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Chapter Text

Jon I

The wind was howling , no, screaming, with winter wind. Jagged teeth of ice bit into Jon's face and caught in his hair which blew in every direction, obscuring his vision. But even still, in the distant horizon, he could make out five figures on horseback riding towards him. Though he couldn't see them clearly, they were approaching rapidly, the dread pooling in the pit of Jon's stomach told him so.

Do you see them, Little One? Do you see them coming?

The words slipped into his ears like wind, filling his skull. It was neither male nor female; no, no, that wasn't true. Rather the voice was both male and female; it was musical and raspy, young and ancient, moral or divine all in one.

"What…what are they?" he asked the wind. It was cold, cold like the far reaches of Winterhold during Morning Star or like the peak of the Throat of the World at night. It was as cold as the worst storms of the North.

Remember the stories of your childhood, Little One. You've run far from them, tried to distance yourself from them. But they haven't forgotten you; it's time for you to remember!

"I don't want to be here!" The cold froze the words in his throat, and the five figures were nearly upon him. He looked down at his hip, desperate for his sword, but instead he found that he was completely nude and bare to the elements. The cracking of hooves against ice drew his attention back to the figures, and he saw that they were closer still, probably less than half a mile away now with the middle rider the closest by far.

Soon you may not have a choice.

Something seized him by the shoulder tightly and then, after only the smallest glance of a gnarled white hand, Jon woke up.

Jon woke up to a knocking on his bedroom door.

"Come in," he called from his bed, and with a groan, he hauled himself into a sitting position, pressing his palms into his eyes as he tried to rub the disturbing images of his dream from them. Jordis the Sword-Maiden entered already dressed in her daily armor, sword at her hip, and carrying a pitcher of steaming water which she sat down on the dress next to his washbasin.

"This is the third time I tried to wake you, my Thane. You must have been sleeping very deeply." Jordis puttered around his room, throwing up his curtains, opening his wardrobe to select a cloak for him, and straightening the ink, quills, and rolls of paper he kept on his desk. 

For a moment, Jon considered reminding her that she was his housecarl, not his servant. Even when he was living at one of his other properties, twice a week, on Morndas and Fredas, he paid a maid to come in a clean Proudspire Manor thoroughly. He also made use of the local laundry service that picked up dirty laundry and delivered it back clean once a week. Day-to-day chores like cooking, washing dishes, and the removal of garbage were shared between the inhabitants. But he ultimately bit his tongue, as Jordis disliked being still and if straightening his clutter made her happy, then he was not going to tell her to stop.

"Something along those lines. Did you let Ghost out into the courtyard while I slept? Still, he usually wakes me at the break of dawn." Jon looked over to the pile of furs in the corner that was, quite unusually, not occupied by a giant, white direwolf. 

Normally, Jon's morning routine began with his oldest companion leaping onto the bed and giving his ear a firm and enthusiastic nuzzling. But this morning the great white beast was nowhere to be seen.

"Don't you remember, my Thane? Sir Enzo took Ghost along with him, when he left for the training exercise with Captain Aldis and the new recruits this morning."

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten. They're doing tracking exercises, I believe."

"Correct, they'll be back by supper. Now, breakfast is nearly ready and you don't want to be late for the last session of court."

Jon raked a hand through his wild dark curls and tried to get the haunting image of the five mystery riders out of his mind. "I'll be down shortly, Jordis. Would you please set out a bottle of Honningbrew?"

This housecarl's eyebrows shot up. "Of course, but you feeling alright, my Thane? You look quite pale."

Jon forced a small grin, "I'm always pale." Internally he winced though, as he rarely drank alcohol with his morning meal, and when he did, it was always when he was stressed about something. Moreover, given the sort of threats he had faced in the past, his definition of ‘stress’ was more extreme than most. Now she was sure to believe him to be troubled.

The Sword-Maiden's face relaxed somewhat, and her lips twitched upwards slightly, "That is true, but-"

"I'm fine, Jordis. I just need something to help me relax before I have to deal with all those nobles in court. I have to keep reminding myself that I am a noble as well, otherwise I'd avoid them all."

That wasn't a total lie, and judging by Jordis' snort of amusement, she believed him well enough. Though even still, she gave him one final contemplative look before taking her leave, and Jon was left on his own to get ready for the day. He brushed his teeth with a thick paste made from mint and corkbulb root, gave himself a quick scrub down of warm water and lavender soap, making a mental note to visit the bathhouse that evening as he did so. Proudspire Manor had its own private washroom, but after three weeks of dealing with the irritating intricacies of the court, Jon had developed an annoying pain in his neck, several actually, so a nice relaxing massage followed by an herbal soak would not be unwelcome.

After dressing in his finest, yet still practical clothing Jon held up his Aetherial Crown in consideration. He ran his finger over one of the glistening gemstones as he did so, letting himself give a smile of remembrance to Katria, before deciding it was too extravagant for today’s events and setting it back down. Then Jon fixed his favorite dagger to his hip (carrying a sword in court was considered bad manners, but as no true Nord went anywhere unarmed, daggers were accepted), and slipped a snow bear pelt cloak over his shoulders. Deciding that was good enough, Jon went to work on taming his dark curls into something presentable. 

As he did so, his reflection stared back at him from the mirror mounted above his dresser, so different and yet so similar to the one he saw when he first arrived in Skyrim. Coming up on his nineteenth year, he had grown into his long features, which seemed to become more sharply delicate with every year that passed. He was still pale and slender, swift and graceful on his feet, though his body was now muscular, covered in scars and symbols. He was finally able to grow a beard, which he kept short and well-groomed. But, unfortunately, despite growing several inches in the past years, he still wasn't particularly tall, standing a whole four inches shy of six feet.

Above all else, his dark gray eyes, which seemed to be black in the right lighting, remained the same and it was with those same eyes that he took in his reflection. Jordis was right; he did look paler than normal with dark shadows under his eyes. What had that dream been about, and why was he so unnerved by it? This was far from the first nightmare Jon ever had, it wasn't even the first one this month. Far from the worst either; so why did it stick with him? Something about those figures riding through the snow and ice towards him, something so familiar…

"It doesn't matter, it was just a dream," Jon assured himself.

By the time Jon came downstairs, breakfast was ready and laid out on the table: snowberry griddle cakes drizzled with honey, sliced apples, and bacon. In addition, there was a single goblet filled with mead (not a whole bottle as he asked, Jon noted with amusement) which Jon downed in one long swallow as soon as he sat down. Jordis watched him with knowing eyes, yet said nothing, only slid a tankard of milk towards him. They ate quietly, for the most part, only interrupted when Jordis made a few comments about her plan to go up to Castle Dour and find some soldiers to spar with.

"Don't hurt anyone too badly now, their bodies or their egos," Jon remarked with a smile that Jordis returned, with the added addition of an exaggerated eye roll. She wiped her mouth on a napkin and passed him a stack of folded papers. "Your mail came."

" Ugh , who wants a piece of me now?"

"Oh, probably the same people who always do. I looked through some of them; someone wants you to clear out a cave, your moonstone mine sent its quarterly report, and—" she paused and grinned widely, clearly taking enjoyment out of what she was about to say, "—Lord Hail-Hardened has invited you to come and celebrate Heart's Day with him and his family."

Jon groaned and dropped his forehead onto the table with a loud thunk as Jordis laughed openly now. Lord Carlimund Hail-Hardened was one of the four lords of The Pale; a good man, from what Jon had seen, happily married to his wife, Vola, and a bit of a scholar. His eldest child, an impressive young woman named Bjanela, was his heir and the apple of her father’s eye. Jon had met her a few times before and, yes, she was lovely and intelligent; but Jon had no interest in marrying her. Her or any other of the daughters thrown at him by eager mothers and fathers.

"If you just picked someone and got married, all these invitations would top." Jordis paused again and hummed thoughtfully. "But then again, maybe not. Plenty of families would love to get the blood of the legendary Dragonborn intermixed with theirs, no matter how."

"You know, you have a particular skill for giving good advice. It always makes me feel so much better," Jon mumbled as he shifted through his mail. 

A couple of letters were from people who wanted help with something or other (packs of wolves, bandits, groups of falmer coming to the surface, skooma dealers) and were willing to offer compensation for his time, those he'd send on to Vilkas to divvy out to the other Companions. Some were requests for magical consultations, or hopeful young students wanting advice, most of which he'd sent to Tolfdir, although Jon did intend to answer concerning his work on spells that would clear the blood of foreign substances. Perhaps he and this mage could share notes. The report from his moonstone mine showed that it had been a profitable quarter, and that the ore they had dug up was in the process of being refined and shipped out to the usual buyers. That was by far the best news Jon had heard all morning, and he looked forward to receiving the reports from his other five mines, even as he made a mental note to send out a shipment of the proper potions to each of them.

He went through the letters one by one, sorting them into different piles. He got a lot of mail; some business, some personal letters from old friends checking in that all was well, and filling Jon in on the new details of their lives, some that were in-between the two. Aranea Ienith told him about the apprentices she was taking under her wing, and asked him to visit soon. Borgakh wanted to let him know that she was doing well as a private mercenary and enjoyed the traveling it allowed her. Most were from people he knew, some from people he didn't. But they all had a reason for contacting him; this was also true of the letter at the bottom of the pile. Jon's breath caught when he saw it and the red wax held it closed.

On the red wax was a very familiar seal, the head of a direwolf.

The letter was from Winterfell.

Chapter Text

Jon II

"Thane Whitewolf? Thane Whitewolf, are you feeling alright?"

A hand at his elbow jolted Jon from his thoughts and reminded him where he was. "I'm sorry, what?"

Lady Anisgeth Summerwind looked at him with questioning sea-green eyes, "You've barely said anything all morning, are you ill? There has been a fever sweeping through the eastern part of the city."

"Oh? I'll have to send down a supply of potions to treat that. But, yes, I simply have something on my mind this morning. Thank you for your concern, my lady, have I missed anything important?" Jon rubbed his forehead, the contents of the letter in his pocket weighing heavily on his mind. Even with the loud arguments (and personalities) of the Council Chambers, it was all too easy for Jon to lose himself in his own thoughts. 

"Only if you find Bannerbold and White-Ash bickering yet again to be important."

"Gods, what’re they arguing about now?"

A chair creaked when its user rocked back in it, as White-Ash answered himself answered Jon’s question. "I'm just saying, why should I be responsible for increased guard patrols on your lands? Come on, Lord Fireburn you're with me on this, right? What about you Thane Merdekla? The more resources that go towards guard patrols, the less there is to go to your orphanage and widows’ house."

If the man was looking for allies, he'd have to look elsewhere, because all he found in those two were dirty looks.

"You wouldn't be responsible for anything, White-Ash, Lord Blacksand would be," growled Lord Lembur Bannerbold. He was a kindly-faced man whose usually high amounts of patience were being severely tested by his argumentative 'colleague.'

"Oh yes, let me just inform my nephew. I'm sure a boy of three winters will be quite up to the task," sneered Herck White-Ash.

"Gentlemen, you are acting like squabbling children," snapped Thane Bryling as she glared at the two men from across the table. "Sir White-Ash, you are your nephew's legal guardian until he comes of age. Therefore, you have the power to make decisions for the people of his land. But, as hold guard patrols are paid for by the yearly budget, it is out of your hands. So kindly shut your mouth. Today is the final session of the Grand Court, and we still have several issues which need to be dealt with. I, for one, do not want to be here all night."

"My dear Bryling, do you have some other engagement to attend? Perhaps you're planning on meeting with someone?" Thane Erikur asked in a sickly, sweet voice, malice shining in his eyes.

There were few people in all of Skyrim that Jon found as purely irritating as Thane Erikur. Every word the man said set Jon's teeth on edge; he had spent the better part of the past two years slowly prying Erikur's claws away from the shops and properties of the capital city, secretly paying off the debts of certain shops, and making sure the deeds to others 'went missing' from the man's private office. He was slimy, self-important, and viciously ambitious with his mind fixed firmly on Elisif's throne. As she had no children or spouse, tradition dictated that she pick a member of her court as her heir. Though she had yet to make an official choice, let alone publicly announce an heir, it was well-known that Erikur desired the throne and would do whatever he could to get it.

So, needless to say, it filled Jon with no small amount of glee to give the man a sharp kick to the shin, and pretend it was an accident when he got a vicious look from his fellow thane. Falk Firebeard caught his eye, and the small smile on both his and Sybille Stentor's faces told him they both knew and approved of his actions.

High Queen Elisif herself stood up, lovely and regal with her circlet gleaming in the light, "Actually, I believe now would be a good time to break for luncheon."

There were some rumbles of agreement mixed with the sliding of chairs as members of the court exited the room. Jon got to his feet but waited a moment for everyone else to leave. He stretched and pondered if he should head home to eat, or go to the nearby restaurant which boasted the most delicious baked chicken in all of Skyrim, when Elisif stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Jon, I was hoping you'd join me for a private meal."

Elisif's private study was a cozy room with large windows designed to capture as much light as possible, while the twin fireplaces kept the room comfortably warm. Fur pelts, rich tapestries, and exquisite paintings even to Jon’s amateurish eye decorated the walls, which were lined with shelves containing different books and assorted curiosities. Servants had already laid out on the small table a spread of meat, bread, fruit, and cheese, along with a light cider and a pot of tea when they arrived. He could smell the latter was his favorite blend.

"I'm glad you decided to join me, Jon."

"My pleasure. Besides, I could hardly refuse."

Elisif laughed lightly as she passed him a cup of tea, "You could always refuse me; you've earned that right."

"That doesn't mean I would." The warm liquid soothed the tight knots in his shoulders. Tea wasn't a common drink in Skyrim, the plants tended to be too delicate to grow in such a harsh land. So that meant it needed to be imported and that Jon had to stock up whenever he visited Solitude. Though he could usually get some when he was in Riften if he went through some less-than-honest channels.

Yes, he was an important member of society now, supposed to uphold the law. However, starting from the very bottom had left him very familiar with the flaws within society, and had little patience for those very laws which were cruel or senseless. 

"I wanted to thank you, Jon."

"For what, my queen?" he asked in surprise, sure he had not done anything of note lately.

"For being here. I know that sitting at a table and being forced to listen to the squabbles of nobles is not how you'd prefer to spend your days. But your counsel is invaluable to me. These past few years have been so difficult, and you've been such a rock for me."

Jon felt his heartache for the beautiful young widow who had lost her great love so terribly, and had the responsibility of leadership thrust upon her shoulders so abruptly, and during such a turbulent time. 

"It has always been my honor and pleasure to serve you. I won't lie, I'm much more comfortable out in the wild with a sword or bow in my hand than I am debating politics with lords and ladies. But I certainly won't argue with having a soft bed and a hot bath every night. The jarls of this land have been good to me, better than they needed to be, so I'm happy to help them in any way I can. If that means offering my counsel, or scowling at uppity guardians, then so be it."

Elisif covered his hand with hers and gave it a warm squeeze, "It makes me happy to hear you say that. So does it mean you'd be willing to answer a question?"

Jon looked at her, puzzled, "Of course, what would you like to know?"

She paused and bit her lip, clearly debating on how she should phrase the question, but eventually she sat up, squared her shoulders, and locked eyes with him, "Tell me what is troubling you. Don't try pretending that nothing is wrong, I know you far too well to believe such a lie. You've been distracted all morning, you're paler than normal, have bags under your eyes, and you keep rubbing your face, which you only do when something heavy is on your mind."

He opened his mouth to protest, but Elisif squeezed his hand again, "Please Jon, you've helped me so much. Let me help you."

After a moment, Jon sighed sadly, and dug out from his breast pocket the troubling letter. He handed it to Elisif, who visibly read it over once, twice, three times before sitting with him in silence for several painfully long moments. Eventually, she softly offered, "I've never heard you speak of your family. Honestly, I assumed you were an orphan as the songs say."

Jon couldn't help but chuckle a bit, "I don't know the man in those songs. I guess when people don't know the facts, they make up whatever lie sounds the prettiest. Bards I’m friendly with certainly don’t help matters, what with all the ridiculous tales they enjoy spreading with their songs. But, truthfully, I never mentioned my family before, because I hoped to forget them, to start a new life. I did not leave on good terms, and when I arrived here, things quickly became so different for me. I became different; I was not the person that they knew. But still, a few years ago, I decided to send them a letter so that they at least would know I was alive.

“It was difficult, but I sent it with an East Empire ship; they don't stop in Westeros directly, but they do make the occasional stop in the city of Braavos, which is fairly close to the Westerosi port city of White Harbor. From Braavos, Adelaisa Vendicci made sure my letter got on the proper ship to get it to White Harbor, and then, eventually, to Winterfell, where I was raised. After my family got the letter, everything was good, for a while. We sent these grand, long letters back and forth, probably spending a small fortune, and I would tell them about my life here. I didn't tell them about… well, I told them I was happy and doing well, that I had made a name for myself.

But nearly two years ago now, Lord Stark wrote to me and asked that I come back to Winterfell, told me that was where I belonged, and he'd 'find something for me.' I got... just so angry when I read that. He knew I had found somewhere I could be my own man, and he wanted me to return to a place where my very existence was subject to scorn? How could he ask that of me? I wrote back and said some, well, some rather unkind things. I haven't heard from anyone in Winterfell since, not until this morning when I got that letter."

Elisif’s delicate brow was furrowed in thought, clearly trying to process all she just learned. "This…Arya, she is your sister?"

"My youngest sister. She was always my favorite, and we were very close growing up. If Robb, who was older than me by less than fifty days but my twin in all but technicality, or Ned Stark, the man who raised me, had asked me to visit, I could say no without much of a problem. But with her, I don't know. I want to see her, but I can't go back to being The Bastard of Winterfell. I just can't face that kind of judgment and scorn again. I—"

"When Torygg first married me and brought me to Solitude, I faced plenty of judgment and scorn,” Elisif said, cutting him off. Her face was that careful blank she always used when dealing with a tricky situation. “I was but a simple common girl, the daughter of a tavern keeper and a washerwoman; I had no business being married to the new High King of Skyrim. I could have been his beautiful mistress perhaps, but certainly not his wife. With all those eyes on me, I did the only thing I could."

"What was that?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow at the abrupt change in conversation.

Elisif drew herself up proudly. "I proved myself. I learned to be the perfect queen and, in the meantime, I enjoyed watching the people who scorned me in one breath be forced to bow before me and kiss my hand in the next. Now look at me: Jarl of Solitude and then High Queen of Skyrim in my own right. 

“You said it yourself, Jon, you are not the same person who left your home. Now you are the Great Thane of Skyrim, the Slayer of Alduin, one of the greatest warriors alive, a respected scholar, rich beyond measure, and your tongue has the power to bring men and women to their knees. So what if the ignorant and the uninformed judge you? They know nothing ; you could crush them in a second, so why should their foolhardy beliefs matter to you? Besides," she stood, gripping his shoulders tightly and gave him a fiercely dark grin, "don't you want to show them just how well you've done for yourself?"

Jon grinned up at her, "You better be careful, less that mask of innocence and naivety slip in front of the wrong people."

A softer, yet no less conspiratorial, grin graced the Queen's face, "Well, let us hope Erikur and White-Ash never look too closely."

Jon rolled his eyes. Surely politics in Westeros weren't this convoluted.

The main bathhouse of Solitude was a large sprawling stone building with low ceilings, thick walls, and massive underground fires that heated the bathing pools. It was also a public building and free to use by the citizens of the city. Well, the two main baths (segregated by gender, so that modesty may be kept by those who worried about such things) were free to use, though toiletries were not provided. The other services the bathhouse offered were done so for a price. These services included smaller private baths, use of the steam room, herbal soaks, and Jon's personal favorite, massages.

"Is there anywhere you wish for me to focus on, sir?" asked a comely Breton youth as he drizzled warm scented oil onto Jon's back.

"My neck and shoulders, if you don't mind."

The first time Jon had been taken to the bathhouse for a massage, he had nearly fled the building in embarrassment. He was shyer back then; the thought of lying face down on a cushioned table, nude aside from a towel wrapped around his waist, while some stranger rubbed him down with oils terrified him. But time marched on, Jon grew up and more comfortable in his own skin. Having friends who partook regularly also helped, allowing Jon to see the activity as normal and socially acceptable. Now it was one of his favorite ways to relax, to the point Jon even had his favorites..

"Of course, sir."

Over the course of the next hour, Gilellen worked his body free from the many, many knots with his talented hands while Jon's mind mulled over the talk he had with Elisif. She brought up so many good points, it was a firm reminder of how she could be such a persuasive speaker when she needed to be. Persuasive enough to bring the entirety of her court into hand, and bring the final session to a peaceful, productive close. After popping loose one final knot in the small of his back, the bathhouse worker began to wipe the excess oil from Jon's body. "Are there any other services you require from me tonight, sir?”

"No, not today. I have an herbal soak scheduled and I'd like to get to that." Jon stretched his arms upwards so that Gilellen could wipe the last drizzle of oil from his rib cage and the shallow of his left hip.

"That sounds lovely, sir. Allow me to escort you there."

The herbal bath was already prepared by the time he arrived in the private room; towels and soaps were stacked neatly beside the bath. A small low table held a plate of pastries and sliced fruit, as well as a bottle of fine wine. Jon tested the water and while it was perfectly warm, he still needed to make a bit of an adjustment.

A jet of fire stirred up water until it was nearly boiling and then, only then, did Jon sink into the steaming tub with a satisfied moan.

"That cannot be healthy," the occupant of the second tub remarked.

"What can I say, I like my baths hot," Jon fell back into a relaxed sprawl and closed his eyes. "So, Enzo, how did the tracking exercise go?

The Redguard man chuckled darkly, "Oh very well. First, Aldis and I had Ghost run off into the forest and let the new recruits try to track the beast down. Then we made them run off while Ghost and I hunted them while they tried to throw us off their trail. It was amusing."

Jon gave the older warrior an incredulous look, "Tell me you didn't have Ghost maul any of the losers."

"Oh no, of course not. Just a few nibbles here and there; barely any blood at all. Besides, your beast was well paid for his work, five whole rabbits. He was enjoying them in the Manor's courtyard when I left to come here."

Their friendship was an odd one, possibly because Enzo had never intended for both of them to survive their second meeting. When a warrior clad all in ebony had approached him outside Warmaiden's, demanding that they do battle, Jon had been unsure but agreed to meet the man at his camp all the same. The pair's battle had lasted nearly half a day, one of the fiercest Jon ever had, until they collapsed to the ground side-by-side. Both of them were mortally wounded, throats raw and bloody from too many shouts with too little time in between, and neither had enough magicka left to cast a healing spell.

Jon had one healing potion left and, on a whim, he gave half of it to the other man. It wasn't a particularly powerful potion and the small amount they each drank was only enough to prevent them from bleeding out in the snow. With that little bit of strength regained, the pair limped their way back down the mountain to an inn where they collapsed a second time. It took them three days to reawaken.

Once they did, the man informed Jon that since he had robbed the warrior of his chance to finally make it to Sovngarde, he would now be staying by Jon's side until he had another chance. Then he introduced himself as Enzo Vlast. Jon hadn't exactly been thrilled with his new companion at first, but he quickly grew attached to Enzo, as a young boy would to a skilled, worldly uncle. It helps that the frequent sparring matches they had pushed each of their skills to new heights.

"What is it about this letter that has you so unnerved?" The flickering candlelight glistened against the water droplets on Enzo's dark skin, and the older man's deep eyes bore into the side of Jon's head.

"Oh my gods , did Jordis tell you about that?" Jon threw his arms up in frustration; good intentions were nice, but he was sick of being asked if he was alright.

"Of course she did. She is your housecarl, which means it is her job to protect you from threats, even if that threat is your own stubbornness. Now, tell me what the letter is about, or I shall shear off all your hair while you sleep."

With that threat, Jon sunk down into the water, a scowl on his face. He'd never be able to brush off Enzo, they were too similar in nature. Plus, Jon had spent enough time with him to know that he absolutely would follow through on his threat.

"Remember when I told you about Arya? Well, she was the one who sent me the letter; she wants me to come home for a visit. Robb's nameday is in a few months and she wants me to be there."

"Do you want to go?"

"No — Yes — Oh, I don't know! It doesn't matter anyway, I'd never be able to arrange it."

"Why not? Do not pretend you have not the coin."

"I have far too many duties that need attending to. I have to be in Whiterun in three weeks for Jarl Balgruuf's Grand Court, not to mention my responsibilities to the Companions, the College, and everyone else!"

"You already have others that handle the day-to-day running of those groups while you are busy with other obligations. Why is this any different? Besides, you can just select someone to stand for you in court; you would not be the first noble to do so."

Jon scoffed, "So I suppose you'll be volunteering for that position?"

"Gods, no, I would be a terrible politician."

"You say that like I am a good one."

"Do not sell yourself short; those honeyed words of yours have turned the minds of many. But what about that vampire girl you follow around like a pup? She’s plenty tough enough to survive in a royal court. Maybe she will even eat a couple of the truly annoying nobles."

