable husband's betrayal. The only proof that he held some base born woman's love above that of his lady wives. For no matter what I said, he would not get rid of you."

Jon felt the sting of her words but brushed them aside, refusing to show how much they hurt in front of his siblings.

"I was a horrible woman," she said, her voice choking up with tears. She would not meet his eye, which wasn't a first, but she had at the beginning of her speech. "I prayed to the gods for you to die. What woman does that to a child? An innocent, motherless child who had done nothing wrong?” A beat. “And then you got the pox."

She paused to rein herself in, and in that time, Jon could tell Robb's eyes were wide with horror as he stared at his mother. Jon meanwhile was just trying to keep his mask of indifference on, for he knew that if that slipped, he would either become blinded with rage or break into sobs, like the child he was. He did not like either option very much, so he fought to keep his emotions back.

"Maester Luwin had said that if you survived the night, you would make it. So that night, I sat at your bedside, listening to every cough and wheeze, hoping that it wouldn't be your last. I prayed to all seven gods, 'let him live. Let him live and I will be a mother to him. I will have him be given the Stark name. But let him live'."

"And I did," Jon said.

Catelyn nodded, eyes still downcast. "And you did. But I could not keep my promise. And because of that, the gods have decided to punish this family, all because I could not love a motherless child." She broke into sobs after that, face contorted into despair and grief. Robb got up from his seat and knelt next to her, putting an arm over hers in comfort. But he said nothing, instead giving Jon a look of apology and shock. Jon returned the look with one of acceptance. He didn't hold a grudge against the woman for what she'd done. And he wanted his brother to know that. In a different time, he would have. But not now. Not anymore.

"I forgive you, my Lady," he finally said once her sobs quieted down, the words sticking in his throat. "And I have a feeling the gods had nothing to do with what has happened to your family." Not if anything the older Bran had told him was true. All of this would have happened regardless. Only things wouldn't have turned out as well as they did.

"Our family," Rob spoke up. Jon shot him a confused look. "You're part of this family Jon, don't think you're not," the young lord told him, his voice full of conviction.

“Robb-” Jon tried.

“No! You're a Stark,” he pressed, blue eyes blazing with a cold steel. “It doesn't matter if your name is Snow, or Targaryen, or what have you. It doesn't matter that you're not even my brother. You're family . And damn every man who says any different.”

Emotion bubbled up and formed a tight knot in Jon's throat that he found he couldn't speak past. Jon had been afraid his siblings-cousins wouldn't accept him because of his new found status, but it appeared that that wasn't the case at all. Not with Robb anyhow.

"You're a Stark," he said again, his tone firm and sincere. "You have been since the day father brought you to Winterfell."

If there were tears glistening in his eyes, Jon made no motion to get rid of them. “Thank you, Robb,” he said quietly. And he meant it.