Chapter Text
Prologue
"You have my blood."
The words followed Jon all the way to the Wall. Through mud and rain, through the cold rations chewed in the saddle. They burned in his chest as the Wall finally rose—a cliff of ice so high it swallowed the sky.
His new brothers cheered. The gates groaned open. Home, they called it.
Jon couldn't move.
Ned was walking into the lion's den. The man who raised him, lied for him, bled for the truth of Rhaegar and Lyanna—that secret burning hotter than any frost-bite. If Jon rode through those gates, he'd be sworn for life.
I promised Lady Catelyn I'd leave. For Robb.
He turned his horse.
And I will one day.
Voices yelled behind him—"Snow! Where are you going?"—but Jon spurred faster, past black cloaks and white snow, past the brother he'd never be, past the home he'd just found. He didn't stop until the Wall was a smudge on the horizon, Ghost's phantom howl fading in his ears.
One secret had upended his life. A name he should have never known. A father who wasn't his anymore.
It would be so much easier to just be Snow.
Or a Stark. He'd always wanted to be a wolf.
He'd always been one. But now...
Chapter 01 - The Race South
The thunder of hooves dulled to a relentless drum as Winterfell's grey walls rose on the horizon, squat and stern against the snow-swept plains. Torches flickered like dying stars along the battlements, casting long shadows over the godswood and the broken tower—home. Jon's breath caught. A sharp pang in his chest, sharper than any blade.
He slowed the gelding he'd all but stolen. Just for a moment, the beast's flanks heaving with steam in the biting wind.
Ghost.
Where is he? Has he left his shadow behind in the kennels, red eyes glowing in the dark? Is he still running along, hiding beyond the woods? Or is he home, by Bran's bed? Should he turn back, slip through the gates like a thief in the night?
Should I tell Robb? The thought clawed at him. Warn his brother—his half-brother no, cousin?—of Father's peril, about secrets that could topple kingdoms. Or would that only paint a target on Robb's back, drag the Young Wolf into the lion's jaws? No. Promises bound him: to Lady Catelyn, to the Night's Watch, to their protection.
Hunger gnawed at his gut, cold rations long gone. Food waited in Winterfell's halls—fresh bread, mutton stew—but stopping meant questions, eyes narrowing on the deserter in black. He couldn't face it. Couldn't face them. Jon dug in his spurs. The horse surged forward, Winterfell shrinking to a smear of torchlight in the gathering dusk. He rode on.
Hours bled into the night, the kingsroad a ribbon of frozen mud unspooling south. Before he knew it, the air thickened, the snow giving way to a damp mist that clung like fever-sweat. The Neck swallowed him whole—the causeway bridging endless bogs, twisted trees clawing at the sky, the faint croak of frogs and hiss of unseen waters.
The North was behind him now, its clean cold traded for this soupy warmth, heavy with rot and secrets. Crannogmen lurked in the reeds, questioning gaze, bows drawn on strangers. Jon didn't belong here. Never had, even in Winterfell. A black wolf among the pack of grey.
The horse plodded on, hooves splashing through shallow floods, the world a watercolor blur. Jon's mind raced faster than the wind, You have my blood, a whipcrack drowning the swamp's murmurs. He kept riding, eyes fixed south, toward the lion's den.
Dusk deepened into true night as he stumbled upon an inn at the crossroads—a sagging heap of thatch and stone, its windows glowing with hearthfire. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the scent of ale and roasting hare. Strangers huddled at a campfire out front: a fat merchant with a guarded cart, a hedge knight nursing a wineskin, drunk soldiers in ragged Baratheon gold, their voices slurring over the crackle of flames.
Jon tethered his horse and approached warily, cloak pulled tight, hood low to hide. He bought bread and salt beef, saying little. But words flowed like the nearby stream.
"The king is dead," the merchant muttered, wiping grease from his chins. "Robert Baratheon, felled by a boar hunt gone sour." He chuckled, another joined conspicuous, "Murdered, they whisper—poisoned by that Lannister whore."
Jon's blood froze mid-bite, the world narrowing to the fire's pop and hiss. Robert? Dead? Surely a lie, a man's tale to scare travelers. King Robert was iron incarnate, laughing off arrows and rebel swords. He burned the dragon, no bore could kill him.
The soldier leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Worse comes. Ned Stark—the Hand!, they call him Lord Protector, the honourable now, or did. Traitor to the realm. Locked him in the black cells under the Red Keep. Queen’s got the city sewn up tight." Laughter echoed through the inn, 'honorable traitor' they said again and again falling to the floor in drunken hysterical fits.
Traitor. The word burned hotter than the hearth, searing through Jon's doubt. He knew it untrue—knew it in his bones, like he knew Arya's crooked smile or Ghost's white fur. Ned Stark was honor itself, Hand of the King, Warden of the North. But the whispers wormed in, twisting with the secret: He does lie well, when he chooses to.
For a heartbeat, Jon forgot it all—the Targaryen truth, his broken vows. He forgot everything except: it's surely all tales but, I have to get there. Before the lion's jaws snapped shut. Someone has to be there.
Abandoning thoughts of rest, he flung coin for another loaf and mounted up. The strangers' laughter fading behind him like ghosts.
He rushed South.
To King's Landing.
To Lord Stark.