"Serana?" Jon paused, his brow furrowing as he contemplated what Enzo had said, "She's definitely got the mind to navigate court, and I trust her to act as I would. She also lives relatively close, I suppose I could send her a letter asking her to come by and — "

"Excellent, it is settled them. You get her here, and we will leave as soon as you make all the other necessary arrangements."

"What? Wait! 'We,’ what do you mean by ' we '?"

"What do you think I mean? I am coming with you, of course." Enzo went serious again, "I told you, I have no plans to leave your side anytime soon. That includes going to your homeland. I will be there to protect you."

While warmth flooded Jon's heart, nonetheless he tried once again to dissuade Enzo, "I don't even know how we'd get to Westeros. I'm no sailor, I'm not going to just buy a ship and sail it myself."

Enzo relaxed once again, "Oh, I'm sure you will figure something out. You’re a smart boy."

"Fine, I guess we're going to Winterfell then," Jon huffed and then sank completely under the water.

Later that night Jon was back in his bed, book in hand. It surprised him when he discovered how much he truly enjoyed reading. He had always been a decent student, and had enjoyed learning, but never considered himself the scholarly type. Except after spending time in Skyrim, studying all he could in hopes of finding something that would help him defeat Alduin, he had found himself reading everything he could get his hands on. History, war, politics, geography, language, alchemy, mathematics, poetry, and magic. He read it all, and even wrote some himself, and had amassed an impressive personal library.

But tonight he found that he couldn't concentrate. He was reading, or rather trying to read, A Game at Dinner, one of his favorites, and yet his attention kept wandering. But why? He should be content. Jon's bed was soft and warm; his belly was comfortably filled with roasted chicken and potatoes, apple pie, and Evette's spiced wine. His skin and hair were clean and fresh smelling from his bath. Even the pain in his muscles had stopped after the massage.

The answer was obvious and he needed to stop ignoring it. For what seemed like the hundredth time now, Jon read Arya's letter.

Dear Jon,

I had to send this letter in secret. Mother says we're not allowed to write to you anymore, she sent Bran to bed without supper when he tried to anyway. Father looks so sad whenever you're brought up these days, but he won't say why. Robb told me that Father said something that upset you in his last letter, and you told him you never wanted to speak to him again. Is that true? Because I'm sure he didn't mean to make you sad. When we got that first letter three years ago he was so happy, everyone was.

Well, nearly everyone, but even Theon smiled at the news. Now basically everyone is sad again. Sansa says we just need to forget about you but she says a lot of stupid stuff so I never listen to her. Robb and I have been telling Bran and Rickon stories about you, to make sure they remember you.

Bran says he dreams about you sometimes. In one of them you were climbing this really tall mountain and shouting at the wind to stop, isn't that funny? I can understand if you don't want to come live with us again, honestly, I wish I could come and live with you, but Robb's nameday is coming up, and there is going to be a big celebration so won't you please come and visit?

Love,

Your favorite little sister, Arya Underfoot

Jon wiped a tear from his eye, he missed Arya. He missed her spirit, her laugh, the way she’d hug him with all her might, and simply spending time with her. Even seeing the small mistakes and errors in her penmanship and spelling made Jon ache with love for his little sister. 

With a sigh, Jon put the letter away, blew out the candle on his bedside table, and settled back into the pillows to sleep. He had much to do tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Jon III

"So let me run through this again: you got a letter from your baby sister telling you that there is going to be this big, fancy party for your older brother, and that's all it takes to convince you to go back to a place that, from what I can tell, you hoped to never see again? I know you have a soft heart, but that is a bit much even for you."

"That is a bit of an oversimplification, Serana,” said Jon as he re-took stock of his room to check what was left, “and I am not soft-hearted."

Serana's eye roll told Jon exactly what she thought of his denial, "Tell that to that orphanage you fund. I wonder, did you send medicine and sweets with this month's care package, or just money and clothing?"

"Just because I display human decency to orphaned children, doesn't mean I have a soft heart. Besides, ever since I killed that old hag, I feel responsible for them. Plus, Maven hates being shown up; so when I make lavish donations, she does too, and the children benefit all around. Hand me that pouch, please."

"Fine, fine. But I still say that going out of your way to bring the orphaned children you find during your travels to Honorhall is the mark of someone with a soft heart.”

He only smiled back at his friend. She had arrived three days ago, and he had spent those days trying to get her up to speed on the courts she would have to traverse. Thankfully, Jon had been keeping a journal full of the names of all the nobles in Skyrim, their families, bits of background, and if they could be trusted to act as allies. He also kept notes on the various issues that would likely pop up in court and how to handle them :

“What is all this stuff anyway?" she asked, gesturing to the various chests around the room.

"Well, this one—" Jon motioned to the large chest at his feet that he was nearly finished packing, "is gifts for everyone when I get back to Winterfell. Two for Robb, a smaller one for when I arrive, and a bigger one for his nameday, and one for everyone else. Well, actually, Lady Stark and her eldest daughter are getting a shared gift. I also have a few small things to give out if I need to, like if my uncle comes to visit."

Serana looked up from where she was sprawled lazily on his bed, and propped her head up with one hand, peering at him with her burning crimson eyes. "You know, before yesterday, I don't think you ever mentioned that you had a second sister. I mean, I knew about feisty little Arya, you've talked about her often enough, and you've told me about the other ones: Robb, who was your best friend, rival, and constant companion all in one. Bran, already a little adventurer who loved climbing things and dreamt of being a heroic knight. Even baby Rickon, wild and prone to biting those that upset him. But I don't think you ever said anything about Sanda."

"Sansa," Jon corrected, feeling slightly guilty when he realized Serana was right. "We were never close, at least, not once she learned what a bastard was. She is the one who took after her mother the most," he recalled as he gave Serana a small, what-can-you-do smile.

"Yet, despite that, you're still going out of your way to give gifts to people you hate. Sometimes you really can be a pushover," growled the centuries-old vampiress, her eyes glowing even more intensely.

Jon shook his head as he crouched by the chest, arranging the boxes that each held a handpicked gift so that they would all fit properly, "It's not like that. I could never hate a girl for looking up to her mother. Maybe it hurt whenever she refused to acknowledge me, but hate? No, I could never hate Sansa. Lady Stark, maybe I hate her a bit during my darkest moments. But, even then, I never wished for any misfortune to befall her because of how much it would hurt everyone else."

Jon never knew what hate was in Westeros; there were times he thought he did, but it had been the hate of a child. Perhaps he had known anger and sadness, perhaps he had known loneliness and the hopelessness of self-loathing. But he hadn't known true hate .

No, that was something he had learned in Skyrim. 

Hate wasn't for a naive child or her cold mother, it was for the Thalmor, for Elenwen and Ancano. It was for Harkon, whose lust for power drove him to forget the love he should have had for his family, and for Mercer Frey, whose greed and ambition led him to betray oaths he had taken, and those who had trusted him. It was for the Silver Hand, who stole all the years two good men had left. It was even for Lemkil, an old farmer who channeled pain over the loss of his wife into cruelty directed at his daughters. For them and many others, their deaths brought only sweet dreams to Jon’s mind. 

Above all else, hatred was for Alduin.

When Jon cared to be honest with himself, he knew was tired of feeling so much hate.

Serana stared at him, quiet for a moment before finally saying, "You are a better person than I am, Jon Whitewolf."

Jon shrugged. "No, I don't think so. I really don't have much to complain about. As far as even noble bastards go in Westeros, except for maybe the ones in Dorne, I was extremely lucky. I was recognized, lived in a castle, had an excellent education… I should be grateful. It's not like Lady Stark ever actually hurt me or wanted me dead. She just wanted to protect her children."

Serana caught his wrist and gripped it tight, forcing him to look her in the eye. "Just remember, my father absolutely doted on me when I was a child, and still handed me over to Molag Bal, and then he was willing to use me to ensure the completion of his precious prophecy. Growing up, I was closer to my mother than anyone else in this world, but she still was willing to use me against my father and lock me away for centuries without any plan of ever letting me out."

Jon felt a chill shoot through his spine. "What are you saying?"

Serana's grip was cold and unnaturally strong on his wrist, yet the tone in which she spoke was even more so. "I'm saying that you should never doubt the amount of cruelty that a parent can possess, especially if they believe it is justified."

It took Jon a moment to comprehend what one of the people he held closest to him was suggesting, and when he did, he still could hardly believe it.

 He pulled himself from her grasp, almost angry now. "Serana… No, no, Ned Stark would never harm me! One, he is too honorable, and two, he swore he'd always protect me. Despite how conflicted my emotions about him are, I know that to be absolutely true. As for his wife, well, unless Lady Stark has learned to kill people with a glare, then any dirty looks I get from her will be just that, dirty looks with the occasional passive-aggressive comment; and I've spent enough time around Maven Black-Briar that I know how to deal with those."

But Serana, in a frenzy now, shot up from the bed and seized him by the shoulders, "You don't know that, Jon! Five years changes people, it certainly changed you, so who knows what it did to your family? Your father, you said he wants you to come home for good, right? He could— he could try to lock you away when it comes time for you to leave! And his wife, what if she sees you coming back as a wealthy man and a strong warrior as a threat to her children, and tries to poison you? Or— or—"

"Hey, I'll be fine," Jon soothed, trying to pacify both her and himself. "No one at Winterfell would ever try to hurt me, you don't have to worry about that. And it's not like I’ll be going alone."

Now it was Serana's turn to shake her head, "There is no way for you to be sure of that! You don't understand, I can't— Ugh, I swear, the thing I hate most about you is how overly trusting you are!"

"What? I'm not overly trusting!" Jon wasn't sure why that, out of all things, pissed him off, but it did.

What happened next surprised him. Upon hearing his angered retort, Serana stopped her near-hysterical ramblings, looked at him blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing, flopping back onto the mattress. Jon stared at her, riggling with laughter on his bed, incredulously for a moment before crossing his arms, "Care to let me in on the joke?"

Serana struggled to stop laughing for a moment, gasping for...breathe? Eventually, she was able to regain some level of composure. "The idea that you aren't overly trusting, is the funniest thing I've heard all my life."

Jon scowled. "I don't know what you mean."

She let out a giggle more akin to a little girl playing with her dollies than an ancient, pure-blood vampire. "Jon, you're someone who went to Dimhollow Crypt while in service to the Dawnguard, and upon finding a sleeping vampire girl with an Elder Scroll strapped to her back, decided not only to NOT kill her, but also to escort her halfway across the country back to her home, which was also filled to the brim with vampires. All because she asked you too."

Any anger or irritation faded in Jon's heart as he smiled. There was a good reason that Serana was fit snugly against Jon's heart, warm and ever-present. "Well," he said, a touch of teasing in his voice, "I had to help you, if I didn't you would have just followed me around until I broke down and did as you asked."

Serana chuckled at his jape, reaching up to tug softly on one of the braids that decorated his hair before moving her hand down to brush her icy fingertips along the scar that curved around his right eye. "Jon—"

He closed his eyes and hung his head, "Serana, please, I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Okay, fine, as long as you answer one more question."

Jon thought about this for a moment; on one hand, he really didn't want to answer any more questions, he had more than enough of that in the past several days. But on the other, he knew Serana rarely let go of something once she set her mind to it, and this was probably the best deal he was going to get out of her. So he nodded and braced himself for her inquiry.

"This Ned Stark, the man you called father growing up, how do you feel about him?"

Jon winced and turned to start folding clothes, not wanting Serana to see his face, "He raised me, provided for me, and protected me. He loves me and I love him, but, as it turns out, finding out you've been lied to your entire life can make things complicated."

Serana snorted, and began flipping through the pages of the filled journal he had given her. "You're talking to the queen of the complicated family relationships here, Jon. Hopefully, your family issues don't end up with the same resolution mine did."

Jon took that opportunity to try and steer the conversation away from his family drama. "Speaking of that, how are things going with your mother?"

Serana hummed slightly as she pondered the question. "Good," she said, in a slow, cautious way. "She doesn't regret what she did, exactly, but she does regret hurting me. We're trying to get used to each other again. It's been nice. We're even working on restoring my mother's old garden, and it's coming along wonderfully. Maybe once you get back from your little trip home you can come see it?"

Jon froze, as much as he cared for Serana and enjoyed spending time with her, Valerica still absolutely terrified him. It had been nearly two years since they first met, and he was now fairly sure that Valerica no longer hated him, and that she maybe even trusted him to a degree, but he doubted she would ever like him.

"We'll see," he offered.

Serana nodded and continued. "It's hard, though, trying to rebuild a mother-daughter relationship after all that time and pain. So, for now, we're working on building a relationship as equal partners, as colleagues working towards the same goal."

"And what goal is that?"

"Trying to reign in what is left of the vampire population of Skyrim. You see, while my father was head of the Volkihar Clan, which were some of the first vampires to ever be in this land, he wasn't exactly the king of the vampires the same way Elisif the Fair is the queen of Skyrim. But he was old and powerful, a vampire lord, so his word had a lot of power over the smaller, independent clans. Plenty of vampires were just normal people before they were turned, and even afterward still hope to live as normal of a life as possible,” Serana explained.

“Most end up going mad, though, because they don't know how to manage their new hunger and abilities; there isn't exactly a vampire training school they can go to. Most of them end up falling in with the more violent clans because those tend to be the more visible ones, while the peaceful ones tend to stay as hidden as possible, and they don't really have anywhere else to go. My father pushed these clans to go out and wreak havoc whenever possible, to attack settlements and travelers. This usually ended up creating more new vampires, and thus the cycle continued. Mother and I are hoping to try to control, or, if necessary, cull these clans. As well as trying to help new vampires learn to manage their...condition. Isran has even, tentatively, agreed to work with us."

Jon's eyebrows shot up. "Wow, truly? That is a miracle in-and-of itself; the pair of you have a noble goal to work towards. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help."

Serana smiled at him, but didn't say anything else. As Jon continued to pack, they enjoyed each other's company in silence for quite a while. Eventually, Serana broke it though. "You're leaving tomorrow then?"

"Aye, the ship is sailing out at dawn. Adelaisa says it will take about six weeks to reach Braavos, where we will dock for three days, and then about a week from Braavos to the Northern City of White Harbor. From there we'll have to travel on land to Winterfell, which, as best as I can recall, could take a week or two, depending on the weather. It will be a long journey, but we'll arrive there within a few days of Robb's nameday. Factoring in the time we’ll be staying in Winterfell, and what the ship and crew will need to reset and restock, we'll be in Westeros a month at the most before starting the journey back."

"Wow, it's been a while since you’ve been on that long of a trip. Are you ready to go?"

"Almost, I need to pack away a few last things and run some errands, pick up a few orders. Do you want to walk with me, stop for luncheon perhaps?"

Serana looked at the bright sunlight that peaked out from behind the closed curtains of a window, and made a face like a child present with particularly disagreeable boiled vegetables, "No, thank you. You go do what you need to, I think I'm going to take a nap."

"That is fine, I'll see you at supper. If you need anything, remember to just ask Jordis."

Serana waved her hand in agreement, and without warning began stripping off her sleek vampiric leather armor while Jon fled the room in shock. He’d finish packing later. 

"Mister Jon! Hey, Mister Jon!"

Jon stumbled when heard the loud greeting, nearly dropping the wrapped bundle of arrows he had under his left arm and the case of Evette's spiced wine (he was lucky enough to get some bottles from a fresh batch) he had under his right. He turned to see a familiar sight; the young Nord twins, Malka and Malko, both with sandy brown hair and bright blue eyes, rushing towards him, dodging around the legs of other pedestrians. 

When they skidded to a stop in front of him, nearly tripping over each other, Malka smacked her brother across the back of the head and scolded him fiercely. "You skeever-butt, you're being rude! You need to address him properly! You've got to call him Thane Whitewolf, or Great Thane. This is why Mama does trust you to watch the counter at the shop."

Malko scowled and rubbed the back of his head. "C'mon, Cheese Brain, he doesn't mind me calling him Mister Jon. Do you, Mister Jon?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Of course not, Malko, though some might not feel the same, so you should take care to always be polite when addressing someone. Now, what can I do for the two of you?"

"Welllllllll, Malka and I saw you passing by the shop, and we were hoping you'd have time to tell us a story from one of your adventures. Then maybe we could all get a little snack."

Two identical innocent smiles shined up at him. 

' Sly little beasties .' Jon was undeniably fond of the children that lived in the city, and on the days when he found the time, it wasn't an uncommon sight to see the legendary Dragonborn playing a game with some of the local children, or telling them some tale or other. In fact, he was so fond of them, that he could usually be talked into buying each child a sweet or two. Sometimes Jon wondered if they actually liked him, or just liked the treats he gave them. He still almost always ended up giving in to their pleads though.

"I'm afraid I don't have the time today." Their faces fell but perked back up when he continued. "But you see this stuff I'm holding, well I still have some stops I need to make, and I'd rather not have to carry it all at once. So, if you two agree to deliver this stuff to Proudspire Manor, I'll pay you both five silver septims each. Do we have a deal?"

The twins both nodded eagerly and held out their hands. Being the children of a widow candle maker, they never went to bed hungry, but Jon doubted the two ever got much pocket money either. Jon, however, had plenty to spare. "Alrighty then, let's see, Malko can carry the wine because he is strong and sturdy, while Malka can carry the arrows because she is careful and steady. Now off you go and think of something good to spend that coin on." 

With two more smiles, the twins hurried off to complete their assigned task while Jon turned back to his; he still had two more stops he needed to make. It was a beautiful day in Solitude, the sun bright and warm while the air was crisp and cool. Birds twittered and chirped from the roofs and treetops, and flowers scented the air. Jon just had to take a moment to bask in it all. The war had left many unhealed wounds, and Jon had been forced to make decisions that still kept him up at night, but seeing the peace, the reunited families, and renewed abundance of food and resources made it all worth it.

The doorbell of Radiant Raiment chimed above him when he entered, and at the counter Endarie looked up from her book at him with bored eyes. 

"The Hero of Skyrim, come to grace my little shop with his presence," she drawled.

Jon gave her his biggest, most obnoxious smile, "Bad day, Endarie?'

"Oh, no more so than usual. Thanks for asking. I suppose you’re here for your order? Let me grab it for you."

A nod of the head and Jon was left alone with his thoughts again. It had been a week since Arya's letter had arrived, and every day since had been busy with preparations. First, he needed to secure transportation. That had ended up not being as difficult as he thought it would be, as it turned out the East Empire Trading Company had a ship scheduled for Braavos heading out soon. So Jon was able to use his favor with the company to secure a spot for Enzo, Ghost, and himself, especially once Jon had promised to help them try and establish a trade deal with some merchants in White Harbor. The manifest officer hadn't been exactly happy about the idea of a giant direwolf on board until Jon had shown him how he could use magic to shrink Ghost down to the size of a pup, and all were satisfied. Aside from Ghost, that is.

Then Jon needed to get his affairs in order. First he sent out letters to all the different jarls, in addition to Lleril Morvayn and Adril Arano in Raven Rock, letting them know he would be out of the country for about five months, and that he had appointed Lady Serana to stand in for him at court. Then he sent similar letters to the other organizations he was a part of and told him that, until he got back, to ask Serana if they needed help. The Greybeards had also gotten a letter. He considered sending one to The Blades as well, but ultimately decided against it. They hadn't had many kind things to say to him ever since he refused to kill Paarthurnax. It had hurt when the organization he helped to rebuild turned him away —he had grown very fond of Esbern, and respected Delphine greatly— but what’s done was done. 

No one had taken the news of him leaving, even temporarily, very well, but agreed to work with Serana since Jon had vouched for her. And, between both of their notes, Jon had no doubt she could handle everything court life could throw at her. After that, Jon had to figure out the issue of money. Since he was fairly certain no one in Westeros would take Septims, but nearly everywhere valued precious metal and gemstones, he had Rayya bring up a fraction of what he had hoarded at his house in Falkreach Hold, along with some of his weapons and armor.

Finally, there was the little issue of packing. First had been the gifts, which went in one chest, and the gold and silver bars, which were packed in a second with a pouch full of loose gems. In a third, there were his armor and weapons. It had been difficult deciding which of his vast collection he should bring. He clearly couldn't travel without them, but which ones should he bring, and which ones to leave? Jon had eventually decided to bring both his ebony and dragonbone weapons sets: matching daggers, swords, and bow, along with a decent amount of the appropriate arrows. In addition, Jon also decided to bring Mehrunes' Razor, and on a whim, Dawnbreaker. He also settled on taking only two sets of armor, one light, and one heavy. That all went into another chest.

In a fourth one, Jon packed away a supply of potions, alchemic ingredients, and a small travel alchemist table that Quintus Navale had given him as a gift. While all his chests had both a steel lock and personal magick one as well, on this one he took particular care as to the quality of them, as  he didn't want anyone rifling through it in Westeros. 

A fifth, smaller chest would hold the different wines, brandies, and meads he would be taking with him; Jon had no intention of going the entire trip without his favorite drinks. In the last, second largest chest was his clothing. Now, Jon had plenty of clothing, and was planning on taking some of his older articles, but the prideful side of him decided to get that at least a few new outfits were needed. Which was why he was in Radiant Raiment now.

"Here is your order; it's not exactly our best work, you hardly gave us adequate time to work on such a large order, so we had to alter some of our preexisting items. But they're all made to your specifications: obviously of fine quality, but not overly ostentatious, and nothing with gray wolves for some asinine reason."

Jon took the large bundle of cloth from the Altmer seamstress with a grateful smile, "Thank you, Endarie. I know you and Taarie had to work double-time to get this ready."

Endarie shrugged. "Oh, we did. But it’s alright, we got enough coin out of you to make up for it."

"Damn right you did," Jon grumbled sarcastically under his breath. It was true that the price of his new clothes had been quite high, although when he had seen it, he hadn't even blinked.

An upward twitch of the lips let Jon know that, despite her haughty tone and words, she enjoyed his patronage. Endarie may hate everyone and everything, but she hated him slightly less than others in the city. Especially after he arranged for the deed of the store to end up in the hands of the sisters with the proper changes made to the document. Gods, it was a good thing that Gisli enjoyed sabotaging her own brother.

"I'll make sure to tell Taarie that; she is going to be so disappointed she missed seeing you."

Jon shuddered slightly. "After all those extra 'measurements' she took, your sister has seen enough of me to last a lifetime."

That comment actually got a laugh out of Endarie, and Jon left the store with a wave. His last errand of the day was a stop at Angeline's Aromatics, which had actually begun to produce perfumes, scented soaps, and hair ointments alongside regular potions again after the end of the war. He just needed to pick up some supplies for the trip, but ended up hanging around for a bit, chatting with Vivienne about her recent engagement to Sorex Vinius, and helping sweet old Angeline move some heavy boxes. After about an hour, he said goodbye and headed to the Winking Skeever for a bite to eat, tossing a gold septim to the beggar Noster Eagle-Eye, who nodded his head in thanks.

Jon ducked around the old drunkard Octieve San, turning down the man's invitation for a drink that Jon would undoubtedly end up paying for, and sat at the bar. Corpulus Vinius looked up from the shelves he was stocking, "Afternoon, Jon. What can I get you?"

"Good to see you, Corpulus. I'll take whatever is freshest for the meal, and you can surprise me with the drink. How is your family, by the way? Are you all excited about the wedding?"

The innkeeper uncorked two bottles of tart ale, one he gave to Jon and one he kept to himself. "This wedding is gettin’ to be a big expense. Don't get me wrong, I am happy enough about it, Vivienne is a nice, respectable girl, and I'm glad to have her as part of the family, not to mention I finally have a chance at some grandbabies. I was startin’ to think that would never happen."

Jon raised a questioning eyebrow. "What about Minette, you don't think she'll have children?" 

He gestured to the man's daughter who was busy delivering food to other patrons. Now blossoming into young womanhood, Minette's long braided blonde hair, warm brown eyes, and gentle smile clearly showed that she would be a truly beautiful woman in a few short years. It caused her father and older brother no small amount of grief.

"Children? That girl is never leavin’ the inn if I can help it. In fact, excuse me for a moment," Corpulus growled as stalked over to where Minette was giggling at something a handsome young soldier had said.

Jon chuckled at the sight and turned to his meal, a nice bowl of steaming venison stew, with some fresh bread rolls. He was nearly finished when someone took a seat on the stool next to him.

"So, I hear you're going on a bit of a trip." Pantea Ateia, in addition to her beautiful voice, was a comely woman of about thirty with perfectly arranged blonde hair, meticulously tailored fine clothes, and always smelled sweetly of perfumes. But damned, if her smile wasn't one of the most devious he had ever seen.

"And just how did you hear that?" Jon asked his former teacher as he finished the last of his ale.

"Sailors talk, dearie. Especially to a beautiful woman. Why? Is it supposed to be a secret?" Pantea inquired, as coy now as she was strict with her vocal lessons.

Jon shrugged. "Not exactly, but I also prefer that it wasn't public knowledge either. I am concerned that someone may take my absence as an invitation to start trouble. The public story is I’m just checking out my estates, getting some space from the city, and still readily reachable."

The woman nodded thoughtfully, "That makes sense." Then, with a sly smile, she leaned closer, "Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. I won't tell anyone, I'll even wrangle those loose-lipped sailors tonight if you promise to write at least two new songs for me while you're away."

She got up and sauntered off before Jon could give a reply, so instead, he just groaned, left payment on the counter for Corpulus, and then headed back home. Women were still a confusing creature to him after all this time, and he had no desire to spend the last Skyrim evening he would have for almost half a year trying to understand just one of them.

The next morning came all too quickly, and as the first rays of sunlight were beginning to break through the darkness, Jon found himself riding down to the docks with Enzo, Ghost, Jordis, and Serena in a wagon filled with their luggage. 

Jon sat up at the front of the wagon, just behind the driver, with Serana and Ghost, while Enzo and Jordis sat in the back, eyes closed as they tried to get a little bit more sleep.

A hand curled around his wrist, drawing his attention to Serana. “Look,I want to say I was sorry about blowing up yesterday. I didn't mean to insult your family, it's just... The idea of you being so far away scares me, Jon. What if something happens to you and I'm not there to help?"

The current lack of sunlight meant Serana had forgone her hood, and that Jon could see her glowing eyes more clearly than ever. It had been a shock to realize that he was the only one who could see vampires' red eyes, and that everyone else saw them as normal if 'hungry'. But it did explain how Sybille Stentor was able to keep her little secret from public knowledge.

He took Serana's hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, "I'll be fine, Even if for some reason I'm not able to defend myself, I'll have Enzo and Ghost there to protect me."

"And what fine protection I'm sure he will be." Serana lovingly scratched behind Ghost's left ear, and the direwolf showed his appreciation by dropping his massive head in her lap, closing his eyes in contentment. "Still, I wish I was going with you."

"While I'd never say ‘no’ to friendly company, showing up with a beautiful woman would probably be more problematic than helpful. Besides, I need someone I can trust to deal with my affairs here. Now, do you remember what I told you about dealing with—"

"Ignore all of Jarl Black-Briar’s snotty comments, and be as unbearably friendly as possible, as nothing will annoy her more. While I can't do anything to her, I can destroy Hemming Black-Briar in the training yard in front of the entire court. Also, I'm not allowed to eat Jarl Siddgeir if he tries getting a bit handsy after too much beer. However, if I get a chance to stomp on his foot and make it look like an accident, go for it. I got it, Jon; I am nothing if not a dedicated student."

He couldn't help but grin widely. "You're going to be great at this. You sure you don't want to take over my position full-time?"

Serana chuckled and slapped his shoulder as the wagon came to a stop at the docks. He hopped out with Ghost at his side, while Serana shook Jordis and Enzo awake.

"Jon, you've arrived right on time!" He looked up to see Adelaisa Vendicci striding towards him, a smile upon her stern, handsome face, and a group of dockworkers following behind her who started unloading the wagon to take the chests on board. 

He greeted her warmly with a brief hug and a firm handshake. "Good to see you again, Adelaisa. I didn't realize you'd be leading this trip."

"I wasn't originally scheduled to. I was just assigned to make sure the ship got loaded and headed out safely. But I pulled some strings and got put on this expedition, using my own ship to boot! It will be a long one, so we put you and your companions in a private room. It's not exactly luxurious, and you'll have to share it, except you'll have some space to yourselves."

"I am sure I have slept in far worse places, thank you for going out of your way for us,” Enzo assured the Imperial ship captain, shaking her hand in greeting. “I am not one for sitting around either, and you sure know that Jon is not either, so feel free to put us to work." 

"You must be Enzo. I've heard much about you, and I may just take you up on that offer. Anyway, we'll be taking off soon, so don't wait too long before getting on board," Adelaisa informed them before she left to go oversee the loading of the last of the cargo.

"I think I shall go look around the ship, and make sure our luggage gets to the right cabin. Jordis, would you care to accompany me?"

"Lovely idea, Sir Enzo. I wish to investigate the ship's security measures."

The Sword-Maiden turned to Jon and hugged him tightly. "Be safe, my Thane, keep your blade sharp, and your wits about you."

Jon hugged her back. "I'll be back before you know it, Jordis. Just hold down the fort for me while I'm gone, okay?"

Jordis released him from her embrace, bowed deeply, and then followed Enzo onto the ship, leaving Jon alone to say goodbye to Serana.

"I've got a little something for you. I was planning to give it to you later, but now is the best time," Serana said softly as she back into the carriage pulled out a wooden box he had missed before, not noticing it shoved among all the other boxes and chests.

Jon stared at it, uncertain. "It's not another animal, is it? I'm still trying to figure out what to do with the last one you gave me."

Serana's last gift to him had been a giant predatory bird with a wingspan of ten feet, orange-red feathers, and absolutely lethal talons and beak. He was fond enough of the bird, and after learning to warg it as he could do with Ghost, it made for a crucial ally when scouting out an area or hunting. That being said, when the winged terror got bored, it had a bad habit of dive-bombing random people and scaring them half to death by stealing their hats. That was why Jon tended to leave the bird at Lakeview Manor in the care of Rayya, who dubbed the creature Sweet Roll, or Sweetie, for short. 

Sometimes, he wasn't sure what went through that woman's head.

Serana rolled her eyes, and shoved it into his hands. "Just open the box, Jon."

He did so and inside, cushioned by dark blue velvet was a bowl carved from dark stone, and decorated with silver runes.

"It's enchanted, my mother helped me make it," Serana explained. "If you put a letter in the bowl and then burn it, the letter will appear in the bowl's twin, which I have. I figured this would allow us to send messages back and forth more easily."

Jon was touched. "Thank you, Serana. This— this is amazing , the best gift I have ever been given. I don't have any gifts for you, but I was hoping you could take care of this until I return."

He pulled Aetherial Crown out of his knapsack and handed it to her. Serana took it gently like it would shatter into a million pieces if she squeezed too hard. "Jon...you love this thing! It's so powerful, you can't leave it behind!"

Jon reached out, tightening her grip on it. "That is exactly why I need to leave it in the hands of someone I trust, and I can't think of anyone more suited to keep it safe than you. Plus, there is no way I could get away with wearing something like this in Westeros."

Serana seized him by the front of his tunic. "If you don't write to me at least every other day, I will track you down and haul you back by your hair."

Then she pulled him into a close embrace. The cool, smooth skin on the side of her face rested against his own bearded and scar-decorated skin. Her chest, quiet and still, pressed against his rapidly beating one.

They stayed like that for quite a while, despite Jon knowing he needed to board the ship. But in the arms of someone he'd do anything for, staring up at the sleeping city of Solitude, Jon felt at peace. He felt like he was home.

Next Chapter: Pirates, the Iron Bank, attempted muggings, the Manderlys, and, GASP, more conversions.

Chapter Text

Timeline

283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter; TG-22, RS-18/19, JW-18/19, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

Jon IV

"PIRATES OFF THE PORT SIDE!"

Jon leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. He chucked the book in his hand towards his bunk before snatching up his ebony sword, and darted towards the main deck of the ship. Bursting through the door to the ship's interior and hurdling over the railing in one smooth motion, he landed in a crouch and brought his blade up just in time to block the ax of a pirate already on board.

The man was probably older than Jon by about ten years, but his peeling pox-marked skin, mangy hair, and rotten teeth made him look much older. He leered at Jon, baring his yellow, chipped teeth in a filthy snarl of a grin. "Hey there pretty boy, how'd you like a—"

Whatever vulgar thing the criminal had in mind was cut short when Jon thrust his blade into the man's abdomen, before finishing him with a slash to the throat. With one final gurgle, the pirate fell to the deck of the ship, blood pooling beneath the fresh corpse, leaving Jon to run off in search of a new opponent. Turning a corner he found Enzo fending off three pirates on his own with just a broomstick and a bored expression. Deciding to leave the giant Redguard to his fun, Jon scanned the deck. The battle was going well, as sailors for the East Empire Trading Company were almost always experienced fighters in their own right, and these pirates were clearly amateurs at best, swinging their weapons wildly and without technique.

' Not that it makes them any less dangerous ,' Jon noted as he felt an arrow fly by only inches from his head, embedding into the taffrail a mere foot from where Adelaisa was battling against two pirates. The sound of the arrow hitting wood was enough to distract her for only a second, just enough to give her foes a potential opening to strike.

"Get back!"

The captain understood his warning and threw herself backward, out of the path of the lighting that arched from Jon's left fingertips to both of the pirates. They dropped to the deck almost instantly, one completely still and the other switching; or, rather, he was twitching until Adelaisa brought her sword down on his neck. That matter solved, Jon turned his attention in the direction that the arrow had come from, only to see a pirate ready another arrow and let it fly straight at Jon.

"TIID KLO UL!"

Sound muted, color faded, and time slowed, bowing to the power of Jon's Thu'um. 

He reached up and caught the arrow that hung in the air before him. Then, with a flick of his wrist, returned fire with a deadly ice spike. After sixteen seconds, the world returned to normal and a dying cry of pain rang out as the enemy archer was impaled through the chest. But Jon had gotten too complacent, and failed to properly take advantage of that free time to look around, and he had let himself become unaware of his surroundings. This meant that when an arm caught him in a chokehold from behind, he was caught off guard.

"What the hell are you, boy?" The rancid breath of his assailant, an older, brawnier pirate, was hot against Jon's cheek as he struggled, trying to drive his elbow into the man's stomach.

"Fuck you," Jon snapped, throwing his head back and crushing the man's nose with a satisfying crunch! The pirate swore loudly as he stumbled back, bringing his hands up to shield his shattered nose on instinct and inadvertently releasing Jon, who took the opportunity to spin around and stab his sword straight through the man's head.

A strong hand landed on his shoulder, and Jon whirled around, sword raised to slice the head off of an attacker, only for Enzo to catch Jon's sword against his own. "That was the last of them. It is over."

Jon let himself relax. "That was quick," he commented as he wiped his blade clean on a dead pirate's shirt. "How many did you manage to kill with that broom?"

"Five," Enzo shrugged. "I think they were more upset about how little effort I was putting into the fight than anything else. Not my fault though, I’ve faced skeevers more dangerous."

Jon wrinkled his nose at the mention of the filthy creatures and turned his attention to Adelaisa, who was ordering her men to gather up the bodies and search them for anything of value before turning to the pair.

"Jon, Enzo, it's good to see you on your feet. Did you have any trouble?"

Enzo scoffed at the notion. "Against these sorry excuses for pirates? Not a chance."

Jon rubbed his throat. He might wake up with a bruise or two in the morning, but it would be gone by sundown "I’m none the worse for wear. Were there any crew casualties?"

The captain shook her head. "No, thankfully. A few cuts, one of them fairly serious, but the ship healer is seeing to those. We also have two busted noses and a broken wrist, yet nothing that can't be healed with a spell or potion. All that is left is to clean up and get rid of the bodies."

"Need any help?"

"That isn't necessary. You should probably go change your shirt and wash the blood off."

"My shirt? What's wrong with— damnit!" Jon looked down in dismay to see that at some point during the battle, blood had gotten smeared down the front of his pale gray tunic. Thankfully it wasn't anything new.

"What are you planning to do with their ship? You could always tug it into the city and sell it." Enzo inquired, tilting his head in the direction of the pirate ship. 

Jon didn't claim to know much about boats, but he knew enough to recognize that it wasn't worth the trouble. The ship was smaller with a single sail. Though dark in color any paint it might have once had was long since stripped away by the elements. Perhaps it had been a good, sturdy vessel once, but now it looked barely seaworthy.

Adelaisa seemed to agree with his mental assessment. "Not worth it; we'll search it for anything of use, then load the bodies on it and set it adrift. We're close enough to the mainland that I'm sure it'll wash up on some shore eventually."

"How close are we?"

"We've made good time, and the navigator says we'll be coming to Braavos' Purple Harbor in two days' time, so be ready. You'll have three days there to do what you need to before we head to White Harbor."

"You know, all-and-all, this trip has not been at all eventful. That little scuffle was a nice little distraction from the monotony, though I do wish they were more skilled." Enzo commented once they had returned to their quarters. 

The cabin was not large, barely having enough space for the two narrow bunks, a writing desk, and the pairs' many chests. In one corner, Ghost had his own 'bed,' a large wicker basket filled with scraps of cloth for cushioning. Like the temporary tiny direwolf, the Redguard warrior hadn't been enjoying the boat ride, mostly because the bunk he had been provided was a good eight inches too short, leaving his feet to hang off the end. Such a thing caused no small amount of grumbling from the hardened warrior, and no small amount of amusement from Jon; never before had the Dragonborn thought to be grateful for his lesser height.

"Let's just be glad no one was injured too greatly. Besides, I've had enough excitement to last me a lifetime; several, if I'm lucky," Jon mused. He stripped off his tunic and scrubbed away at the drying blood smears covering his torso with a washcloth dampened with collected rainwater. Thanks to magic, the precious liquid was hardly as scarce as it would be for other ships.

"You say that now, but we both know you would go mad if you had to spend your days sitting around quietly. You and I? We’re men of action; we live for battle and adventure. Yes, the occasional reprieve is nice, and one must make time for scholarly pursuits, but men like us are destined to fight and win until the day we die."

"Have you ever considered writing poetry?"

"Oh, I already do.” That was no surprise to Jon, as for all that his friend gave the impression of being ‘just’ a warrior, over the years he had come to learn and appreciate the subtle depths to him.  

Breaking through that reflection, Enzo then asked, “What kind of coins are these?"

Jon looked over the small pile of gold and silver coins Enzo had dumped out on the bunk from a pouch he had received as his spoils from the battle. He picked one coin up to examine it. "These are Westerosi currency. The silver ones are called silver stags, and the others are golden dragons, both high denominations. How many of each do you have?"

"Twenty-seven of the stags and five of the dragons. Will that get me anything in your homeland?"

"I'd say so. When I was younger, my allowance was ten stags a month, and that was enough to buy me almost anything I wanted. Especially if I saved up for a month or two." Jon pulled on a fresh shirt, inspecting the soiled tunic to confirm it was beyond saving. ' Maybe it can be cut up into rags .'

"That is good, I will need to have some coin of my own. I would like to inspect your country's arms and armor to see if there is anything worth bringing back with us."

"Enzo, I told you, when we get to Braavos I'm going to the Iron Bank to exchange some of my gold and silver bars for Westerosi coins. I'll have more than enough for anything either of us wants. You're more than welcome to it, we're family after all.”

The Ebony Warrior smiled softly. "Yes, we are, but I would still prefer to have my own. Do not worry your pretty little head, I brought a few pieces of jewelry and some gemstones to sell. Besides, you need to save that money. I am sure there will be plenty of glistening trinkets and interesting baubles for you to buy when we reach port next."

Enzo slapped the empty space on the bunk next to him, urging the magically pint-size Ghost to jump up onto the mattress. The direwolf clearly didn't enjoy the alteration to his size, and made his displeasure known by refusing to acknowledge Jon for the first three weeks of the voyage. However, that didn't stop him from taking advantage of being allowed up in beds once again. 

That had been a bitter and hard-won struggle, yet Jon had been sick and tired of being shoved off of his bed and onto the floor for the umpteenth by a certain mountain of fur.

No, it was not as funny as everyone else made it out to be. 

"Are you ready for that?"

The question cut through Jon’s ruminations and left him confused. 

"For what?"

"Do not play daft with me, you know well what I mean. I have seen you fidgeting your hands when lost in thought. Calculating how much longer until Westeros even though you know darn well. That fight was the most I have seen you be you in days. 

“Are you ready to see your homeland, to see your family again? I will not judge you if you say no; we can have yourselves a holiday in Braavos before returning to Skyrim, and never speak of this again, but I need you to say so. We are rapidly approaching the point of no return. You have never told me why you left your home, not completely anyway, and I never cared to push you on it. Nor will I do so now, but if you ever wish to tell me, then I will listen."

Jon didn't answer his friend, instead, he simply retrieved his book, The Amulet of Kings, from where he had flung it and resumed his reading. Enzo took Jon's silence as an answer, rolled his eyes, and settled in for a nap before supper was served.

Jon sighed internally. For the past week, they had been sailing around the coast of Westeros. On days when the sky was particularly clear, Jon could even see land from the upper deck of the ship. Every time that happened, without fail, his stomach dropped and he felt sick. Jon spent most of his time below deck now, reading, writing in his journal, working on wood-carved figurines, or helping the cook prepare meals.

When Enzo had asked why they simply didn't dock somewhere on the west coast of the continent and travel by land up to Winterfell, Jon had responded that traveling by horse and wagon over such a great distance with only two of them would be difficult and dangerous. When Enzo hadn't believed him, Jon was forced to begrudgingly admit that he didn't have any idea how to navigate the roads of Westeros as he had never been outside of Winter Town before running away. Nor did he know what the road conditions were like, or how available they were.’

Even trips into Winter Town were rather rare events, at least when was young, and they became notably more scarce after the incident when Jon was eight. The same incident that first taught Jon about the dangers that lurked outside the high stone walls of Winterfell. 

He had gone into town that day with Robb, Theon, Jory, and Ser Rodrik, Jon couldn't remember what for or how he had gotten separated from the group, but he had somehow found himself standing alone outside a butcher's shop. He had looked around for them, calling out their names, and when no one came, had begun to tear up in fear that he would get in trouble with Lady Stark for causing problems.

The butcher had found Jon like that, and after taking him inside the shop to warm up by the fireplace, asked what was wrong. After listening to the explanation Jon had forced out through his sniffles, the man had offered him a deal.

"You help me stack some crates in the rear, and I'll help you find your brother, alright? I'll have you back so fast he'll have never noticed you were gone."

Jon, a shy but helpful child, had agreed, following the butcher to the back of his shop. He helped the man with the task, eager to get back to Robb and the others. But when they seemed to be done, instead of taking him back to Robb as promised, the man had him sit down on one of the crates.

"Do you want a treat, Sweetling?" The butcher asked as he smiled down at Jon.

"That would be nice, thank you. But I really need to get back to my brother, Ser."

"Yes, of course. I'll take you there soon. But a little treat first wouldn't hurt, would it?"

Jon knew that the longer he was away, the more trouble he'd get in. But the butcher had also been so nice to him, and Jon didn't want to offend the man, so he shook his head no. The man then stepped closer then, putting one of his hands on Jon's shoulder and petting his curls with the other; he started to say something when Jon heard the front door of the shop open and a familiar voice call out his name.

"Theon, I'm back here!"

The door to the back of the shop was flung open violently and Theon - only just turned three-and-ten, tall, stick-thin, and constantly in a state of either grouchiness or randiness- stood in the doorway. He took in sight before him, particularly the now frozen man who still had one hand buried in Jon's hair. Theon's face twisted angrily and he closed the gap between himself and the butcher in two long strides, punching him square in the jaw and sending him sprawling on the floor.

Jon jumped up with a gasp, ready to demand an explanation as to why his father's ward had attacked his new friend, only for Theon to seize him by the bicep and forcibly dragged him from the shop. The older boy refused to answer any of Jon's fervent questions, instead growling things like, "-can't believe you were so stupid," and, "-should go back there and cut off his-" under his breath. Eventually, Theon pulled him to where Jory, Rodrik, and Robb were waiting by the stables.

"I found the brat," he grumbled, shoving Jon at Robb, who wrapped his brother in a tight, relieved hug.

"Jon, where have you been?" Jory asked, eyes full of concern. "You had us worried, you know it's dangerous to go off on your own."

Jon opened his mouth to explain but Theon cut him off. "Curly here got lost and wandered into a butcher shop. I'll explain the rest later." That last part he hissed quietly to the two adults, who exchanged troubled glances.

"Are you sure you're alright, lad?" Ser Rodrik crouched down until he was at eye level with Jon, taking the boy's face between his hands as if to inspect the dark-haired boy for injuries.

"I'm not hurt," Jon assured him. Then he meekly added, "Please don't tell Lady Stark."

Winterfell's master-at-arms face fell sadly for a moment as he gently rubbed his thumb against Jon's chapped cheek., "Of course, lad. This will be our little secret, okay? There's a good boy. Come on, let's head back to the castle and get warmed up."

As far as Jon knew, then men had kept their promise not to tell Lady Stark, but they certainly told the Lord of Winterfell. Later that day, after a round of warm drinks and sweet cakes, Lord Stark called Jon into his solar to speak with him.

"Am I in trouble?" Jon asked, worry pouring from his eyes and into his words.

"No, no. You're not in trouble, I swear. I just need you to tell me about what happened."

Jon had done what was asked of him, and relayed the events for the day, not understanding the true implications of what transpired. However, he could see the dread and anger that filled the Warden of the North's face as the story went on. But when Jon asked the man he thought to be his father what was wrong, he was merely hugged and told it was just a misunderstanding.

That was the first time Jon realized that adults lie.

That his father lied.

Such a revelation was not an easy one, and unsettled Jon so deeply that he had to skip supper that night, claiming a headache when Robb asked. Once he came to terms with the fact that the man he loved and admired above all others had lied to him, Jon had felt the great urge to discover the truth of what happened. He knew Jory and Ser Rodrik would be no help, so, instead, he went to Theon. The older boy hadn't wanted to tell him at first either, but eventually, Jon wore him down. With a defeated sigh, Theon had pulled Jon into his room, locked the door, and explained in a hushed voice, the best he could, what some adults wanted to do to young children.

Jon hadn't liked Theon when they were younger, thinking him to be crude and rude. Nowadays he understood that just as Jon had hidden his hurt and troubles behind a blank face and strict standards of honor, Theon had hidden his behind vulgar japes and lewd exploits. Yet, even before he came to that realization, Jon had always been thankful to Theon for what he had done that day. Both for saving him from the butcher, and for being the first to educate Jon about the perils that existed outside the cradle of safety and naivety Ned Stark had crafted for his children.

It had been a lesson Jon had taken to heart.

"Jon?"

The Dragonborn jumped slightly, startled out of his memories by the sleepy voice of his friend. "What is it?"

"What is the first thing you want to do when we get to Braavos?"

Jon tugged at a lock of his hair and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in his stomach, "Find a bathhouse." He paused then, his recent memory and the lesson he had taken from it reminding him of the trouble secrets could cause. "Enzo?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to tell you the whole story now, if you'd care to hear."

"I do not like this place, it has negative energy. Do you think there are daedra inside?"

"No, just bankers."

"Oh, so vampires then?"

“No.”

“Huh.” Of course, the man looked disappointed. 

The Iron Bank of Braavos loomed over the duo like an imposing gray sentry, looking just like Maester Luwin had always described. Three stories tall with domes on the roof that towered even higher, decorated with strong columns and statues made of smooth white stone. The inside lobby was no less impressive with high arched ceilings, hanging chandeliers, stained glass windows, elaborate tapestries, and wall sconces that lit the way for visitors —very different from the stark efficiency of most banks in Skyrim. The pairs' footsteps echoed through the innards of the eerily silent building as they approached the front desk.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. Are you here to make a withdrawal or a deposit? Perhaps to discuss a loan with one of our representatives?" Asked the portly clerk, as his watery blue eyes scanned Jon and Enzo, inspecting them for signs of wealth. 

He would find them too. Neither warrior had dressed in particularly extravagant clothes, but the trained eye of someone who worked at the Iron Bank would be able to discern the fine quality and expert cut of the cloth, the craftsmanship of the weapons, as well as subtle bits of expensive jewelry they both were wearing. They were also freshly bathed. True to his word, as soon as they made port Jon had founded the nicest bathhouse in walking distance with Enzo at his side. He didn't have any Braavosi money, but the three gold rings he pressed into the attendant's hand had gotten them a private room with more soaps than could ever be used in one wash.

"Currency exchange, actually. This for him—" Enzo gestured to the large chest he had been carting behind him and then to Jon before pointing to the pouch latched to his belt "—and this is for me."

"Excellent." The clerk paused to wave over two guards. "These men will escort you to the proper offices. However, I must ask that you turn over your weapons, including any others on your person. You'll get back when you leave, of course."

Jon handed over his sheathed ebony dagger (affectionately nicknamed Frostbite, called so because of the frost damage enchantment he had placed on it) without much issue. After all, it wasn't like he needed a weapon to be dangerous. But Enzo, who similarly didn't need a weapon, loathed to turn his over, only doing so with great reluctance.

Jon coughed loudly in his fist, to which Enzo rolled his eyes but pulled another, much longer, dagger out of his boot, grumbling all the way. The clerk stared at the giant Redguard with wide eyes for a moment but gestured for them to follow the two guards, one of whom took Jon's cart. They were separated, and Jon was taken to an office where a lean, gaunt man with a narrow face, dark eyes, and a beard so long that it nearly reached his waist sat behind a desk. The man gave the guard a nod of dismal before standing to shake Jon's hand. Wearing a high-collared, purple robe, Jon noted that while the man looked physically frail, he carried himself with an aura of power and control.

"How can the Iron Bank of Braavos assist you today, my Lord?"

"Whitewolf, Jon Whitewolf. I'm no lord."

For all his titles and responsibilities, that was one Jon had not been burdened with.

The man's eyebrows raised as if he was surprised by something; what that was, or if it was even an honest gesture, Jon didn't know. "My apologies, it was simply a courtesy. My name is Tycho Nestoris. Now, how may I be of service?"

"I have some precious metals and gemstones that I would like to exchange for Westerosi currency. Is that possible?"

"Oh, of course. There will be a cost for the conversion, however. You will only receive 9/10th of the value of a gold bar, for example. Now, if you agree to these terms, I'd like to see what you have to exchange."

Jon couldn't help but smile with pride as he opened the chest and stepped back, "I'd like coins in each denomination, please. Oh, and some Braavosi money too."

"...This may take some time, my Lord."

"I hope this amount is satisfactory. If you had sent us word ahead of time we would have had the full amount, alas with your arrival being on such short notice—"

"It's no issue, this is more than enough. In fact, it's probably a good idea to keep a few bars while I travel, and I'm sure I can find a use for the gems. You have been most helpful, Mister Nestoris. I thank you." 

Jon was cheery as he looked at the sacks full of coins that now filled his chest. Why shouldn't he be? He had more money than he could probably ever spend while in Westeros, in addition to the purse full of iron Braavosi coins tied to his belt, and he still had bars of precious metals to spare. He hadn't even needed the gemstones.

"Of course. Is there anything else, Jon Snow? Would you like to access your personal account?"

Jon froze at the name, just long enough that he could get control of himself. He didn't like lying, which was horrible because he knew well that he'd be spending the next month or so doing a lot of it, but understood the value of lies. Moreover, like so much else in the past five years, he had learned to be good at telling them. 

With a carefully blank, if slightly puzzled expression, he turned back to the banker. "I'm sorry, who is Jon Snow? You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been to Essos before today, let alone have an account here."

"Perhaps the account is under a different name then?"

Now Jon actually was confused. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Now, if you don’t need anything else of me, I would like to go and find my companion."

Tycho Nestoris stared Jon down for a long moment, as if waiting to see if the younger man would break and spill some great secret. But eventually... "Ah, yes. I need you to sign these papers before you go."

Enzo was leaning against a pillar waiting for him at the entrance of the bank. "Did you get what you need?"

"Aye. You?"

Enzo held up his own sack of coins as an answer.

"Good. Let's get out of here; you were right about this place."

"It is run by vampires?"

"No, but something one of the bankers said unsettled me."

Enzo's face grew grave and, with a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder, led him away from the looming Iron Bank and into an alcove where they wouldn't be overheard. "Explain. Now."

"The banker, Tycho Nestoris, he knew my name. No, not Jon Whitewolf, called me Jon Snow, the name I was raised with."

"How could he have known who you are?"

Jon shook his head. "I have no idea! I suppose it's possible that someone from the North came here about a loan and mentioned something about Lord Stark's missing bastard. Nestoris could have made the connection if he knew the common Stark appearance, but that sounds outlandish even to me. And that's not all. When I denied being Jon Snow, he then asked if my account was under a different name ."

"What could that mean?" Enzo asked, the lines of his face growing deeper with every moment that passed.

"I wish I knew. I mean, ever since I learned that Ned Stark wasn't my father I've considered the possibility that Jon Snow wasn't my birth name. But I don't know what it would be, and I have no clue what that business about 'my account' was, or if it’s even related."

Enzo looked dark and pensive. "I think," he said, voice heavy and serious, "that is a good thing we will only be spending a few days in this city."

Jon agreed. "Yes, we should avoid drawing attention to ourselves. Still, I'd rather not spend the next three days cooped up in our cabin. Do you want to get supper at a restaurant?"

The Redguard stared up at the sun that was setting over the harbor, "Yes, though not quite yet. It would be foolish to walk around carrying our whole fortune, I am going to take it back to the ship. We can meet at that statue over there, do not wander far."

"I'll just wait in the marketplace, poke around in some shops."

"You better not come back with an entire library's worth of books, you hear me?"

With a rude gesture in the direction of his friend, Jon headed off to the marketplace and one store in particular.

"I've seen you go in and out of half a dozen stores, buying something each time, and, yet, your purse still clinks like it's full of coins. Surely you wouldn't mind sharing."

Jon cocked his head to the side in bemusement. The man addressing him was of similar age to young Dragonborn, dressed in extravagant parti-colored clothing with a long slender blade at his hip. The man was handsome enough, smelling faintly of perfume, and possessed the same overconfident swagger that many of the young recruits had when they arrived at Castle Dour. 

"I'm sorry, are you trying to rob me?" he asked, trying not to laugh. 

"No, no, no,” the young man replied.“Nothing so uncivilized. Usually, I wouldn't even bother with a man not carrying a sword, but the way you carry yourself, and that dagger on your hip, tell me you've seen your fair share of combat. Yet you're not Braavosi. Are you a traveler?"

"Of sorts, this is my first time visiting Essos."

"That explains your High Valyrian. It's rough, though decent enough if you plan on traveling the Free Cities. I assume you're self-taught? That is quite an accomplishment."

It was true; Jon had learned all the Valyrian he knew from the few books he had swiped from Winterfell's library when he fled, figuring he'd need them if he was planning on going to Pentos. Thankfully, most of it had stuck.

"Thank you for the compliment, but do you need something? I need to meet a friend for supper,” Jon said, gesturing in the general direction of the city square

"Oh, yes, please excuse my poor manners,” he said with a flourishing bow. “ I, Jorelos Eranion, challenge you to a duel to first blood for the price of fifty coins."

"Sorry, I don't have time for that."

"What?"

"My apologies, but I have somewhere I need to be. Excuse me." Jon turned to leave when Jorelos grabbed him by the strap of his knapsack, yanking it off and spinning Jon around as his recent purchases spilled out all over the ground.

"What the— "

"You dare to refuse a duel? You shame us both! Stand and fight!" The Braavosi slipped into a sideways fighting stance and drew his weapon, a light, slender sword that was edged and looked to be better suited for swift thrusts and stabs than slashing. Idly, Jon wondered what this type of blade was called, and if perhaps he could add one to his collection.

"Look, I'm not going to— " Jon dodged a sword jab and danced to the side in order to avoid a second one.

"Fight me like a man!"

Jon let out a growl, forcing down rising anger. "No, I have things to do! Will you just listen— "

"By the gods! I cannot ever leave you on your own, can I?"

The sound of the Ebony Warrior's annoyed voice paused the one-sided duel, and he, after giving Jorelos a quick once-over, snorted and hit the fiery young swordsman with a paralyzation spell. 

When the Braavosi fell to the ground like an overturned statue Enzo turned to Jon. "What was that all about?"

Jon knelt by the immobilized man, checking to confirm he had a pulse before grabbing him under the arms, and pulling him into a nearby alleyway. "He tried to fight me because I refused to duel him, not sure what sense that makes."

He tucked Jorelos in between two barrels, placing the man's sword across his lap and covering him with a stray tarp so he wouldn't get cold.

"What are you doing now?" Enzo asked, sounding ever like a long-suffering martyr.

"Well, we can't just leave him in the streets like this, can we? Will you please grab my knapsack and the things that fell out of it? I just purchased those items and I don't want to see them ruined." He turned to Jorelos, whose eyes were wide with fear, and tried to give him a reassuring smile, "Sorry about this. It will wear off soon, I promise."

With a final pat to the man's knee, Jon turned to exit the alley only to find Enzo standing there, knapsack in one hand, and Jon's new copy of The Jade Compendium in the other. "You really do refuse to listen to anything I tell you."

Jon just smiled at his friend, and held out his hand. 

" The Jade Compendium, Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, Before the Dragons, The End of the Tall Men, Engines of War, Fire Upon the Grass, The Glory of Volantis, On Miasmas, The Origins of the Iron Bank and Braavos, Rubies and Iron, Ruined Cities, Stolen Gods, True Account of Addam of Duskendale's Journeys, and all four volumes of The Life of the Triarch Belicho . Wait, why do have two copies of some of these?"

"The merchant had versions in both Common Tongue and the original language," Jon commented gleefully as he attempted to sort his new purchases so that they'd fit into one of his already straining chests, though he wasn't having much success. ' I'll probably need to buy a trunk or two when we get to White Harbor .'

"You might have a problem, my friend."

"Well, I didn't just buy books . I bought some dried fruits, powdered spices, dyes, and even some seeds. I'm determined to see if I can get different types of fruits to grow in Skyrim, even if it's just in greenhouses."

Enzo chuckled, resting his back against their cabin’s wall. "Fresh fruit is a joy; it makes children grow hardy and strong. Your new friend back there could have used some. Did you see his face when I paralyzed him? One would think he had never seen magic before."

"He probably hadn't. I certainly never saw any before my arrival in Tamriel."

Enzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. "These lands truly have no magic? How strange, in Hammerfell the art is reviled, but even there are still those who secretly practice it. Myself amongst them, for a time."

Jon shrugged. "I can't speak for Essos, but, as far as I know, there isn't any magic in Westeros. Perhaps it existed there once, if you believe the stories, yet it died a long time ago with the dragons."

"Dragons?" Enzo was excited now. "Your homeland has dragons?"

Right, they had not gotten to that part of Jon’s abbreviated family history.

"Had. It had dragons,” Jon replied. “The last of them died over a hundred years ago. They belonged to the Targaryens—-the family that used to rule Westeros— who bonded with the beasts and mounted them like horses. These dragons weren't like the ones of Skyrim though. Going by the stories the old nanny at Winterfell told us, they once grew bigger than any I've ever encountered; the largest one was known as Balerion the Black Dread and is said to have been able to swallow a mammoth whole. But they were more animal-like than the ones we're used to: they bred and ate and could die of old age. Nor could they speak or use written language."

"If they were so large, why did they die out?"

"I don't know; no one really does. But as the years passed, they grew smaller -only to the size of a hound- and sickly. Eventually, they stopped producing viable eggs. When that happened, the Targaryens started to lose power. Now they are gone too."

"For the most part," Enzo added quietly.

"For the most part," Jon agreed. "Whatever happens, you can't go around using magic in public. In fact, there can be absolutely no mention of magic whatsoever. Adelaisa agrees with me and has told the crew the same thing."

"As you’ve said. I can also assume that means we will not be telling your family about your...little adventures."

" No . Never. Not in a thousand years. At best, they'd think I'm a liar, and at worst they'd think I'm mad."

"Alright, but there is a bit of a problem. What about the enchantments on our weapons and armor, how do we stop that from being noticed?"

Not that Enzo would really be totally upset with messing with people over displays of ‘impossible’ magic, yet Jon knew his friend did not want to mess up this whole family reunion by accident.

"I actually thought about that before we left Skyrim." Jon pulled a bundle of thin leather strips out of a trunk and tossed them to the Redguard, who, upon closer inspection, noted that the strips all had small runes on each end. "I sent a letter by carrier hawk to Neloth Telvanni in Raven Rock asking him about it, and I got these back, along with a seven-page letter about his own greatness and ongoing experiments. These strips will, when tied onto a weapon or piece of armor, will bind any existing enchantment. It'll still be there, but won't be active. Those are for you; I've already attached them to mine."

Jon probably should have handed them out earlier, but life on a ship was busy. There were always things to be done, and Adelesia had not hesitated to put him and Enzo to work helping with the hundred little tasks that popped up on the ship each day. Neither had minded, both due to wanting to earn their keep on board, and because it staved off the boredom. Even for him, he could only read so much at a time. Entire days had passed where neither had even glanced at their weapons. The pirate attack had certainly changed that, but even then the enchantments had proved to be a boon. And it wasn't like there was anyone left alive who'd spilled their secrets of magic.

Enzo scoffed. "I do not like all this deception, but I will follow your lead."

With an amused snort at the hypocrisy there, Jon grabbed more of the leather.

The port city of White Harbor lived up to its name. Enclosed by high, thick walls and rising above the sea in neat rows of white buildings that gleamed in the mid-morning light. Despite the cold air and chunks of ice that floated alongside the cavalcade of fishing boats and merchant vessels, the harbor was bustling with constant activity. Appearance-wise, it wasn’t dissimilar to the main harbor of Solitude, though it came close to the frigidness of Dawnstar. The mental comparison helped ease some of Jon’s tension.

"So this is it?" Enzo asked. The giant man had donned a thick, hooded bear fur cloak over his normal black clothing, with matching gloves and boots lined with snow rabbit fur.

"Aye. White Harbor, the biggest city in the North and the location to New Castle, the seat of House Manderly,” Jon replied, studying the city with curious eyes. He’d never seen it from this perspective.

"House Manderly, that is who Captain Vendicci is meeting with?"

"More or less. Lord Wyman Manderly —that is the head of the house, unless he has passed in the past five years— has almost certainly left for Winterfell by now with his heir and granddaughters. Adelaisa will probably be meeting with his second son, Wendel, or someone who works for the family."

"Tell me about them. Is this lord trustworthy, or could he be a problem?"

Jon paused, thinking over the question. "I… can tell you that the Manderlys are wealthy, influential, and the only noble family in the North who keep the Faith of the Seven. That makes them something of an outsider as most keep the Old Gods. I can tell you that my uncle thought of Lord Manderly as being equal parts kind and cunning, and always spoke highly of him. All when we assumed he would think little of a fat lord. And, as far as I know, there has never been a reason to doubt his absolute loyalty to House Stark. So yes, he is both trustworthy and a potential problem."

"Oh, so you did meet him before?" 

"Three times, yes, when I was younger. He was nice to me, I liked him." Jon remembered Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse fondly; the lord had always been jovial and generous with gifts every time he visited. He had even brought some for Jon. Nothing fancy, a box of smooth beach stones, a collection of seashells, and a coat pin made using colorful sea glass, but it had meant the world to Jon at the time. The fat lord with sharp eyes and fingers like sausages had paid attention to Jon too, asking about his lessons, and insisting that Jon sit at the high table with the rest of the family, even though Lady Stark clearly disliked his presence.

The rest of House Manderly had always been good to him as well. Wylis was stern and serious, while Wendel was boisterous and friendly, and both were always willing to take Robb, Jon, and Theon fishing. Wylis' two daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, had been cheerful, witty, and never once criticized Arya's wild ways, which won them Jon's approval. They had never treated him differently from Robb either, and Jon warmly recalled dancing with Wylla at a feast when he was young, less than half a year before he ran from Winterfell.

Enzo nodded slowly, clearly taking in this new information. Eventually, he grunted, "We need to prepare for the journey. You said it could be two weeks at the most, so we should get a supply of foodstuffs from the market. If we get everything packed away tonight, then we can head out on the morrow."

Jon nodded. "I can do that, but we also need to secure horses and a cart or sleigh, depending on the weather. If you check at stables, you'd probably be able to learn what would be best to use. Buy what you need to, I can always pay you back."

Enzo turned to him and with absolute seriousness in his voice said, "If you get yourself in trouble while on your own again, you will not be leaving my side for this journey."

The Dragonborn rolled his eyes. ' Enzo is always such a worrier .'

"Excuse me, Ser. We were hoping you'd come with us."

Jon looked up from the wares of a jewelry stand. It was funny, no one had been thrilled Jon was going on a several months-long trip, yet nearly everyone had demanded he bring them back something. So after he had gotten the necessary supplies and sent them back to the ship, Jon had decided to investigate the main square in hopes of finding the appropriate gifts for his friends back home. He had already picked up a dagger with a carved whalebone hilt for Aela, and been in the middle of admiring a sea glass hairpin for Elisif, when two armed men with the House Manderly sigil of a trident-wielding merman stitched on the breast of their jerkins had approached.

"Have I done something wrong?" Jon had no desire to be locked up in Wolf's Den for some unknown reason. Breaking out would be a hassle, and he'd never hear the end of it from Enzo.

"Not at all, we just need you to follow us."

Jon forced a polite smile of agreement and allowed himself to be led through the clean and well-ordered cobbled streets of the city while he tried to work out if he was being arrested. While his escorts were obviously guards, Jon definitely wasn’t being treated like a prisoner. They made pleasant small talk, asking him how he liked the city, and if Jon would like to stop at one of the food stands. Yet it didn't escape his notice that they stood on either side of him as they guided him up toward the proud and pale castle of House Manderly.

' Enzo is going to kill me .'

Wyman Manderly I

Lord Wyman Manderly was old and fat and intelligent; he knew these things about himself. He also knew that most people only ever saw the first two traits, and he knew how to use this to his advantage.

"Would you like some heated honey wine, Captain Vendicci? I find it is the best way to warm the body on a cold day, and I suspect you're not used to such a cold climate."

It had been a surprise to receive the letter emblazoned with the East Empire Trading Company logo. He had heard of the business of course, though he couldn't claim to know much about them. He did know, however, that they had never traded with any of the ports in Westeros, and only stopped in Braavos occasionally, despite having to literally sail around Westeros to get there.

The exact reason for this avoidance was unknown. All of his own attempted, and expensive, correspondence with the company had been ignored. Perhaps they simply preferred the products available in Braavos. Perhaps the company had a bad business experience with Westeros in the past. Wyman wondered if he could get an explanation from his lovely guests. 

Certainly, it would be a real feather in his cap if he could arrange trade between them and White Harbour while they continued to ignore the much closer Lannisport.

"No thank you, Lord Manderly. I prefer to keep a clear head during negotiations, and I assure you, I'm quite hardy despite my age. Though, I also must admit that I didn't expect to be meeting with the head of your house directly." While the captain politely refused the drink, the first mate, Wyman noticed, accepted with great enthusiasm.

Captain Adelaisa Vendicci was a handsome woman of about forty with shortly trimmed silver hair and the kind of raw, earthy features that were pleasant to the eye, even if they could never be described as beautiful. Her face had the distinctive look of a lifelong sailor, worn from the sun and the salty sea wind; it was stern, but there was an underlying feeling of strength and warmth. The same was true of her dark eyes.

She also spoke the truth, he noted. Her back was straight and even under the furs she had donned, he could tell her arms and legs were strong with lean muscle. The sword at her hip told him even more that she was not a woman to be taken lightly. In most of the ports in Westeros, except those in Dorne, she would have been met with scorn to her face or laughter behind her back. Wyman was smart enough to know that was both a terrible business strategy and a horrible way to get information. And Wyman wanted information.

"I had originally planned to leave on a short trip two days ago, but when I received your request to negotiate trade, I knew I had to see to this matter personally. So please, let us begin, I'm sure you're as eager as I am."

Most Paramounts would doubtless consider his delay to be a slight against them and their son for risking being late for the latter’s nameday. Lord Stark however would be far more upset if one of his liege lords passed over the chance to better provide for their people in favor of pampering the man’s ego. 

‘ And how curious that she knew I was supposed to be absent ahead of time.’ 

"It's been a long time since I've had a meal like this," the first mate, a plain-faced man by the name of Mecico Chenadia, commented as he tucked into a pork pie.

"Nothing but best for such honored guests. Please help yourself, I’ve had the cooks prepare the local delicacies for you to enjoy." Wyman smiled pleasantly as he waved for a servant to refill the man's wine goblet, this time with something slightly stronger than what he had originally offered. “And please speak up if you have any meal restrictions or preferences. I’d be happy to have something else made for you.”

After a long afternoon of in-depth, if rather relaxed, negotiations, a break had been taken for luncheon. The Lord of White Harbor had ordered a spread of boiled eggs, crab soup, capons, grilled eels, stuffed lampreys, pork pies, buttered bread rolls, and fruit pies brought out with the addition of several fine bottles of Dornish Red. When Captain Venicci, who Wyman had come to understand was a thoroughly pleasant but incredibly astute woman, had excused herself from the room for a moment to stretch her legs, he knew he had his chance.

"I was wondering though, why the East Empire Company decided that now was the time to stop in Westeros, especially in my humble city?"

"Oh, we didn't plan on it originally. But after Whitewolf suggested to the big wigs that you might be a prosperous port, they decided to have us swing up here after we stopped in Braavos. The lad has  friends on high, and is owed a lot of favors, so it wasn’t hard to convince management to add an extra six weeks to this voyage. I'm not complaining though, could use the extra pay,” the sailor shrugged.

The name was unfamiliar to Wyman, so he pushed further. "How interesting, I wonder why this Whitewolf fellow suggested White Harbor as a trading port instead of a larger one like , Oldtown, Lannisport, or King's Landing?"

Chenadia continued to dig at his meal. "Apparently Whitewolf was raised here but left some years ago. He hitched a ride on the ship so he could visit for some party. Last I saw him he was heading to the marketplace to buy supplies for the trip. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Does the name Jon Whitewolf sound familiar?"

Wyman froze. ' It couldn't be, could it? Jon is a perfectly common name, but the circumstances are almost too much of a coincidence… And the name, Whitewolf, didn't the boy supposedly have a direwolf with completely white fur? Still, it's best to be sure. '

Getting anything from Tamriel was rare, so a series of letters that came through here a few years ago had drawn his interest greatly. Even more so when the letters started to come from Winterfell in return. He hadn't pried, especially not into his liege Lord’s letters, as that would not be productive or proper. Still, it had been obvious this meant a great deal to the frugal, if pragmatic, Ned Stark. So he had done his deductions, taken his notes of what he could, and waited for the moment he could learn more. Now seemed like the time.

"The name does tickle my memory, but I’m unable to recall any specifics, I’m afraid.  Can you tell me about him? It may help this old man remember. And, if nothing else, I want to properly thank the man for sending this opportunity in my direction," he assured when the first mate gave him a suspicious look.

The sailor eyed him warily for a moment before ultimately shrugging again and returning to his meal. "He's young, less than twenty; dark hair and eyes but pale skin. Slender and not extremely tall. I'll tell you what though, I've never seen his like with a sword or a bow. Wielding those, you'd swear he wasn't human. He is also fairer than my sister and both nieces combined."

The man paused to chuckle and take another swig of wine before continuing. "He's an all-around good lad, I'd say. Richer than a king but not afraid to roll up his sleeves and do the grunt work. No, he hasn't given us any trouble whatsoever. Him, his large friend, or his wolf."

Wyman considered himself a man of great restraint —except when it came to his favorite dishes— yet he could scarcely stop himself from leaping out of his chair and bolting for the door. Instead he, very calmly, stood and politely excused himself, leaving Mecico Chenadia to all the food and wine he wanted.

Once a safe distance away he grabbed a trusted guard by the shoulder and pulled him close. "Listen," he whispered urgently, "I want you to take another guard down to the marketplace. Find a young man named Jon and bring him here. He'll be younger than twenty with dark curly hair, eyes, and pale skin. He'll have the Stark look, do you understand?"

Perfectly professional, the man gave no reaction to the implications beyond a sharp nod. "Yes, m'lord. What are we to do if this young man doesn't want to come with us?"

"Then persuade him, whatever it takes. But you're not to harm one hair on his head, do you understand? He is to be our special guest."

"Of course, m'lord. I'll take Galdon and we'll have him here shortly. Do you want us to take him to the guest quarters, or—"

"No, just bring him to my solar. Now off with you!"

The guard bowed and left, leaving Wyman to his thoughts. 'Lord Stark's bastard son has returned to Westeros after all these years, but why? Surely not for something as simple as his brother's nameday celebration.'

Wyman thought back on all of his memories of the boy. He was a shy thing, sad but so sweet. He watched the child play with his siblings, and then he watched Lord Stark look at him with poorly hidden, melancholy-laced affection. It was after that he insisted the boy sit up at the high table with everyone else, despite having already brought a gift for the bastard boy and risking the ire of Lady Stark, and that was surely a further insult. Regardless,  Wyman knew he had made the right choice. Jon was clearly beloved by the majority of his siblings, and quietly adored by his father. When Robb Stark grew to be the Lord of Winterfell, he'd want the brother he was closest to by his side.

The Lord of White Harbor had made the offer to foster the boy the second time he visited Winterfell, telling Lord Stark that Jon could become a knight in White Harbor and create his own name. Wyman had seen how his liege lord had been sorely tempted to accept, but ultimately refused the idea. So the third time he visited he instructed Wylla to dance with the boy and report back to him her opinion.

"What did you think of Jon, Sweetling?"

"He's so shy, Grandfather, he could barely look me in the eye. But he was extra careful not to step on my feet while we danced, and I like his hair.

They were both young then, too young, but in a few years' time, Wyman could have suggested... Alas, the boy vanished without a trace less than a year later, leaving behind devastated siblings and a heartbroken father. 

'And now he is back under a different name carrying a king's fortune and I want to know why.'

Satisfied, he returned to the table at the same time as the captain, and he deflected suspicion with a few harmless questions about their homeland. Comparing the weather, describing dishes, asking if female sailors were common while being complimentary, that sort of thing.

The guards didn't even bother knocking when they flung the doors to Wyman's solar open, startling all the occupants, and hurriedly ushered a dark-haired youth dressed in simple but very finely made clothes of a similar fashion to the sailors with him.

"Jon!" This time Wyman did leap up from his seat, as did the captain and her first mate. "By the Seven, where have you been boy?"

He seized the lost son of Winterfell by his shoulders so he could inspect him further, astonished by what he found. 

When he was a boy, Jon Snow was said to be a young Ned Stark's twin, but that was certainly not the case now. It was true that he was dark of hair and eyes, yet both were darker than Lord Stark's by several shades. The hair was also thick with curls tamed by pulling the top part of it back with a red strip of leather, with several other things braided within, each decorated with colorful yarn woven in or glass beads at the end. Lord Eddard Stark was a man of simple taste, and would have never worn his hair in such an elaborate style. His features also didn't quite fit. They were long, yes, but polished to a type of elegant sharpness. The young man didn't even have the typical Northern build, as where most Northerners were tall and broad with thick muscle, Jon was slender with a sleek build. Still, he could feel the muscle in those shoulders. 

'Those may be the colors of a Stark, but the face and body are something else entirely.'

"Lord Manderly, I—" the youth's attempts to awkwardly bow, while also pulling away were interrupted by the doors to the solar being kicked open. Wyman watched in amazement as a dark-skinned giant of a man entered the room. He had one of the gate guards tucked under his arm in a chokehold, and was pulling New Castle's steward along by the man's ear.

"What in the nine hells— Guards ! Get in—!"

"Lord Manderly, it's alright! I swear, Enzo, you put those people down right now!"

The giant looked at Jon, who scowled at the man fiercely. "Boy, if you get in any more trouble I swear, I will tie you down and shave you bald."

Then, surprisingly, he did as he was asked and released both men. The guard turned to his former capturer like he wanted to say something, but one glare was enough to send the grizzled veteran skittering away.

The man then shifted his attention to Wyman. "You must be Lord Manderly, yes? Jon spoke about you. I am Enzo Vlast. Would you care to tell me why you kidnapped my companion?"

Vlast offered none of the bows or courtesies that would be expected of a man addressing a lord, but Wyman got the impression that Vlast wasn't a man who particularly cared for courtesies of any sort. He would also be quite interested to later question his men on how exactly this giant had slipped past all of the keep’s security without a word being heard until now.

Clearly someone not to be underestimated, and manners aside he approved of this giant watching out for Jon. 

"Rest assured, no one was kidnapped. I merely sent out two of my men to investigate someone that I had cause to believe was my liege lord's missing son, and as it turns out, I was correct. Perhaps the situation was easy to misread; I simply want to ensure this young man's safety." Out of the corner of Wyman's eye, he noticed Venicci shoot Chenadia a look so scathing that he considered asking the man if he needed a maester.

Jon slipped from Wyman's grasp, and went to stand by Vlast. "Thank you for your concern, Lord Manderly. But I assure you, I am quite safe. Enzo and I will be heading to Winterfell first thing in the morning and we can handle ourselves."

"No, no, no! I won't hear of it, you and your...friend absolutely must travel with me and my family."

Jon's eyes went wide, "That is not necessary, my Lord!"

"Of course it is! I could hardly face Lord Stark and tell him that I had his lost son safe in my home, only to let him go and meet his end at the hands of some brigands. Oh dear, we have to send your father a raven immediately! He'll be so delighted to hear your back, safe and sound."

"No!"

At that Wyman paused to stare at the boy curiously, only to watch him school his face into an innocent-looking smile. "I don't want you to let him know by letter, my Lord, because I was hoping to surprise him and my family."

'Oh, but there is more to the story than that.' Wyman smiled. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. You and your companion will stay here in New Castle, I'll send someone down to collect your belongings off the ship right away. Then you both will travel with my party and I to Winterfell together."

Jon Whitewolf, the young man formerly known as Jon Snow, forced a grin — 'He is good,' Wyman thought, 'the untrained eye would never be able to tell'— and said, "We would be honored, my Lord."

Next Chapter: Reunions, gifts, and avoiding eye contact.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell;  TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter; (two-and-a half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell; TG-22, RS-18/19, JW-18/19, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

Ned Stark I

'Winter is coming.'

Ned Stark knew the words of his house just as he knew the beating of his own heart, and he knew they were coming true. 

He knew it from the crop reports, which were getting lower every season. He knew it from the increased demand for furs, flint, firewood, and preserved goods. He knew it from how the sun made itself scarcer and scarcer with each day that passed, less than ten hours now. He knew it from the people migrating south, cramming themselves into Winter Town. He knew it from the increasing frequency of snow storms. It was only a matter of time until the Citadel sent out white ravens to make it official. 

'I don't envy them; no one wants to admit the longest summer on record is ending. Still, the realm needs to be ready. Winterfell needs to be ready.'

Ned struggled with how such a thing was done. 

He had been Lord of Winterfell for over twenty years now, and he still found new challenges around every corner. He had never had to face a winter as Warden of the North; he could remember his father preparing for and governing through winters, but it had been Brandon to whom their father had passed those lessons onto. Nor could he afford to admit weakness before his vassal lords. So Ned had to make do with the simplified version, guidance from Maester Luwin, what he could remember, and his own deductions. 

So he stockpiled grains, preservatives, and dried meats, while ordering his bannermen to do the same. At the same time, he carefully appraised his coffers and tracked the prices of foodstuffs from both the Reach and Essos.

The grim fact was they simply didn't have enough of anything ; not enough food, not enough coin despite his years of careful savings, and not enough time to acquire more. Despite what the other six kingdoms of Westeros may think, the North was not poor. Just because they didn't have endless amounts of jewels, partake in the needless pageantry of tourneys, or build castles so large that they couldn't be properly maintained, didn't mean they were destitute. The North had furs, timber, and iron, and its people were, by and large, a frugal and practical lot. They bought what they needed to survive with few indulgences, and the trade was popular. But as things stood now, that didn't help much.

'So why,' Ned wondered, 'am I spending a not inconsiderable amount of money on a grand party of all things?'

The answer was simple, his Lady Wife had insisted upon it.

"We need to be saving for winter, Cat. I'm not saying no to a party, not even to inviting your family or some Northern houses, but inviting lords from the Riverlands, the Reach, and the Vale? We just can't afford it."

" Ned, what we lose in the short-term from this celebration, we'll get back in the long-term, probably even more.

"How so?"

"Think about it: with all those lords gathered together in one place, it will be the perfect time to discuss preparations for winter, and it would be an excellent time to discuss betrothals."

"I've told you, I don't—"

" We can't wait any longer, Ned. Robb is going to be nine-and-ten. Sansa is six-and-ten; other ladies her age are wedded, bedded, and bearing children. It's time we make betrothals for them, at least. Perhaps we can even find one for your ward. He's two-and-twenty now and still runs wild, maybe a good wife would settle him.

 

 

Catelyn's argument wasn't without logic, and as Ned did with plenty of things, he agreed in the end—partly because it was easier than fighting her. That being said, he would have to curb some of the marriage plans she was making in her head. Cat had the idea to arrange southern marriages for all their children: Margaery Tyrell for Robb, the crowned prince for Sansa, a Riverland's lady for Bran, a Royce or even Robin Arryn for Arya, and someone from the Stormlands for Rickon.

While such plans weren't exactly meritless, Ned knew they could never come to fruition, at least not in their entirety. The lords of the North would never accept all the Stark children marrying elsewhere, as it would be seen as an insult. It wasn't that none of his children could marry Southerners—it was looking like some of them would have, too. They needed the alliances to ensure food supply shipments—as long as the majority married closer to home.

So, for this assembly, he would only be gathering his bannermen. 

In the years prior, he had always planned to make Northern matches for both Robb and Sansa since having North-born spouses for his oldest son and daughter would settle the mind of many a nervous lord. After careful consideration, he decided to wait to see how Rickon matured, as the boy was only seven and too young for any marriage proposal to be seriously considered. That said, the boy was wild, even for his age, which would never mix well with the niceties of any Southern court, so if his youngest did not grow out of it, he would resume considering one of the younger Mormont girls. 

Bran and Arya, however, could do well in different parts of the South. Fostering Bran at Riverrun wouldn't be a bad idea; the lad wanted to be a knight, and squiring under the Blackfish would put him through his paces while also ensuring his safety. With Arya, Ned was considering Dorne. While it pained his heart to have her move so far away, and he may not be a fan of the particular… eccentricities found in Dornishmen, he knew that Arya had the wolf's blood and that in Dorne she could be freer than anywhere else. Moreover, if accepted, such a marriage could also go a long way in mending fences between the North and Dorne.

'It won't make Cat happy,' Ned sighed internally. 'But what else is new?'

It was true. The past five years of their marriage had been… turbulent , to say the least. Ned won't be helping himself by announcing his intentions to ruin her carefully laid mental plans, especially since she was already upset he hadn’t allowed for a mass visit to Southern Houses. Ned had hoped inviting Edmure would be an acceptable compromise, yet the younger man declined the invitation due to a flare-up in his father's illness. Truthfully, It was a relief to Ned, though this poorly hidden emotion further angered his wife. Despite that, she had found some pleasure in the letter he received from King's Landing and the changes to his plans about Sansa it may bring.

But no matter what happened, Robb must have a Northern marriage. It was the one thing Ned refused to compromise on—Alys Karstark, preferably, as she would be the most palatable option for all. As long as his bride was of the North, she would be approved of. His bannermen would never accept another southern Lady Stark; they had barely accepted it the first time. While none dared say it to his face, he knew their displeasure that he had a sept built in the heart of the North and that his children were brought up half in the Faith of the Seven. He didn't want Robb to have to go through that.

Above all, though, he swore that he'd never force any of his children into a marriage they didn't want; he had seen the horrible consequences that could have. The first time he held Robb in his arms, Ned swore he'd protect his children, and see to their safety and happiness. And he had succeeded.  

'For the most part.'

Ned surveyed his brood as they awaited the Manderly party's arrival, later than initially planned due to an apparent setback, while heavy, wet snowflakes came down on them. They were a good, healthy brood, and he was immensely proud of each of them: Robb was tall and strong, a formidable fighter with good morals that would make him a fine lord one day. Even at ten and six, Sansa was a slightly taller version of her mother, and her genteel ways ensured she'd make a fine wife. Little Arya was more like Lyanna than ever, but Ned could never bring himself to be upset by her willful ways. Bran was intelligent, curious, and driven, although he was not nearly as good of a fighter as he wanted to be. And ‘baby’ Rickon was the terror of Septa Mordane with his rosy cheeks, sweet smile, and vicious bite. 

Yet, despite his love for them all, Ned couldn't help but feel sad whenever they were all together sans one head of dark, curly hair.

Five years. It had been five years since Ned lost Jon.

'Oh, Lyanna, where did I go so wrong? Should I have been more attentive or sheltered him more? I couldn't give him all you wanted, but I never meant to fail you. When I lost him the first time, your ghost haunted me whenever I closed my eyes.  Then, when I learned he was safe, I was elated and promised myself I’d do better, keep him closer than before. But when I tried to bring him back, he lashed out at me for it. Please, Sister, your ghost stands at the foot of my bed every night. Tell me how I can keep my promise.'

When Jon disappeared, Ned nearly went mad. He had led days-long search parties into the surrounding forests, offered rewards for information that led to the safe return of his boy, spent hours kneeling in the snow at the foot of the Heart Tree in prayer, and spent nights in the crypts begging Lyanna's cold stone effigy for forgiveness, which never came because whenever he slept, he heard his lost sister weeping.

In those first six months, he had been more of a heartbroken beast than a man, neglecting his responsibilities and, to his eternal shame, ignoring the pain felt by most of his children. Drowning in his own grief, Ned had left the hurt of his other babes to be handled by Cat; a woman who resented that Jon even existed and couldn't be bothered to mask her own relief that the boy was gone. That was when their marriage had become truly strained.

Ned was enough of a man to acknowledge his own actions hadn't helped matters. Still, after a visit from Benjen —whose own anger over the situation was barely restrained— Ned dedicated himself to his duty once more. He talked to each of his children and took steps to reconcile with Cat. Things improved steadily for a while as he made sure to spend time with his wife and each of his children, even Theon. 

Things had gotten better, even if years later, Ned still felt like he was walking around without one of his arms. Then Jon's first letter arrived, and Ned had been ecstatic; his boy was alive and well. The correspondence they had shared in the following year had been wonderful; not even Catelyn's occasional comments about the expense of sending letters over such a great distance or his current concerns about supplies for winter, could dampen his joy. Robb and Arya had both written long emotional letters, Bran had sent amusing little page-long stories, Rickon had scribbled drawings, and even Theon contributed the odd paragraph or two. Ned, for his part, had worked on bringing Jon home. Even if Jon said he was settled and doing well for himself, he didn't belong in such a far-off land.

The North was in his blood—a part of him.

'If I had known he would have reacted so poorly, I would have spent longer trying to ease him into the idea of returning.'  

The last letter he had gotten back from Jon after proposing the idea, promising that something constructive would be found for him, had been... vicious . It seemed like Jon had poured a lifetime of frustration, anger, and resentment onto one page, ending with the warning that unless Ned learned to respect Jon's choices, he never wanted to hear from the man who raised him again. That last line, that cold ultimatum, really got to Ned: Jon's outright refusal to listen to or consider his father's point of view. 

Why couldn't his boy see that Ned just wanted what was best for him?

After that last letter, things had declined once again. He hadn't told anyone what Jon said to him, and that loomed over them all. Robb and Cat knew a little, but he wouldn't tell them the full story. His wife sometimes tried to push the issue, and it almost always ended with an argument followed by a day or two of tense silence. A cloud of somberness fell over the Stark family once again, as his children no longer wrote letters, he hadn't shared a bed with his wife in over six months, and Lyanna's ghost returned to him at night.

"Papa?"

A tugging at the end of his sleeve pulled him from his internal storm. He looked down to meet his youngest's bright blue eyes. "What is it, Rickon?"

"How long are we going to wait?"

Ned smiled as he brushed wet snowflakes from his son's dark auburn locks. The little wild wolf shoved his father's hand away and, with an overly dramatic sigh, collapsed against Shaggydog. 

Ned let out a huff of amusement at his son's antics. "I don't know, Sweetling. But it shouldn't be much longer now, I'm sure—"

As if on cue, the tower watchman announced riders were in-coming, and not long after, the Manderly party began filing into the courtyard. 

There were about thirty riders in all; among them was Wylis Manderly, the heir identifiable by his bald head, large walrus mustache, and massive girth supported by a truly giant horse that Ned couldn't help but feel sympathy for. Following the initial wave of riders was a small wheelhouse, presumably carrying Wylis' daughters and wife and then Lord Wyman himself. Lord Too-Fat-to-Sit-a-Horse rode in an ornate, covered sleigh pulled by a squad of eight garrons. The Warden of the White Knife was dressed richly in a velvet blue-green doublet embroidered with golden thread and a golden trident, pinning his mantle to his shoulder under a long cloak of shadowcat fur. Despite his girth, he hopped from his sleigh and dipped into a bow with surprising grace for a man of his size and age.

"Lord Manderly, it is good to see you."

"My Lord Stark," Wyman shook Ned's hand firmly, excitement glittering in the older man's eyes, "it is an honor to be here. I must apologize for my tardiness, but something significant came up in White Harbor. Now, I have some special news for you: three days before I intended to leave, I was made aware of an exciting visitor to White Harbor. After receiving this news, I sent some of my most trusted guards out to investigate and, well, who they found was—"

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE GODS IS THAT THING?"

Ned spun at the shrieks of terror to see household members rushing away from a giant white creature standing in the courtyard's center. The Warden of the North advanced toward the animal, drawing Ice and motioning for the guards to surround the beast so it didn't try to lunge at anyone. 

"Get back, all of you! Robb, Theon, get everyone inside!"

Lord Manderly shouted something, yet Ned paid him no mind, too focused on the threat before him. 

Ned was about to take his first charge when his children's direwolves all rushed forward, breaking through the guards' barricade and throwing themselves at the creature. At first, he was cautiously relieved since while it was larger than the direwolves, they were strong enough to take down just about anything as a pack. They fell upon it in a heartbeat as loud, continuous growling and snarling emanated from the rolling pile of fur. Then, something strange dawned on Ned as he realized they weren't fighting the creature but rather playing with it, rolling around, bowing, and mouthing at each other's necks.

'What is happening?' He paused, took a deep breath, and tried to slow his racing mind. After a moment, he really looked at the beast for the first time and slowly, it began to take shape. The giant amorphous white figure shifted into a large white-furred wolf. 'This is not just some beast. But could it truly be — '

"Ghost, is that you?" Robb shoved his way past the guards and approached the albino direwolf, holding an open palm out to it. 

The red-eyed creature pulled himself away from the mock wrestling match he was having with his littermates, taking a moment to smack Lady on the muzzle. The impressively large wolf leaned forward to give Robb a lick across the forehead before tackling Grey Wind to subject him to a fierce nuzzling.

"By the gods, it is you! " Robb exclaimed as he rushed forward, burying his face into the direwolf's side and twisting his fingers into its fur. 

With that confirmation, Arya and Bran ran to join their older brother. Rickon tried to follow, but he was stopped by Catelyn, who pulled him against her side while clutching Sansa close to her, staring at Ghost in fear. The direwolf had grown to a truly monstrous size, bigger than even Shaggydog or Nymeria, who, at 4'9'' tall, had previously been thought to be the largest of the litter. Ghost was taller than either by nearly half a foot.

"Wait, if Ghost is here, then does that mean…" Ned trailed off, not trusting himself to voice his question aloud, when a rider from the back of the party called out to the direwolf in a voice almost achingly familiar despite the passage of time and puberty. It wasn’t quite the same, but then again, nothing was anymore. 

"Ghost, you great, bloody beast! I thought I told you to wait for me in the forest!" 

The rider dismounted his handsome, dapple-gray palfrey, and his hood fell back to reveal the face of Ned's missing son—older, broader, and alive. After a brief feeling of being struck by lightning, Ned turned to Wyman, who met his eyes with a smile and nodded his head.

The Lord of Winterfell felt all the air leave his lungs as if the world around him disappeared. He couldn't believe that Lyanna's boy, his boy , was back. 

He didn't look exactly the same, but he was safe; he was back home! Ned stumbled forward, trying to reach the child he had raised as his own, his feet heavy and unstable while his mind raced to find the appropriate thing to say. 

Someone else didn't have that issue, though.

"JON!"

Arya flew towards her brother and threw herself into his arms, wrapping her tiny body around his torso. She hugged Jon around the neck tightly as he shifted her to his left hip. "You got my letter, didn't you?"

"Letter? What letter?" Catelyn questioned sharply, "Arya, did you disobey —"

"Aye, Little Sister, I did. Gak! Careful with the squeezing; you don't want to be the first day you see me in a long time to also be the last."

Arya pulled back with a bright smile, which then twisted into anger. She punched Jon hard on his shoulder. "You ass! You should have told me you were coming!"

"He probably wanted to surprise us," Bran cut in as he wrapped his arms around Jon's waist, tucking himself under his brother's right arm. "I knew you'd come back one day. I dreamed about it. Why'd it take so long?"

Jon ruffled Bran's hair with a soft smile. "I had many responsibilities where I was living, Bran. It took me a long time to complete all of them."

"Oh. I still missed you, though; I'm happy you're here."

"I missed you too."

Gently pulling his siblings back, Robb stepped forward with a look that was a cross between anger, amazement, and love on his face, snarled. "You stupid son-of-a-bitch, how dare you show back up here after all this time?"

Then, with relief shining in the tears that dotted the corners of Robb's eyes, he pulled his brother into a forceful embrace, a hand gripping the back of Jon's neck and pushing his face into Robb's shoulder. 

Face buried in his brother's dark curls, the Heir of Winterfell croaked. "It's so good to see you again."

Ned let the two have their moment. Robb, Arya, and himself had been hit the hardest by Jon's disappearance. He remembered their many long talks and the loss Robb described.

"It just feels like half of me is missing."

"This has been hard on everyone, Robb. You've been handling everything so well. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Father. But I don't think you understand. I know that you, Arya, Bran, and Rickon are all missing Jon, but it's different for me. Jon was always there, by my side. Jon is in every important memory I have. Remember how Uncle Benjen always said we were two sides of the same coin, like night and day? Now that he's gone, it feels like part of me is gone, too."

Looking over Robb’s shoulders, Jon’s eyes met those of Theon Greyjoy, who Ned noticed was standing off to the side and staring at Jon as if he was speaking a different language. Ned held his breath, as the two boys had never gotten along when they were younger, only coming to an unspoken understanding for Robb's sake. But they were older and hadn't seen each other for nearly five years. Perhaps they had matured or were about to come to blows in his courtyard.

After a moment, Jon spoke up. "Theon, you look well." Then, he slid Arya off his hip and offered a handshake.

Theon looked down the hand suspiciously but took it with an amused snort. "And you still look like a maiden, even with a beard."

The pair shared a brief, stilted chuckle that tapered off into a stilted silence. One that ground on Ned’s nerves. A selfish part of himself needed to have his own reunion with his son. He swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry throat. 

When Ned finally got close enough, he reached out to grip Jon's shoulder, turn him around, and pull him close. "Son, you're home at last."

It broke the Warden of the North's heart when his son stiffened under his hands and even further when his hug wasn't returned. Jon stayed in his arms for a moment, his body warm and present, even if the rejection of his affection made Ned feel cold, before pulling away and allowing him to get a good look at the man his boy had grown into.

The young man before him looked like his son, but they looked nothing alike—beyond even the passage from boy to adulthood. The young man in front of him stood tall and confident, with his shoulders back and head held high. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black, and he had long features that were sharp enough to cut ice while simultaneously so delicate they approached femininity.

'He looks like — No, he doesn't! He can't.' Ned told himself as he resumed his observation. Jon had grown his thick, curly hair long in the past five years, nearly down to the tops of his shoulders. He no longer let it hang freely, though. Rather, it was done in an elaborate style with several small braids, each decorated with bright yarn or colored glass beads. It would never be seen among the men of the North. 'The boy I raised would have found such a thing garish. Who has changed you, Jon?'

His son was taller now, but not so tall that he couldn't be tucked under his father's chin. The dark-haired youth was still as slender as he had always been, but his shoulders had widened with age, and Ned had definitely felt lean muscles under Jon's clothes. Speaking of clothing, he wore an expertly fitted royal blue doublet with an extensive frost pattern embroidered in silver thread and matching buttons. He also wore dark gray trousers with black leather boots and gloves. He wore a fine-looking dagger on his belt. A bronze amulet with the image of a sword and dragon hung from his neck like an anchor, and on top of it all was a hooded cloak made from a thick, tawny fur that Ned couldn't identify was latched at the shoulder by a yellow clasp with a red motif of a horse's head. The clothes were obviously of high quality. 

'Jon said he was doing well for himself in that strange land. I suppose he was being truthful.'

Jon cleared his throat and let his eyes flicker around the courtyard. "Lord Stark, it is...nice to see Winterfell again. Everything seems to be in good order, and everyone is in good health. I'm sorry to arrive so abruptly. I was planning on cleaning up first and letting Lord Manderly gently break the news to you."

Ned flinched internally; the use of his title, the lack of eye contact, and the accent that laced Jon's words stunned him, 'He doesn't even sound the same.'  

But he nodded and forced a smile even in the face of this dismissal: "Aye, I have been blessed with the good health of my family. You seem to be well, too."

"Oh, yes, I am hale, hearty, and delighted to see everyone."

"And we are delighted to see you, my son." Ned looked over Jon's shoulder to his wife and his last two children, 'Well, most of us anyway.' 

Catelyn looked at Jon as if he were the Stranger coming to take her children, a mixture of terror and rage plastered on her face. She gripped Sansa, who looked back and forth from her mother to her siblings in confusion, and Rickon to her firmly. Rickon was clearly unhappy about it, though, as he struggled against his mother's hold, trying to yank his arm away from her.

"Rickon," he called, catching his youngest's attention and gesturing him forward, "Come here." 

The littlest pup smiled and tried to come to him, only to be stopped by Cat, who tightened her grip on him. Ned shot her a sharp look, and she begrudgingly released Rickon,  who scampered over to his father. 

Jon knelt to eye-level with his youngest brother as he approached. "Hello, Rickon. I'm sure you don't remember me, but my name is Jon. I used to make toys for you when you were very small."

Rickon peered at Jon, his brow furrowed. "Like my knight?"

"The one with the blue shield and helmet? Aye, that was one I made."

The little boy's face split in a happy, gapped-toothed grin as he jumped forward, snuggling into the young man's chest. "Jawny!"

Jon laughed. "I can't believe how much you've grown, Little Wolf. You're almost as tall as me!"

Rickon nodded in agreement before asking what he deemed to be the most critical question. "Did you bring me a present?"

Ned started to chide his son, but Jon cut him off. "Aye, I did. In fact, I have gifts for everyone."

"Give me!"

"Rickon," Ned scowled, "don't be rude."

"You'll get yours soon enough, Little Wolf. But first, my friend and I need to get settled and cleaned up at the Golden Hearth before I—"

The Golden Hearth was one of two inns in Winter Town. The other one, the Smoking Log, tended to serve the average man, while the Golden Hearth catered to wealthy travelers and merchants. 

Ned cut his son off abruptly. "Why are you going to the Golden Hearth?"

Jon seemed confused by the question. "That's where my companion and I are planning on staying. Winterfell is surely too filled with guests for us to inconvenience you."

Cat decided then was the best time to make her opinion known. "That sounds like—"

"A thoughtful but unnecessary idea,” cut in Ned. “There is always room for family members."

"Aye, well, my friend and I—"

"Who is this companion of yours? Is it someone I know?" Not the most subtle of inquiries, yet Ned had long had dark thoughts on just how his son had so totally vanished. Of the genuine possibility someone else had been involved.

"I highly doubt it," an unknown deep voice answered Ned's inquiry. 

The Lord of Winterfell turned to meet the gaze of a true giant of a dark-skilled man. Bald with a graying goatee, clad entirely in black and effortlessly carrying a massive chest, with a dark sword strapped to his hip. A couple of inches shorter than Hodor, he wasn't the largest man Ned had ever seen, but there was undeniably something intimidating about him besides his height. 

Without offering any bows or courtesies, the man addressed Ned. "So you are the lord of this castle? It is...interesting to meet the man who raised my friend."

"Lord Stark, this is Enzo Vlast. He is my—"

"Protector and escort," the man finished, his dark eyes bearing down on Ned with an unreadable expression. Ned drew himself up unconsciously as if the small amount would close the gap in their respective heights. The man’s presence was undeniable. "It is my job to ensure Thane Whitewolf arrives at his destination uninjured, completes his visit unharassed, and returns to Skyrim unimpeded. I trust my presence will not be an issue?"

Ned didn't quite know how to respond to the information he had just been given, yet Jon spoke up first. "Why do you have the chest with all the gifts?"

Vlast set the chest down. "If we are staying here for the duration of our visit, I thought you might hand them out while I move our belongings to our assigned room. That is, of course, if the Lord of Winterfell has not changed his mind."

The man's black eyes slid to meet Ned's, obviously challenging him to see what he'd say. Ned had no intention of backing down in front of this stranger, so he squared his jaw and held his gaze. "Of course not. That is an excellent idea. You do no need to move your luggage; I'll have servants bring it up and arrange a room for you. I'm sure that after such a long trip, you'd like a bath and rest."

"Thank you for such a kind offer, but I would rather handle our personal effects personally. I would say that I completely trust your people and that this is just a habit of mine, but it would be a lie. Having someone to show me where we will be staying would be greatly appreciated, though."

The man then left without another word, after which Jon gave him an apologetic smile. "Enzo is a...force of personality, but he means well. And is a good friend."

Ned pushed his unpleasant thoughts away and gently squeezed Jon’s shoulder. "Well, I'm glad you have someone looking after you. Come on, it's time to get out of this biting cold. Let's go to my solar and see what you brought."

"Ned, Lord Manderly and his family just arrived. Surely you want to welcome him into the Stark home properly," Cat said, looking as if she had just swallowed a lemon whole. She pointedly did not look at Jon, who Ned noticed turned his head to the side and rolled his eyes.

"Not to worry, Lady Stark,” reassured the lord in question jovially. “A family reunion is far more important. Besides, the road there was a bit rough. My family and I could use a hot meal and a rest before we are presentable. Could you see to that?"

"Oh, well, of course," the Lady of Winterfell sputtered. "I'll see that food and drink are brought to you immediately."

Another day, Ned would stop to methodically parse through the shrewd (if loyal) man’s actions and words, yet he could not bring himself to do so now.

"Excellent," Ned said, giving Jon another soft squeeze. "Let's go, Jon."

Jon V

"What you'd get me? What you'd get me?"

"Calm down, Rickon. I've got to the chest open first."

"Ugh, you're taking so long! "

Jon chuckled as he undid the lock and pulled out the first two packages. The entire Stark family plus Theon had assembled in the lord's solar, and the youngest members gathered around Jon and his chest full of goodies. The direwolves had all run off together to hunt as a pack for the first time in nearly half a decade. 

Lady Catelyn and Sansa were both seated on a cushioned bench as far away from him as the confines of the room allowed. Jon could feel the woman's suspicious glare against the back of his head. When he was young, the glare would have made him curl into himself, but now he only regarded it with something close to amusement. 

"Okay, Arya, this one is for you, and Bran, that one belongs to you."

Bran quickly opened his box to reveal an elven war ax resting on red velvet, its blade covered by a leather sleeve. Jon had gotten it from a nice Bosmer fellow he was friends with, and the wood elf had assured him of the weapon's quality and that the ax's light weight would make it ideal for someone younger. Indeed, despite being only nine, he could carry it safely. Even still, Jon had taken the time to reinforce and improve the weapon.

"Oh, wow ," Bran gasped under his breath as he turned the ax over in his hands, admiring the slender, curved edges and elegant eagle design, as the sharp angles and gentle curves invoked the shape of a predatory bird. It was still a bit too large for the boy, but after another growth spurt, he'd be able to carry it comfortably on his belt. Between its size and light weight, it would make a good first personal weapon for the lad. 

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you to be careful with that, Bran." Lord Stark said as he took the weapon to examine it.

Arya looked at the ax wide-eyed and ripped the top of her box off, clearly hoping for one of her own, only for her face to fall when she pulled out a necklace. 

After a moment, she mumbled, "It's...pretty," and hugged him around the middle. 

The necklace was a lovely little thing. It was simple: a black leather strap that hooked in the back, with a disk of smooth moonstone embedded by a single ruby in the center. It spoke of wealth while retaining the Northern fashion of simplicity.

He returned her hug, leaning down to whisper, "Check under the cushion next time you're alone. That's where your real gift is."

Arya pulled away, and he gave her a conspiratorial wink before pulling out two more gifts. "Alright, Robb, that's yours. Here you go, Rickon. Sorry it took so long."

Rickon hooted in joy as he took the box and began pulling out the small figurines. There were twelve in all; each was made from a different material and designed to look like animals native to Skyrim. 

He held out one that was made of Dwarven metal. "What animal is this?"

"That's a plains saber cat."

"What's that?"

"It's a giant feline predator, about the size of a bear, with two canines that can be almost a foot long. They're extremely aggressive and will often ambush travelers who stray too far from the roads. There are also snowy saber cats, who are even bigger and stronger. That's actually what Robb's cloak is made from."

"Speaking of the cloak," Robb butted in as he admired the cream-colored gray spotted hooded fur cloak. The craftsman Jon purchased it from had been adamant about its warmth and durability. He also knew Robb would appreciate its uniqueness in Westeros. "Is this all you got me?"

"Robb!" Lord Stark snapped.

"I mean, it's nice and all, but it is my nameday…"

Jon laughed as he slapped Robb's hand away from where it was wandering towards the unopened boxes still in the chest. "I do have something else for you, but you're getting it your nameday morning, and not one moment sooner."

" Ouch! Why my nameday morning and not the feast?"

"Oh, I'm not going to that. It wouldn't be proper."

"Jon—"

“Theon, here’s yours.”

“Mine?” Confusion was clear on the squid’s face. From his place hanging back near the solar door, Theon stared at the gift in Jon’s hands like he was trying to decide if this was a prank. “Are you serious?”

Cocking his eyebrow, Jon asked, “Do you not want it?”

Assuming there hadn’t been a massive shift in Theon’s personality in the past four years, Jon knew teasing and challenging was the best way to get Theon to do anything. He and Robb often used those techniques in their childhoods to get Theon to help them steal snacks from the kitchen.

“No!” Theon replied quickly. Too quickly, he clearly thought, judging by how red his face went. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “No, I’ll take it.”

“Excellent!” Jon passed him a long, flat box. 

After an encouraging look from Lord Stark —‘What’s going on there?’— Theon took it and opened it after giving the young Dragonborn a sideways glance. His eyes widening and jaw-dropping slightly when he saw what was inside. 

Cautiously he pulled out an elegant bow and gave it a practice draw. "I've never seen a bow like this before."

Lord Stark took an arrow from that matching quiver still in the box. "It this...glass?"

"You're not too far off. That type of bow is referred to as a glass bow, but it's actually made from a material called malachite. Once refined, malachite is translucent, and when crafted correctly, it has flexible properties that can be used to make bows. It's also used instead of regular glass when building in regions of high winds."

“Strange things from a strange land,” his uncle commented. He looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes. “You know much about this.”

He said it like a question. One Jon thankfully had a (mostly) true answer for. 

“I spent a winter working for a blacksmith when I was younger and picked up a few things,” he said easily. 

Adrianne Avenicci and her husband had been kind enough to let Jon sleep in their attic for a few months after he stumbled into Whiterun in return for basic chores and assistance running the shop. The simplicity of life there was the calmest part of Jon’s early days in Skyrim, and part of him missed it. To the point that he still made the point to stop by for a meal every few months. 

"This is a fine weapon," Theon noted. Jon held back a snort. It was like the proud squid he remembered, who would never say he liked the gift or offer his thanks. That little comment was the closest he'd ever get to either.

"Be careful with it and the arrows. There are fifty in that quiver; make them count. I'm almost certain that malachite isn't found in Westeros, and even if I had it shipped here, no one could work with it."

Theon nodded without a smart-ass comment, a truly rare event.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon noticed Sansa shifting in her seat as she took in all the shiny new toys her siblings and the family ward had received. Sansa had always enjoyed being showered with presents -not that Jon could criticize, he certainly never turned the exotic gifts given to him by travelers and nobles- but she stopped accepting the nameday gifts he had gotten her when she turned seven. 

'Let's see if that still holds.'

"Sansa, I'm afraid I am not practiced in picking gifts for a lady, but I'm sure you and your lady mother will find this acceptable." Jon set a large, ornate box on his father's desk right before him, and waited to see what would happen.

It ended up going exactly how Jon thought it would. Sansa squirmed for a moment, Tully blue eyes fixed on the lavishly decorated box before prying her mother's hand from her arm and bolting straight for it. She let out a squeal in delight as she began to paw her way through the bolts of exotic fabrics that would be utterly useless in the harsh weather of the North, but perhaps Sansa could use them for her trousseau.

"I don't know anything about ladies' fashion, especially in Westeros, but the raw materials are just as good. Check that little pouch there."

Sansa did so, shrieking in delight when a dozen glittering gemstones poured out. She looked at him with amazement in her eyes and gasped, "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Jon said, dismissively as he pulled out the last two gifts. "Lord Stark, these are for you."

"Oh, thank you." The Lord of Winterfell opened a medium-sized box and discovered it was filled with several small pouches. "Are these seeds?"

"Aye, seeds for wheat, cabbage, gourds, potatoes, leeks, tomatoes, grapevines, and apple trees. The climate in Skyrim is not too dissimilar to the one here in the North, so there is a decent chance they will grow here. Now, that is the practical gift, while the other one is more frivolous."

An amused look crossed Lord Stark's face, but he went ahead and unwrapped the deer pelt covering the long, second gift. This shifted to an expression of astonishment. "This is a…"

"Mammoth tusk? Aye. They're fairly common creatures in Skyrim."

The man who raised him examined the gift, running his thumb over the engraved runes and embedded jewels. "This is incredible. What are they like?"

"Big, of course, though there is a smaller breed, and passive for the most part, except if you get too close or attack their… keepers. Some are wild, but plenty are kept as herd animals. Quite like giant cows, really. This is from one of the wilder ones."

Ned Stark smiled warmly at him and took him by the shoulders. "Jon, these are all wonderful, generous gifts." He looked over at Lady Stark, " Aren't they? "

The Lady of Winterfell swallowed hard and forced out, "Yes, generous."

Ned turned back to him, and Jon tried his damnedest not to meet the man's eyes, instead just shrugging. "Think nothing of it. My position with the East Empire Company affords me more than enough pay for a few trinkets."

"It's more than just trinkets, though; as nice as they are, the greatest gift is having you home."

Jon held back a wince and turned to look out the window, watching the heavy snowflakes come down. "Aye, it is fortunate that I could arrange a visit."

His childhood bedroom was exactly the same as when Jon had left.

The room wasn't big, about half the size of Robb's, yet that had never bothered Jon. Few rooms in Winterfell were truly large in size, as larger rooms are harder to heat. It wasn't as if it was empty or in a poor state either. In fact, it seemed positively cozy with the cold stone floor covered by a thick woven rug and a warm fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, having probably been started by the same maid who brought up fresh bedding and lit the lanterns. His furniture was old, yes, but were Stark family heirlooms meant to last for generations, and they previously belonged to Uncle Benjen. His bed was so big that Jon had felt swallowed up by it when he was younger, and it had a flock mattress complete with a feather topper, all covered by a layer of soft furs.

Humble compared to his well-furnished, comfortable homes he had back in Skyrim, yet nothing to take offense about. Certainly, he had slept in worse. And yet…

Jon laid back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and remembering when he would spend sleepless nights counting the tiny cracks in the granite. He slid a hand over the wall to his left, stopping when he felt a familiar slight indentation caused by Jon rubbing his thumb back and forth as a form of self-soothing. Sometimes, for so long he wore the skin raw and bloody. 

He pulled his hand back sharply and stood back up, heading for the window in the room. It had always been his favorite part of the room, a dark-stained pane of glass featuring a pale-colored wolf against a red field. Jon rested his forehead against the cold glass, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his racing heart.

This was his childhood bedroom; he stayed in it for nearly a decade, from the age of five when he and Robb had been moved from their shared nursery into different rooms. Robb hadn't taken the separation well, cried, and snuck into Jon's room every night for nearly six months until Lord Stark put his foot down. So it had been all Jon’s until he had run away a month after he turned four-and-ten. He had so many memories here, plenty of them good, and yet Jon couldn't stand being in it.

'I should have insisted on staying at the inn. Damn you, Enzo! Why'd you have to challenge my uncle?' Jon thought to himself. 

Releasing a sigh, he went to one of his chests, first checking to see that they were all still securely locked, and pulled out a roll of paper, bottle of ink, quill, and Serana's enchanted bowl. His letter to Serana needed to be incredibly careful; he couldn't make it seem as if he was unhappy because that wasn't entirely true, and he couldn't make it seem like he missed her or home too greatly, even though that was entirely true, because she would almost certainly come to Westeros to drag him back to Skyrim. Which she would also do if she suspected he was hiding anything from her. However, he also didn't want to lie any more than necessary. 

With a haggard sigh, Jon began to write.

My dearest Serana,

I am writing to inform you that I have arrived safely at Winterfell. As I have informed you in my previous letters, rather than travel with just Enzo to the castle, we instead traveled with Lord Manderly and his family. Upon arriving, our plans changed again, for instead of staying at a nearby inn, Lord Stark insisted that we stay in the castle. I have even been placed in my childhood bedroom. It feels disconcerting to be back, like putting on a coat you've long outgrown.

I was well-received upon my arrival, and most seemed happy to see me. Even Sansa was pleased, though that was likely more about the gift I brought her than anything to do with me personally. Everyone seemed to enjoy their gifts, Theon and Lord Stark in particular. Lady Catelyn is far from pleased that I am back but hasn't said anything to me yet. Perhaps we can simply ignore each other for the duration of my visit.

How are you fairing, my dear friend? By my calculations, you should be right in the middle of Whiterun's Grand Court. Is everything going well? Has Lord Hammer-Heart driven everyone to the brink of insanity by complaining about his wife every chance he gets? I truly don't know why he is so unhappy; Matyi is a perfectly pleasant woman. Thank you for taking care of all my creatures. I know Abri is a naughty little feline, but you can't beat Abecean Ratter cats when keeping pests away. I still can't believe Ysolda was able to find one for me. Alright, well, I will end my letter here. 

PGive my love to Lydia and Jarl Balgruff.

Please don't miss me too greatly, dear friend. I will be home soon.

—Jon

The Great Thane of Skyrim smiled as he read the letter over to be sure there was nothing that would make Serana overly suspicious, and yet nothing that was truly a lie. There was something more important here than his usual distaste for deception, as the vampire princess hated few things more than being lied to.

"Listen well, Jon Whitewolf! If you ever lie to me, I'll rip off all that pretty hair of yours!"

Jon chuckled fondly at the memory, rolling the letter up before pressing it briefly against his lips and setting it ablaze in the enchanted bowl with a minor flame spell. As Jon watched the paper be devoured by fire, he wondered how long it would take Serana to write back. Indeed, he may have gone mad without her gift; over two months had passed since he had seen her, but it seemed so much longer. He missed her smile, her burning eyes, the way she laughed, how she had his back in battle, the way her cool fingers felt when they touched his hair and face…

'There is no use dwelling on it now. She's busy doing your duties for you and will answer when she has time. Also, I’m not entirely sure when it is back in Skyrim.'

Jon shook himself out of his longing and tried to distract himself by looking over his quarters again. There wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. The closer he looked, the more he realized how absolutely nothing had changed in the room: the pile of furs that Ghost had once slept on was still in the corner —it assuredly wouldn't fit the direwolf now, though, he had more than doubled in size in the past five years— and the trinkets he had always kept on his dresser were still in place. There was a book on King Daeron I that Jory had given him, the sun-bleached antler of a deer that he had found while on a walk once, and the small box of beach stones given to him by Lord Wyman. Jon opened it and took a handful of stones, admiring their smooth texture and pale pink and green coloration. 

He let the stones slip through his fingers, 'I left so many things I valued behind when I left. I told myself it was for practicality sake, but in truth, I was angry and wanted to forget.'

An investigation of the drawers revealed that they were still full of his old clothes, folded neatly and ready to be worn. Like his furniture, much of his clothing had once belonged to his uncle.

"Benjen was just like you when he was young, thin as a reed. I bet you'll be as tall as he is now once you hit a growth spurt."

Jon never did grow that tall, so some of the clothes were altered for him. Most of them needed to be adjusted in some way, including being dyed darker or the Stark sigil removed, as befitting a bastard. Jon traced a finger over a patch added to a doublet to cover a direwolf's head, and a shiver went up his spine. 

It felt like he was in the room of a dead man.

The tomb of the boy he had once been.

"They're not all there."

Jon jumped and jerked his head towards the doorway, his hand reaching for his dagger. He stopped, though, when he saw Arya standing there. His little sister had grown in Jon’s absence, not much taller, but her body had begun to refine itself with age. She wasn't particularly lovely yet, but in a few years, she'd be a picture of Northern beauty.

"They're not all there," Arya repeated as she stepped inside the room, latching the door behind her. "I stole some of them after you left. Robb and Theon wouldn't buy me any boy's clothes, so I took some of yours. After all, it wasn't like you needed them, and…"

She trailed off and sat on his bed; Jon smiled sadly and settled beside her. Arya rested her head on his shoulder and continued, "After you left and Father couldn't find you, he tore this room apart, looking for some clue as to where you had gone. Then he ordered it to be fixed and banned anyone from entering aside for a maid who dusted it once a week. He'd come in here every once in a while, I think just to sit, but he refused to let any of us in. I still snuck in, though. Had to steal the key from the maid’s storeroom to do so. Robb and Bran did, too. Robb took your little carving of Ghost. He keeps it next to the one you made of Grey Wind. He also took your old toy trebuchet for Rickon. Bran took your pillow."

Jon's heart ached at the pain he had caused the ones he loved, but didn't speak up, instead just letting Arya finish letting out her emotions. 

"I cried for days after you left, cried until I had no more tears left. Then I got angry . I must have called you every name there is, and even threw that wooden sword you got me into the fire. Hated myself afterward. Finally, when I was done being angry, I crawled into bed, and wouldn't leave for a week. Everyone tried to get me up but nothing worked until Septa Mordane told me it 'wasn't proper for a lady to sulk over a bastard.' I swore at her and threw things. Mother wanted to punish me for it but Father didn't let her. He did make me apologize though."

"As you should have."

Arya glared at him and growled, "You're supposed to be on my side."

Then they laughed and Arya put her head on her shoulder again. "I'm so glad you're back."

"I'm not staying," Jon reminded her gently. "This is just a short visit. I have responsibilities in Skyrim, and people that I care for deeply."

"I know that, but I could go back with you."

The young Dragonborn kissed the crown of her head. "I would love that, Little Sister. But you have family here in Westeros."

"You are my family too."

"Aye, always, but it's different for me. In Westeros, no matter what I do, I'll always be known as Ned Stark's bastard. I'm my own man in Skyrim. I'm happy there."

"I get that, I guess. Maybe I could visit you one day…"

"Maybe…" Jon hummed, thinking of the time and cost of such a trip for her. He hated seeing Arya sad, so he changed the subject. "How do you like your gift?"

The change was instantaneous. Arya lept to her feet, a bright smile gracing her face, and she pulled out her brand-new ebony dagger. It wasn't enchanted, but if used correctly, it would be plenty deadly. "I love it! Where did you get it?"

"I made it," Jon said as he pulled out his own. "Along with its older brother. I call mine Frostbite, yours will need a name too."

Arya thought for a moment, tilting the blade so the glossy black surface caught the light. "Candle," she said finally. "I'm going to call it Candle."

"I like it, but a good name is only part of owning a weapon. This isn't a toy, Arya. You need to respect it, care for it, and learn to use it properly. Now, I'll teach you, but if I think for one moment that you aren't ready for such a responsibility, I won't hesitate to take it from you. Do you understand?"

Arya rolled her eyes. "Of course, I know that it's a big responsibility. I'm not a child , Jon!"

He chuckled, "Just so we're on the same page. We'll have our first lesson tonight in the crypts."

Nodding rapidly, a broad grin stretching across her young face, Arya was nearly vibrating next to Jon in excitement. "A weapon of my very own… This is so amazing! By the gods, I can't believe Sansa is happier about that letter than you visiting. She is so weird sometimes."

"What letter?"

"The one Father got this a few weeks ago: the king is coming for the celebration. He’ll be here any day now."

.

.

.

'Fuck!'

Next Chapter: Jon has a dream, hears a voice from the past, plays around with Theon and Robb, takes a bath, and meets a king, Ned has a chat with Wyman Manderly, and Enzo is thoroughly unimpressed.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell;  TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 14: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

Jon VI

It was that dream again; the one he always use to have. The same one he hadn’t had since he left Winterfell. It was gray -not night and not day, just gray- and the castle was quite as snowfall. There was no sign off life; no ravens taking flight from the rookery, no sounds from the stables, no servants rushing about, and not even smoke rising from the chimneys. But then the dream changed from how it use to be; the solitude didn’t scare him anymore -Jon had long since learned peace in silence rather than terror- and rather than racing around the castle trying to find someone, he found he was in no hurry at all.

In the past versions of this dream, Jon always found himself looking for someone, usually the man he believed to be his father but sometimes Arya or Robb. This time though, he didn’t need to look for them because he knew exactly where they’d be. Jon made his way to the Great Hall, snow crunching under his feet. But, despite being clad in only light sleeping clothes, he wasn’t cold and the icy snow never cut his feet. It was funny, growing up he was never bothered by the cold -aside from his sixth year when he was attacked by illness after illness until even a short walk in one of the courtyard was enough to wind him- which all the Starks had in common and something that Jon had always taken great pride in; but he was never bothered by the heat either, able to stay in the hot springs for much longer than any of the Stark siblings. Sometimes he stayed in so long, refusing to leave the comforting warmth, that Lord Stark had to pluck him from the water with a warning that Jon that the hot strings might turn him into soup.

He supposed that made sense now.

He arrived at the entrance to the Great Hall and through the thick doors came the sounds of feasting: music, laughter, and the scrapping of cutlery against plates. A booming laugh rang out and it made Jon’s heart skip a beat. The Great Hall sounded joyous and welcoming, but Jon had rarely been permitted to attend feasts when other lords visited, even Northern lords with the exceptions of the Manderlys, the Mormonts, and the Karstarks. When he had been a little boy, before he understood that he was different -that he was a bastard- this hadn’t been too bad. The head cook, Matlyn - a cranky spinster who never smiled but was always kind to Jon, unlike the servants who kept a polite distance out of fear of facing Lady Catelyn’s displeasure- would make a small dinner of Jon’s favorite foods. He’d been turned over to the care of Old Nan for the night and she’d spin any tale he’d ask for, stroking his hair as Jon enjoyed the supply of fresh spice cake before tucking him into bed. He had enjoyed the individualized attention and, unlike his siblings who were always useless and lethargic the day after a feast, Jon was always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning. The enjoyment faded as he aged and learned about how his perceived place in the world that kept him outside the doors of the Great Hall. So Jon now just turned away from those doors and left the lords and ladies to their merriment.

Then, as it has always been, Jon found himself in front of the door to the crypts, passing the gargoyles that guarded the entrance -would these come to life? Some of the ones he encountered in Skyrim did. Serana even kept one as a pet, called it Pookie- staring down into the inky depths. Though he no longer felt the bone-chilling terror he once did, the same reluctance to descend still sat heavy in his gut. The urging, insistent voice in the back of his mind told -no, commanded- him to go down was stronger than his fear though, so descend he did. Spiralling down and down into the pitch darkness for what felt like miles -feeling along the wall with his palm as he had no torch and felt no urge to cast Magelight or Candlelight in order to illuminate his past- until he standing in front of one of the old Kings of Winter, his face long and stern, sitting on his crumbling stone throne with his carved wolf curled around this feet and dull iron sword lying across his lap. The king’s cold, hard eyes caused Jon no fear; he had spent his earlier, simpler years climbing onto the laps of these statues and playing hide-and-seek among the tombs -even if he never felt truly comfortable down here.

“This is not your place,” the king said, his voice rough and dry.

“I know that; I am not a Stark.”

“And yet here you must be, at least for a time.” The king’s direwolf lifted his head from his paws, head cocked to the side to the side as he watched Jon.

“Is that why you’ve been calling me down here for all these years?”

“Not I, Little One, nor any of my fellow kings.”

“Someone else then?”

“Someone else or something else or both. Bones aren’t always silent and stone isn’t always dead.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will, Boy, if you only think to listen. Now, you must go further down and find what is still buried.” The king raised his arm, cracks like spider webs growing on the stone, and point towards the section of the crypt that had long since been crumbled and been blocked off.

Jon wanted to protest; he couldn’t go there, he wanted to say, it has been inaccessible since well before he had been born. But his feet started moving without permission and he passed straight through the rumble without obstacle, the dirt and rock parting around him. Then, as the king commanded, he went deeper into the darkness -further than any living soul must have traveled in decades. He didn’t know how long he walked, but it grew warm. So warm that eventually, the ground under him grew so hot that Jon’s may have burned if such a thing was possible. Yet still, he kept going, stopping only when he came to an old wooden door.

“Open it,” Jon told himself. “You must open it.”

But he couldn’t, every time he tried reaching for the handle his hand snapped back at his side and when he tried to step back, he found himself unable to move his legs. Then he heard the tell-tale click of a lock coming undone and metal groaning; the door was opening from the other side.

BANG! The door flew open and Jon was engulfed by heat until he felt no more.

Jon was dripping with sweat when he came to; sitting up with a disgusted groan, he pushed back the damp pile of blankets and furs and winced when the stuck to him. Despite this, the air in the room was cool -the fire had dimmed to just smoldering embers during the night. He added more logs and retrieved the metal water pitcher that was kept by the fireplace so it didn’t freeze. He wet a washcloth and began wiping himself down, ‘The dreams are returning, have been ever since I set foot on land in Westeros.’

Jon had many dreams; in Skyrim, he dreamt of his hopes and fears like any man, but sometimes of something… more. He once dreamt of sitting by a fire in a forest with a silent Kodlak Whitemane, the old warrior’s eyes kind and sad; Jon tried to ask the Harbinger of the Companions what troubled him but then gray mists overtook them both and he could see the man no longer. Three weeks later Kodlak lay dead on the floor of Jorrvaskr -slain in his own home- and Jon would carry guilt over the old man’s death to his grave, along with a burning hatred of the Silver Hand. He had dreams where he slipped into the skins of different beasts; usually Ghost -with whom he shared part of his soul- but sometimes Winter, the female Karthwolf Shepherd given to him by Gat gro-Shargakh as thanks for clearing the Forsworn out of Kolskeggr Mine, or one of the other canines he owned. These dreams came easiest with dogs and wolves, but they came with birds too: Sweet Roll or Caller the crow or Blink, the albino owl that had shown up in Jon’s dorm room at the College of Winterfell one morning and never left.

But the strangest dreams -the ones of blood and ice and fire and dead that speak- they had stopped when Jon had left Westeros behind. ‘I should have known they would come back once I did,’ he thought. It had been over two weeks since he and Enzo had arrived in Westeros, four days since coming to Winterfell, and nearly every other night that passed, something strange troubled his dreams. Sometimes of a vast, snow-covered forest that was empty aside from the stench of death that hung in the air. Sometimes he was in an empty field and watching the sun die, followed by the stars all flickering out one-by-one. Sometimes he didn’t see anything at all, instead only hearing the sound of ice cracking so loudly that it almost deafened him. This was the first time he had dreamt of the crypts since he had been back, ‘It was different this time too, I went further down than ever before.’

‘But was it trying to tell me?’ Jon had learned not to toss his dreams to the side, even if he could never be sure of their meaning -if and when they had any at all.

‘The power of dreams is in your blood, Little Brother. Best you don’t ignore them, or else Apocrypha may take you before your time.’

The voice was like boiling poison as it his head. Jon doubled over, eyes welded shut and hands clamped over his ears; a heavy, oppressive atmosphere swelled in his childhood bedroom. “Be quiet,” the Last Dragonborn hissed. “You are not real.”

The venom in his mind laughed, ‘Would that make you feel better, Little Brother? If I was just some lie, a figment of your own mind. Your grandfather heard voices too, you know? Perhaps you’ll end up like him.’

‘I am nothing like him!’

‘Not yet, you mean?’ sneered the voice of the Betrayer.

Jon offered his most eloquent response,‘Fuck off!’

Just like that, the heavy atmosphere dissipated and the young Dovahkiin felt a pop followed by a damp warmth on his lips. ‘A nosebleed,’ Jon realized as he touched fingers to his mouth and glanced out the window. Bleak rays of pale dawn light shown through the colored glass; it was too late to go back to sleep yet still too early for breakfast to be served. He had made plans to meet Robb and Theon in one of the practice courtyards, but that wouldn’t be for several more hours. Jon still dressed for the day though -in simple clothes this time- cleaning his face and teeth then pulling a brush through his hair, not bothering with braids or ornamentation at the moment. He’d do later, right now there was someone he needed to see.

The halls and grounds of Winterfell were quiet and nearly empty as he moved about. ‘Like my dream,’ Jon thought. Not quite though, smoke rose from the kitchen chimneys and there were servants milling about, preparing for the day. The walked right past him, oblivious to his presence which was just how he preferred it; Jon had gotten extremely good at only being seen when he wanted to be. Eventually, he reached the entrance to the crypts, but when he went to open the door, he froze.

‘On with it, you fool! You’ve been in the crypt three times in as many days to give Arya her lessons, but now you're letting a damned dream get to you? You slew Alduin the World Eater, yet you're afraid of some old bones and crumbling stone? Get on with it, you know what you have to do!’

With a hard, dry swallow Jon passed the gargoyles, pushing through the doors and descending downward; not as far as he did in his dream though, instead he stopped in front of three particular statues. Lord Rickard Stark looked like Ned Stark, if only slightly older and more worn, and Brandon Stark was similar in appearance as well -if broader in the jaw and more refined in the features. Jon lit a candle at each of their tombs, ‘You’d both likely hate me if you were alive; I’m not sure I could blame you if I did. One of my grandfathers killed the other and took my uncle to boot. My own father was killed by his second cousin; somedays I fear ever having children because I think of the pain they could cause each other. Perhaps it means nothing, but I’m sorry. Neither of you deserved what happened.’

Then he moved on and came to the statue of Lady Lyanna Stark, his mother. Growing up he had dreamed of what the woman who gave birth to him was like almost as often as he dreamt of the crypts; at times these dreams had been so vivid he could almost make out her face and hear her voice. He dreamt she had been a highborn lady of great beauty and kind eyes. As it turns out, his dreams had right -though that hadn’t been much of a comfort after he discovered the truth- and now here he stood in front of her motionless effigy. He didn’t know how close the statue resembled the real thing but it was all he had, there were no paintings of her anywhere in Winterfell. Jon reached up to brush his fingertips against the cheek of the granite statue, feeling only cold stone. He didn’t light a candle for her, instead, he scattered petals from a Blue Mountain flower at the foot of the statue.

He took a deep breathe, “I-”

“Jon? What are you doing down here?” Lord Stark stood at the mouth of the chamber, his hair and clothes rumpled -clearly having only woken up a short time ago.

“Just paying my respects,” he tilted his head towards the line of statues.

“This early in the morning?”

“Woke up, couldn’t get back to sleep.” Jon carefully looked straight at his mother’s granite visage -surely she couldn’t have looked so stern in real life- as Lord Stark came to stand at his side. The man didn’t say anything so Jon continued, hoping he could maybe prompt him into revealing what Jon already knew, “It’s so strange; I know their stories and I’ve must have seen their statues half-a-hundred times growing up, but I never thought much about them or ever mourned them properly.”

“That isn’t surprising,” Ned replied. “You never knew them; never had a chance to form any sort of bond. So while they’re your kin and will always be connected to you, you shouldn’t blame yourself for not feeling saddened by their deaths.”

“I don’t, not truly. I’ve seen enough death and mourn over too many bodies to be dwell on those I never met. Still, it was something I thought about often when I was in Skyrim and now that I'm here, I thought it be a good time to visit.”

“That was thoughtful of you.”

The pair stood together quietly for a moment in awkward silence before Lord Stark spoke up again, “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to speak in private before now.”

“There is much going on with Robb’s nameday celebration and with King Robert coming; the royal party will be arriving today, correct?”

“Aye. This afternoon, hopefully, or later tonight, depending on the weather.”

Jon nodded, “Winter weather is coming and it makes travel difficult.”

“Unfortunately that’s all too true, it’s a good thing you came home when you did.”

The Dragonborn gave his uncle a side glance, “For a visit, you mean. I came home for a visit.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

A pang of dread hit Jon's stomach, he already didn't like where this conversation was going. “What could you possibly mean by that?”

Lord Stark took Jon by the shoulders, forcing the younger to meet his eyes, “Jon, I realize that when I sent my letter asking you to come home I didn’t present my case very well. I know you are supposedly happy in that strange land of yours, but it’s not where you belong.”

‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’ “Are you seriously-”

“Please, just listen! I have holds that need lords. You had the same education as Robb did growing up; we’d have to catch you up on some things but I confident you’d be a good lord. Or you could go to White Harbor and become a knight; Lord Manderly is fond of you, he asked to foster you in the past so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting you. Either way, you could have your own name, your own family. You don’t have to be a Snow anymore. If neither of those options appeals to you, there is always the honor of joining the Night’s Watch.”

Jon was stunned. Then he was angry. Through gritted teeth, he growled, “You’d honestly prefer I waste my life away at a glorified penal colony in this country than be happy and rich in a different one?”

The Lord of Winterfell at least had the decency to stutter out a hesitant reply, “Taking the black is an honorable life path, that's why your uncle choose took it. You spoke of it so often when you were younger, I thought it was what you wanted.”

Anger boiled in Jon's stomach and he was close to seeing red. “First off, I haven’t been a Snow for five years now. I am Jon Whitewolf, the Great Thane of Skyrim. Secondly, I was a child who wanted a place in the world; a way to validate my own existence! I heard the stories of the Night’s Watch -how they were an honorable band of brothers that valiantly protected the realms of men from the horrors that lurked beyond the Wall- and I believed them; you let me believe them!”

“Jon, you’re being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable? You want me to abandon all I’ve built for myself in Skyrim: loved ones, businesses, properties, my political standing, and reputation! I have responsibilities-”

“You have responsibilities here, to your family! Enough of this selfishness; I raised you better than that.”

There was blood pounding in his ears and he wanted to shout. He stopped himself though -he knew the tongue he’d end up shouting in wouldn’t be a human one- and took a deep breath. With fire tickling his throat and ice in his eyes, Jon hissed in a coldly polite tone, “Pardon me, Lord Stark, I have business I need to attend to.”

The Dragon of the North shoved his way past the man who raised him and all but stomped out of the tombs, Lord Stark calling after him as. He slammed the door of the crypts behind him and -after briefly considering placing a locking ward on the door and sealing the Warden of the North in- he cast a calming spell. Using magick on himself was probably not the healthiest way to deal with negative emotions, but Jon didn’t want risk shouting someone into Oblivion just because they bumped into him.

Not wanting to be forced into another painfully infuriating conversation with Lord Stark anytime soon, he wound his way through the various corridors of Winterfell. It was busier now, servants rushing to prepare for tonight. Eventually, Jon found himself in the main kitchen -Winterfell had two, the main one and an overflow kitchen used for big events- and looking for a particular face. Before long he found it in the process of terrifying a young dishwasher.

“Listen here, Boy! Take these dishes back and wash them properly this time or I will use you to make my soup stock!”

Jon couldn't help but laugh, “It’s good to see that you haven’t changed, Matlyn.”

At the sound of his voice, the old cook spun around welding her soup ladle like a sword and dishwasher took this opportunity to flee, “You! I heard you were back, didn’t even think to stop in and say hello, did you?”

“I’m here now.”

There was a snort, “As if that counts.” Her murky gray-green eyes scanned him and wrinkled lips pursed; Jon wasn’t sure how old Madlyn was, younger than Old Nan -how old Old Nan was, he didn’t know; he wasn’t sure anyone knew, anyone who probably ever knew was likely dead- but when he was little he often thought she resembled a face on a weirwood tree. He actually mentioned this to Ser Rodrik once and ever since the man couldn’t look at the woman without having to choke back laughter.

“You’re still too skinny; not eating right in that place you ended up, I see. Sit there on that bench and don’t you dare get up until I tell you to. You’re not too big to be put over my knee, Boy. I have some things for you to taste.”

With a smile, Jon did as ordered.

Thwunk!

“Fuck, would you look at that? I’ve never seen a bow with this kind of power.” Theon crowed as he admired the glass arrow embedded halfway up the shaft into the dead center of a training dummy. “Hey, Wolf! You sure there isn’t anyone in Westeros who can make more of these arrows?”

“Pretty sure, Squid. You’re welcome to ask around, though.” Jon drawled as he ready an ebony arrow, pulling Ash Rain -his fire damage enchanted ebony bow- taut. He aimed carefully and let it fly. Thwunk! Jon smiled when the arrow landed exactly where he wanted it too -three inches to the left of Theon’s arrow; still a theoretical kill-shot but far enough away from the center to leave Theon with his pride.

“Not bad, but you're still no match for my skills.”

Jon rolled his eyes and gave the cocky Kraken a rude gesture without any true heat behind it; these past four days had actually been the best of their acquaintanceship -aside from the few times Theon had gotten drunk enough to reveal the squishy, soft sentimental part of himself. He had even listened when Jon stated he didn’t go by Snow anymore; he did, however, say that 'Whitewolf' was too much of a mouthful and that ‘Wolf’ was a good enough name. Jon retaliated by calling Theon, ‘Squid’; which got him punched to the shoulder but nothing else.

He readied another arrow and released; it was true that archery had never been his strongest suit -that was swordplay- but he had grown his skill exponentially during his time in Skyrim. The many hours he had spent sneaking through old Nordic tombs, Falmer infested Dwarven ruins, and bandit hideouts with his bow drawn, sniping enemies from the shadows, had ensured that. He wasn’t exactly the best -he’d never managed to best Sorine Jurard or Agni in a contest of skill- but he had managed to out-shoot Aela and Niruin more than once.

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty,” Robb said sarcastically as he took his own, much less impressive, shot. “Grrr...how’d both get so good?”

“Practice,” Jon and Theon answered simultaneously, amused by Robb’s frustrated groan.

“Alright, you two have had your fun playing with sharp sticks and string. Jon, you promised me something!”

The Heir of Winter stuck out his hand with a demanding look on his face. The Dragonborn couldn’t help but laugh even as he retrieved the desired package from his knapsack, “By the Gods, you’re as bad as Rickon.”

“Give me!”

“Spoiled brat.”

Robb’s eyes when wide with glee as he unwrapped the deer fur pelt from his nameday gift, a sheathed Stalhrim sword. The sheath was black leather embroidered a white frost pattern while the blade itself was a carefully honed longsword; the hilt was pale in color with twin sapphires embedded into both sides and bear's teeth crossing over the guard towards the fuller. Robb gasped, wonder twinkling in his eyes, as he ran a finger over the flat of the blade. His brow furrowed, “It feels cold, what is the sword made of?”

“A material called stalhrim. Long ago, it’s natural coldness led it to be called enchanted ice, however, it's actually closer to rock -still stronger than steel though. In ancient times, Nords -that is what the people of Skyrim are called- used it to encased their dead as a form of protection and their kings would have armor made with it. But these days the only ones who can craft anything with it are an isolated tribe of people called the Skaal who live on the island Solstheim. They’re fairly insular but I once saved the life of the village blacksmith, Baldor Iron-Shaper, and he was willing to forge the blade for me. I thought that -all things considered- it would be fitting for the Stark heir.”

Robb gave the blade a few practice swings, testing the balance, before attaching it to his belt with a satisfied grin. He turned to Jon, his face warm and arms open, “Come here -you big softie.”

With that, Jon was pulled in to another tight hug; Robb was taller than him -taller than Lord Stark too- so Jon had to stretch his neck in order to rest his chin on the other young man’s shoulder. Robb clung to him tightly -for all that Robb called him a softie, it was the older of the two who had always been the neediest growing up; when they were babies he would wail if separated from Jon for too long- and while Jon enjoyed the closeness, some of the warmth he was feeling fled when he noticed Lady Stark glaring at him from across the yard. Feeling a bit cheeky, he gave her the brightest, most obnoxious smile he could muster and then turned his head to whisper in Robb’s ear, “Your mother is here.”

Jon pulled out of the embrace and went to gather up his weaponry, tucking them neatly into his knapsack. Though his back was turned, he could hear Catelyn sharp voice order, “Robb, stop fooling around! Tommy is waiting for you in the sables; it is time to get cleaned up for the feast. The king and his family will be there, we all need to look our best. That means you too, Greyjoy. Get going, the both of you.”

He heard them both make noises of agreement and call their goodbyes to him, which Jon answered with an over-the-shoulder wave. Not too long after they left, he felt a presence behind him; the Lady of Winterfell had something to say but she wanted Jon to acknowledge her before doing so. So, naturally, the Dragonborn took his sweet time arranging his belongings -after all, he certainly didn’t want any of the arrows poking a hole in the bag- and about a minute later he heard the sound of someone obviously clearing their throat. Jon bit back a smile and, rather than turn his head, began whistling to the tone of “Brundi and the Sea”.

Another moment passed until he heard an annoyed huff and a sharp, “Snow!” which was Jon’s cue to stand, sling on his knapsack, and start strolling out of the courtyard, whistling all the way. There was an indignant gasp followed by a frustrated growl and the rustling of skirts as Lady Catelyn came after him; finally barking out a harsh, “Whitewolf, I must speak to you.”

Victory achieved, only then did Jon turn to face her; a carefully painted look of surprise on his face. “Oh, Lady Stark, my apologies. I’m afraid got lost in thought about this evening.”

The scowl on her face etched itself deeper, clearly not believing him, “Yes, well about that, I’m sure you know that the royal court is coming-”

“Tonight, if all goes well. That must be very exciting for you all; sadly, Enzo and I have already decided to have our supper at the Golden Heart this evening.”

“Y-you did?”

“Aye, Enzo is curious about the different types of wares the North has to offer so I promised to show him around Winter Town.”

“O-oh, well, that-”

“-Means we don’t have anything else to discuss. Good day, Lady Stark.”

With that Jon spun on his heel and left the courtyard. He didn’t look back to see what kind of expression Lady Stark had on her face; he wanted too, desperately, but instead just settled for what his own imagination come up with. He didn’t consider himself a particularly malicious or bitter person, but gods it was it glorious.

If there was once thing Jon missed about Winterfell, it was the bathing pools. The castle was built upon many hot springs; that was how the Starks had thrived there, but many of them were subterranean and used to pump the hot water through the bronze pipes of Winterfell’s walls. However, Bran the Builder had also created a hall of rooms that were built around surface hot springs to be used for bathing and laundry. Some of his favorite memories took place in these rooms when he was very small, splashing around in these pools with Robb until Lord Stark caught them both; chuckling as he scrubbed them down while the boys struggled and complained.

Jon tilted his head back, eyes closed as he breathed in the damp, earthy air. He felt, for the first time since he had gotten Arya’s letter, truly relaxed.

“What in the seven hells are those things?”

‘So much for that,’ Jon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before reluctantly opening them to see Robb and Theon, both freshly shaven and with newly trimmed hair, shucking off their clothes.

“What are you talking about, Squid?”

“All those markings,” Theon gestured over Jon’s nude frame as he and Robb slid into the pool. “I never took you for the type to cover yourself in tattoos.”

Jon winced, “Oh, those are...mementos from different adventures; it's a long story, you’d probably find it boring.”

In truth, the black marks that covered his body were closer to brands. The Daedric Princes were greedy by nature; they liked to mark their claimed humans. Jon hadn’t set out to become the ‘champion’ of over half-a-dozen daedric princes; but somehow, he had. Most of them he had stumbled his way into and when that happened, some he had helped eagerly, some accidentally, and some reluctantly. But, no matter how it had happened, he always walked away with a burning black icon somewhere on his body.

Azura had burnt a crescent moon and star on his right shoulder; on the other Hermaeus Mora had forced his own image of an eye surrounded by tentacles. Clavicus Vile -or perhaps Barbas- left a dog’s paw no bigger than a septim on the outer part of his left ankle so it was perhaps fitting that on the outer part of his other ankle was Hircine’s marking, a stag’s head. Malacath might be Jon’s favorite of the lot -he felt at home under the watchful eye of the patron of the spurned and ostracized- and his mark was three simple bands that wrapped around his left bicep. Under that, on his inner forearm, was the circle enclosed by a larger ring that Meridia placed on him. Jon hadn’t wanted to become the champion of Mehrunes Dagon -he had intended to spare Silus Vesuius, but the man had attacked before Jon could calm him; they had struggled and, in the end, Vesuius had fallen from the mountain- so he was bitter whenever he saw the spiral that enclosed his right elbow.

Sanguine, never one for subtly, pinned a rose on him; the thorn-less stem wrapping around his right wrist and the flower growing on the back of his hand, petals blooming in the space between his thumb and pointer finger. The Prince of Debauchery had originally tried to leave his mark somewhere else, but Jon made him change it. Ever the jokester, Sheogorath stuck a butterfly on the small of his back; it tended to insight endless giggles from people whenever they saw it for the first time. Even Lady Luck herself, Nocturnal, who desired no worshipers, claimed him with the Nightingale symbol between his shoulder blades.

The Daedric Princes he had refused to do the bidding of -Boethiah, Mephala, Molag Bal, Namira, Peryite, and Vaermina- had left marks on him too. Mostly in the form of vicious scars, but that was a different story entirely.

“You both look like green boys,” Jon said, amused as he took in their smooth faces.

“Get bent,” Robb grumbled, sinking down into the water.

“At least we don’t do up our hair like a woman. Besides, wenches prefer a man who is clean shaven, less chafing that way. Not that a maiden like you would know anything about that, Wolf.” Theon sneered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Jon rolled his eyes and tugged at one of his damp curls. The story of how he had developed his hairstyle was actually quite humorous; he had dozed off at the Ragged Flagon one day and woke to Vex and Sapphire twisting sections of his into thin, tight braids. He had attempted to wiggle away only for the two women to hold him down, threatening to rip his hair out if Jon tried to move again. So he was forced to remain seated on the stool as they finished and listen Delvin Mallory laughing at him with Vekel the Man while Brynjolf shot him sympathy -if extremely amused- looks. He hadn't offered t help though, so his sympathy meant nothing. 

Eventually, the ladies finished up and set him loose with the threat that if he ruined their hard work, they’d come for him; Jon kept the braids in all day, as ordered, but took them out when he went to bed. The next day, as soon as the pair saw him, they pounced like sabre cats and re-braided his hair. This pattern continued for a month or so until Jon just started braiding his own hair to have them the trouble, after which Vex and Sapphire brought him the colored yarn and glass beads to add; he did so and, to his surprise, found he quite liked the way it looked and it had been his style ever since.

“I’m far from a maiden, Theon, and unlike you, I’ve never needed to pay women for their company.”

“So you finally manned up enough to let some wench pluck your flower. Now tell me, who was it? Some sweet farm girl you saved from bandits or a lusty tavern worker who loosened your knots with enough drink to get you in bed?”

Jon recoiled in distaste, “Shut your mouth, Greyjoy! I wasn’t anything like that, and I won’t disgrace her by bragging about our relationship like it was some hunting trip.”

“Come on, Jon,” Robb encouraged as he scrubbed himself down with unscented soap, staring enviously at Jon’s own bar of mint and clove. “I don’t need the gritty details, but I want to know about the woman who was able to charm my brother into forgetting his fears.”

Jon was silent for a moment, mulling over what to say. Eventually, he just shrugged and hoped his retelling of this tale would never get back get to Skyrim, else he would lose more than just his life. “Fine, but I won’t tell you her name and if either of you ever repeats this, you'll find yourselves unable to enjoy the company of women ever again! I met her soon after my arrival in Skyrim; I was poor and needed a fast way to make coin, the... business she was with provided that. When we first met, she was cold to me -well, she was cold to just about everyone- but, as time passed, we became friendlier and she started to open up. One night, about a year-in-a-half, after we first met, I woke up to her climbing on top of me in bed. I was confused, asked her what she was doing; she said she wanted to sleep with me. I...well, my reaction was less than dignified.

I replied that I didn’t want to dishonor her or risk getting her with a child. She smacked me upside the head, probably somewhere between amused and angry, but told me I was the only one she trusted in such matters. So, we slept together. It was awkward, at first. I was a boy of five-and-ten and had never been with anyone, so I didn’t know what to do. She was older by a bit and not a maiden, but her only... experiences had been unpleasant. We learned together. We laid together a few more times after that night but eventually stopped.”

“Why, did she grow bored of you?” Theon japed.

Jon splashed some water in his direction, “No, nothing like that. We enjoyed each other’s company as close friends -still are to this day- and as lovers, but after a while, it started to feel... wrong to keep those two things separate. So I asked her to marry me; she laughed in my face, said she wasn’t the marrying type. We kept to our separate beds after that, but are both better off after our time together.”

“So this mystery woman, is she tell the only one you’ve ever been with?” Robb inquired curiously.

“No, but she was the most important one.”

“Does that mean there is someone now?”

Black hair, bow lips, form-fitting leather armor, and a pair of burning crimson eyes popped up into Jon's mind and he felt his body flush with a heat that had nothing to do the water of the hot spring.

“Ah ha!” Theon pointed at Jon with a triumphant smirk, “Look at him blush! Tell us who has captured your heart, Wolf! Is it another older woman?”

‘Oh, if only you knew.’ The Dragonborn glared ar Greyjoy heir, “You should watch that mouth of yours, lest you lose your tongue one day. Besides, it’s not like either of you have a woman, from what I hear you’re not even betrothed!”

“Ugh,” Robb groaned, rubbing his face. “Don’t you dare say one thing about marriage! I hear enough about it from my mother. She wasn’t happy about us horsing around in the courtyard, thinks I should be entertaining the visiting lords and their heirs.”

“Should you not be?” Jon cocked his eyebrow at the auburn-haired young man.

“I have spent nearly three weeks shmusing and socializing our visitors; now it is my nameday and I want to spend some time with just my brothers. Especially since the feast tonight will be more about impressing the King and his family than anything else; Mother is hoping for a match between Sansa and the crown prince. She wants Southern matches for all of us, likes Margaery Tyrell for me.”

“There is...sense to that.” Jon offered; he had no warm feelings towards Lady Stark, but he also had no desire to speak ill of him in front of her eldest child.

Robb shrugged, “Perhaps, it’ll never happen though. I wouldn’t mind, Lady Margaery is a famed beauty, but Father has hinted that he intends Alys Karstark for me.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“That the feast tonight will be long and irritating. Hopefully, Mother will be too busy shoving Sansa at the prince to watch me.”

Jon snorted in amusement, “Aye, feasts tend to be more trouble than they’re worth. I’m glad I won’t be going.”

Robb’s eyes went soft and sad, “Are you sure you don’t want to come? I could-”

“It’s because of you, Lord Stark, and Wyman Manderly that I have been allowed to sit at the high table for the past three days. I’m grateful but it wouldn’t be proper for me to sit there tonight and I have no desire to sit below the salt.”

“Then where will you go?”

“Stop with those pleading puppy eyes, Robb; they mean nothing to me. Enzo-”

“That man scares me, I feel like he could pick me up and bend me in half,” Theon mumbled under his breath.

“-and I are going shopping in Winter Town later; we’re having supper at the Golden Hearth, I hear they have the most delicious honeyed ham.”

“Fine, you go off and enjoy yourself while Theon and I to suffer through the feast.”

Robb’s voice was seemingly light and joking, but the set of his jaw told Jon that he wasn’t happy. It was time to change the subject, “What about you, Theon; why aren’t you wedded or engaged yet?”

The eldest of the three snorted, “I couldn’t possibly wed; think of how many women would weep if I did.”

“Oh yes, how could they possibly go on?” Jon drawled sardonically.

Ned II

“Lord of Winterfell, I will speak with you.”

Ned jumped in his seat when the dark-skinned giant addressed him, ‘It is not natural for a man that large to move so silently.’ Vlast strolled confidently into Ned’s solar, not bothering to close the door behind him, and stopped in front of the desk, towering above the seated lord. In the short time that he had known the man, Ned hadn’t developed a positive opinion of the mysterious warrior; he behaved irreverently towards those he should have addressed with respect but always spoke with such a calm, clear voice that he never appeared impolite. Vlast was also never anything but perfectly pleasant with servants and, in return, they were more than happy to help him.

Above all though, Ned couldn’t help but feel like the man was always testing him. ‘He’s doing it right now too,’ the Lord of Winterfell realized. ‘But I will not give him the satisfaction of besting me.’  So he smiled as pleasantly as possible, “Of course, what do you need?”

“When I spoke to my companion this morning he seemed quite distressed. He would not tell me why but I did gather that he had spoken with you before we met up. I will know what you said, if you please.”

Ned flinched; he knew that talk he had in the crypts with his son had gone… poorly, to say the least. But his boy couldn’t have been that upset, could he? Jon had always been a sensitive child, wilting at even the smallest slight, even if he learned to hide it as he aged. But he was also a practical boy so surely after he had time to calm down, Jon would see that Ned only wanted what was best for him.

In the meantime, however, Ned felt no obligation to explain himself to this outsider. “It wasn’t my intention to upset Jon, but the words spoken between us are none of your business; it was a family matter.”

Vlast was not swayed, “That is exactly why it is my business, Lord of Winterfell. I told you that I am charged with protecting Jon for the duration of this trip, but what I did not say is that I am to protect him from threats both physical and emotional. So once more, I will know what you said, if you please.”

Ned didn’t like what the man was insinuating. “I assure you, a would never harm my son. I only want what is best for him.”

“Hmm, I do believe that you love Jon. But you need to consider, Lord of Winterfell, that what you believe is best for him might actually be what is best for you.”

The Warden of the North shot up in his seat, “Get out!”

Vlast scoffed, “I see.”

Ned glared at the intruder as he left, collapsing back in his chair when he had gone and buried his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted.

“An interesting man, isn’t he?”

Ned looked up to see the massive girth of Wyman Manderly filling the solar doorway, a knowing look on his face. After gesturing the man in he replied, “Interesting is probably not the word I’d use. What do you know about him?”

Wyman leaned back in his armchair -Ned winced when it creaked mournfully- his brow furrowing deeply. “Not much, I’m afraid. I know he’s a skilled fighter -you should have seen him sparing with Wylis- and that he is very protective of Jon, Vkast trusts us with him about as far as he can throw us.”

The Lord of White Harbor paused and cocked his head to the side, giving his stomach a pat, “Perhaps that is not the best turn of phrase to use in this situation.”

“Nothing else?”

“Does the man strike you as a type to share his life story over a pint of mead?”

Ned let out a huff of amusement, “No, I suppose not. Still, knowing as little about him as I do, I’m not sure that I feel comfortable leaving Jon in his care.”

“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that; he’s clearly devoted to the boy, barely let Jon out of his sight while we were traveling. They seem to have quite the bond.”

The word ‘bond’ left a bitter taste in Ned’s throat, “And Jon, what do you think of the man he has become?”

“He’s grown quite a bit, hasn’t he? It’s impressive really, Jon left on his own with nothing five years ago only to return with a name of his own choosing and a king’s fortunate of his own making. He still the same in many ways though, very humble and kind; he actually tried to repay me for the supplies used by Vlast and himself on the journey here. I refused, of course; if anything I should have been the one repaying him for bringing me that trade deal with the East Empire Trading Company. I even tried, but the boy wouldn’t take it so instead I insisted that he and Vlast accept a pair of horses from my stables -even that was a fight.”

“So you approve of him?”

“Why of course, he’s grown into a fine young man.”

“Then there is something I must ask you; years ago when you first offered to foster Jon, I refused due to personal reasons -perhaps that was a mistake- but now I must ask if you are still open to the idea. Obviously, he is too old for fostering, but would you be willing to host him if he were to train for knighthood in White Harbor?”

Lord Wyman looked surprised, “I would be honored, my Lord. As I said, Jon is a fine lad and he gets along well with all of my family, especially my dear Wylla. But…”

“But what?”

“But why would he want to do such a thing? From what I gather, his return to Westeros is just a short visit; hardly enough time become a knight.”

“I’m working on that; before long he’ll see that his place is in the North, not some far off land,” Ned assured with deep conviction, only to met with a doubtful look on Lord Manderly’s face. “You don’t think that is the case?” Ned snapped.

“I think that the hardest part of being a parent is letting your children grow and make their own decisions. I’d be thrilled to host your son, but I doubt he’d be thrilled to be hosted.”

Now the Lord of Winterfell was quite fond of Lord Manderly -the older man had proven himself time and time again to be a steadfast ally and loyal friend, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to rip the man’s throat out for being the second person today to lecture Ned on how to best raise his children. But as he opened his mouth to do so, the solar door was thrown open with a bang.

Both men were startled the noise and the sudden appearance of a distraught, panting servant, “M-my lord, forgive the intrusion, b-but we received a raven. T-the riders you sent to wait for the King, they j-just sent word. They’ve spotted the r-royal party. The king will be here in the hour!”
*
*
*
‘Fuck!’

‘Robert always was one to do things at his own speed,’ Ned mused as he studied the courtyard. The news of royal party’s sooner-than-anticipated arrive had thrown the entire castle into a frenzy; servants had rushed to prepare rooms, cooks broke their backs working on meals, and the most important members of the Stark household had to ready themselves in a hurry. Sansa had actually cried with about how little time she had to work on her hair -which looked fine to Ned- and Arya, ever so different from her sister, had arrived wearing a cape and helmet of all thing. Catelyn wasn’t thrilled about the lack of time either, barely able to pin her hair up in a southern style between making sure the boys were presentable and Arya didn't wander off. Robb and Theon were clearly unimpressed with the occasion -the looks on their freshly shaven faces showed it- but Robb had donned the new fur cloak and sword Jon had given him. Ned took the absence of his dark-haired son with equal parts relief and regret; on one hand, he wanted to speak with Jon about their argument this morning, but on the other, he wanted to keep the boy as far from Robert as possible.

The great thundering of hooves signaled the grand entry of the king’s many horses and men. Near the front was the crown prince of the realm, Joffrey Baratheon; he was a comely young man, tall and lean, with Lannister blond hair and green eyes clad in ornate finery that was completely impractical for travel. Still, Sansa swooned when he rode closer. Behind the Heir of Westeros rode his personal bodyguard, Sandor Clegane, or as he was better known -The Hound. The man, while not as massive as his older brother, was still nearly eight feet tall and an intimidating sight, fully clad in armor or not. Clegane rode a large, complete black warhorse and from atop it pulled his helm -designed to mimic his moniker, because when had Southerns ever known subtly?- up to reveal his scraggly long hair and the disfiguring burn scars on the left side of his face.

After the first set of riders, an enormous and incredibly lavish wheelhouse lumbered into the courtyard, certainly containing the queen and her younger two children. 'Something that large must have had trouble navigating the narrow and snowy northern roads,' Ned noted. Next came the king himself clad in the finest armor money could buy. Ned could feel his eyes widen as he took in the form of his oldest friend, now fat and red-faced; it was true that man had...grown around his middle by the time the Greyjoy Rebellion had occurred  -gods’ knew Ned had a bit more padding now than he did when he was younger- but this was…

Still, Ned knelt with everyone else when the king drew closer on his massive -and massively overworked- horse. The Lord of Winterfell didn’t know if horses could feel relief, but if they could then this horse surely did when Robert climbed off his back and signaled for all to rise.

“Your Grace,” Ned greeted, his head still bowed.

“You’ve got fat.”

‘Seriously, what about you?’ Ned thought as gave Robert’s midsection a pointed look. They locked eyes, and any tensions broke as the pair immediately started laughing. After a moment Robert's eyes slide to Catelyn and he smiled, pulling her in for a hug and peck on the cheek.

“Cat! Still as lovely as ever, I see.”

“Your Grace, what a… wonderful compliment.” Despite her words, Ned could see the affection had made her uncomfortable.

Robert chuckled, “It’s been so many years since that damned Kraken first stirred up, why haven’t I seen you since then? What the hell have you been doing?”

‘Avoiding the South as much as humanly possible.’  Ned thought. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

The door to the wheelhouse opened and Cersei Lannister descended the steps with two young children trailing behind her. The queen wasn't called the most beautiful woman in the world for nothing; with flowing golden hair, emerald eyes, fair skin, and a slender, graceful build, she was a striking figure dripping with jewels and clad in a crimson velvet gown with a plush white fur pelt draped over her shoulders. However, even her beauty couldn’t distract from the coldness in her eyes and the slight sneer on her lips as she surveyed the courtyard. The two children with her were far more agreeable; even if they were both shyly hiding behind their mother’s skirts.

Arya took in the royal party, “Where’s the imp?”

“Will you shut up?” hissed Sansa, only for Robb to chuckle.

The king turned toNed’s brood, looking them over and addressing Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon in turn. “Now who do we have here? You must be Robb, you look like a strong land but not much like your old man. My, you’re a pretty one; a complete vision, just like your mother. Now you must be Arya, do you know you look like your aunt? Ooh. Show us your muscles, Bran. You’ll be a soldier for sure, maybe even a kingsguard. And this is your youngest? He looks like a handful-a-half. A fine brood, Ned, damn fine. You should be proud.”

“I am, Your Grace, every day; thankful too.”

“Aye. Now take me to your crypts. I want to pay my respects.”

The queen approached, the Kingslayer clad in full Kingsguard armor following close behind. The knight -Ned could only use that term loosely- removed his helm, revealing a face that mirrored his twin’s so closely it was almost unnerving. Ned offered Queen Cersei the proper greetings, echoed by his wife; she, in return, gave them a sharp nod before turning to her husband. “We’ve been riding for a month, my love. The children need to wash and rest; surely the dead can wait.”

“The children are old enough to make their own decisions, you’ve got to stop colliding them. Ned, please, I need to see her.”

The queen’s face burned with humiliation and the Kingslayer’s face twisted in anger; perhaps both emotions were justified but when Ned saw the pleading look in Robert’s eyes, he couldn’t help but give in.

The crypts were a place for Starks; a place where Ned’s brother, father, and sister all rested and where Ned would join his ancestors one day. But that didn’t change the fact that the stone faces and dark tunnels offered him no comfort. Perhaps it was the fight he had with Jon earlier that day in this very spot, or perhaps it was who he had with him.

“Did you have to bury her in a place like this? She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her. Lyanna loved the wind blowing through her hair when she went on rides. There is no wind here, she can’t be happy.” The was a slight quiver in Robert’s voice as he stared longingly at the carved face of what he believed to be his lost love. The stonemason hadn’t managed to do her justice; he captured her features well enough, but the statue could never convey her inner strength or the willfulness in her eyes. The king placed a single white feather in the statue’s hand, stepping on some blue flower petals that Ned hadn’t noticed before.

“She was my sister and she was a Stark. This is where she belongs, with family.”

“She belonged with me,” Robert growled, but when he reached up to cup the statue’s face, his touch was gentle. “Until that monster stole her away. I kill him every night in my dreams, you know? Then I wake happy; at least until I realize she is still gone.”

‘Oh my dear friend, Lyanna could have never belonged to anyone but herself. You could have tried to chain her, but it would have never been what you wish for.’ Ned didn’t say that, of course. He could never hurt his friend in that way, so instead, he turned away, “It’s done, Your Grace. The Targaryens are gone.”

“Not all of them,” came the bitter reply. Ned shivered, ‘No, not all of them. There is one close by and I pray you never set eyes on him.’

“Tell me about Jon Arryn; you mention in your letter that wanted to speak about him.”

Robert sighed, settling his weight against a boulder and dragging a hand down his face. “He's… not doing well. It varies day by day; some days he’s as robust as ever and others he can barely make it up a set of stairs. There are days he can recall the names of every member of the court and ones he forgets something that was just told to him.”

“Could it be an illness?”

“An Illness of the heart or illness of the mind or maybe just damned old age. I know what's coming, but I’m not ready to say goodbye yet; I love that man.”

“We both do.” Ned agreed, ‘I named my most precious secret after him.’

Robert gave a sharp, dry laugh, “He never had to teach you much, but me...oh I was a nightmare. You remember me at six-and-ten? All I wanted to do was gorge myself, crack skulls, and fuck girls. He showed me what it meant to be a true man.”

“Aye,” replied Ned, ‘Well, no man is the perfect teacher.’

His friend seemed to catch Ned’s disbelief, “Don’t look at me like that. Not his fault I didn’t listen.”

The pair shared a bit of laughter -short but hearty- before Robert sighed again, “I’m throwing a tourney for him as soon as I get back to King's Landing, just something to celebrate his life and years of service. I want you to come.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. But I do not have the time, winter is coming and I need to prepare the North.”

“Stop with all that ‘Your Grace’ shit, we’re above that! You need to come, Ned; Jon won't last much longer, he’ll want to see you before he goes. If you really want, we can even talk about preparing this damned realm for the bloody winter. But you need to come, don’t make me order you.”

Ned was silent for a moment, pondering his choices; he was not fond of the South but he did love Jon Arryn like a father and a chance to beat the importance of winter preparations into the soft heads of southern didn’t happen often. “Very well, I will join you when you head south -just for the tourney though. I cannot stay long, there is still much to do here in the North.”

“Nothing but duty and honor, are you, Ned? It doesn’t matter, it will be good to have you by my side -even if it is only for a short time. We were meant to stand together; I’ve always said that, ever since we were boys. If your sister had lived, we would have been bound by blood. It’s not too late though. Your eldest girl, she’s certainly flowered by now. I have a son, you have a daughter. We’ll join our Houses and make a kingdom that lasts three times longer than the Targaryens ever did.”

The proposal wasn’t unexpected, but Ned still wasn’t prepared for it. “My king… Robert, the offer is generous-”

“No, it’s not; it's selfish. If your girl weds my son than you’ll probably visit more often; it’s mostly for my benefit. Besides, while my heir is useless he is still my heir and therefore the best match in the kingdom. So say yes and we can go get drunk.”

‘It would definitely please Catelyn and Robert’s right about Joffrey being the best match in the realm but I know nothing about the boy.’ So instead of an absolute agreement or refusal, Ned offered a compromise, “I’m not refusing the match. But I won’t accept without speaking to my wife first or seeing how they get along. So, I will bring Sansa along when we travel south -it might do her well to experience life at court- and if I think she and the prince would be happy together then I will agree. However, I must insist that such a plan not to be made public yet, I don’t want there to be any pressure on them.”

“That sounds damned complicated, but alright -its a deal.” Robert slapped Ned on the back and grinned broadly, “Let’s go get fat and pissed.”

It was probably too early for a proper dinner feast, but the royal party had arrived sooner than expected so that meant it was time to eat. The feast was a dubious pleasure; oh the food was delicious -although a bit too expensive for Ned’s taste- and the music was lively. But the Lord of Winterfell really, really, didn’t enjoy watching Robert grope at the busty serving girl on his lap.

Next to him, his wife was attempting to engage Queen Cersei in conversation; however, the queen only gave short, clipped statements as she glared daggers at her husband and drank deeply from her wine. Further down the table, Arya looked bored out of her skull -she’d start causing mischief soon, it was best that kept an eye on her- while Princess Myrcella, who was only a bit younger than she was, inquired about the kinds of tea parties they had in North while shooting brief, longing glances at Robb. Bran was getting along better with Prince Tommen -who passed one-and-ten namedays recently if Ned remembered correctly- as they chatted about their favorite kinds of animals. Rickon, for his part, was taking advantage of his lack of supervision to stuff his face with as many cakes as possible.

Robert laughed bawdily, squeezed the behind of the serving girl, and called to Robb, “You, Boy! I’m afraid that I’m a poor guest to your nameday feast; I haven’t brought you a gift.”

Robb tore his attention away from where he was glaring at Joffrey, who was flirting with Sansa. “It’s quite already, my King. Your presence here is gift enough.”

The king -either too drunk or too oblivious to catch the sarcasm in Robb’s voice- pushed, “Come now, there must be something that you want. How about a nice new blade?”

It was a kind enough offer, even if Robb had already received nearly a dozen new weapons as gifts already, but his heir refused. “That is most generous, Your Grace. But I already have a new sword that I am extremely happy with.”

Catelyn looked ready to scold their son but Robert’s laughter stopped her, “That pretty thing with the sapphires in the hilt, right? It certainly looks nice, did your father give that to you.”

“No, my brother did; along with this cloak.”

“Oh really,” Robert said, amusement coloring his voice. He peered down the table to Bran and Rickon, “Which one of you commissioned it?”

Bran shook his head, “Not us, it was Jon. He brought us all really neat gifts; I got a war axe.”

The king snapped his head towards Ned, eyes wide in amazement. “Jon as in you bastard? He came back then! By the gods, Ned, I can’t believe you didn’t say anything! Where is he?”

“He’s not here at the moment, Your Grace.”

“Well, why in the blazes not? His king is visiting, he should be there!”

“We didn’t think it was proper, my King, given his… station.” Catelyn cut in; under different circumstances, Ned would have hurt upon hearing her particular terminology, but now he could only be grateful that she came up with an understandable reason for a member of the household to be missing during the king's visit.

“Fuck propriety! I held that boy in my arms when he was a babe and I’d like to see what he grew into; send someone to fetch him at once!”

Ned had to try and dissuade his friend, “He and his… companion are spending the evening in Winter Town, they could be at any number of establishments.”

“I think he’s actually still in the library with Mister Enzo; I heard a servant saying they asked for tea to be brought up about an hour ago.” Arya chimed in, excited by the possibility that her favorite brother would be joining them.

“An hour is quite a long time, Arya. They likely already left.” Catelyn said through clenched teeth.

“Well there’s no harm in checking, is there?”

“Excellent point, girly!” Robert pointed to a nearby servant, one wearing a Lannister sigil, “You! Go up to the library and see if the missing pup is there. If he is then I want you to bring him down immediately, that is an order from your king!”

Ned watched as the servant bowed and scampered off to perform his appointed duty, ‘Please Jon, don’t be in the library.’

Enzo Vlast I

“That is your king?”

Jon looked up from the book he was copying, A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, “The royal party is here already? They weren’t supposed to arrive for a few more hours at least.”

He got up joined Enzo by the library window that overlooked the courtyard, “He is… not what I was expecting.”

“Your king looks like a sload.”

“He’s not my king.” Jon protested as he took in the royal party bellow, identify certain king members to him. Enzo scanned them carefully, suitably unimpressed by what he saw; the king was a steel-cover pile of flesh atop a surely overburdened horse, the prince could likely pass as a princess if stuck in a dress, and the wheelhouse favored appearance over practicality -something that it seemed to have in common with the queen. To be fair, it did look like there might be a decent warrior or two among the group; the big one with the dog-shaped helmet or the blond one in the ridiculous armor -that one he recognized from his companion’s stories.

“Perhaps he is not your king, but he is the man who killed your father. How does that make you feel, knowing he is right there?”

The young Dragonborn pulled away from him, returning to his table to continue working, “I am trying very hard not to feel anything, thank you for asking.”

The Ebony Warrior took a chair across from Jon, “And how well is that working out?”

“We should probably wait to head into town until the party is all clear out; I’d rather not bump into any of them as we’re leaving.” Jon didn’t look up from the book, his fluid hand making swift work of the copy he was creating.

Enzo bit back a sigh; being in this place was affecting his friend greatly and even though Jon put on a brave face and a confident demeanor, Enzo could see the weight that was steadily growing on his shoulders. So far the boy had been able to ignore the glares of his uncle’s wife, but Enzo could see the slight tenseness in his shoulders and clenching of his jaw whenever Jon heard the word ‘bastard’ or the name ‘Snow’. Since the Redguard had already sworn that he would stab anyone, he instead took great delight in informing all who would listen of his companion’s new name and the station he held in Skyrim; his plan to endear himself to castle's servants and spread this information among them was working beautifully, if he did say so himself.

‘It is a good thing we will be leaving soon, less the Lord of Winterfell make headway on his plans to trap Jon here.’ Enzo thought. He wasn’t fond of the Lord of Winterfell; he had a begrudging amount respect for the man -perhaps even a bit gratitude; without him, Enzo likely would have never met his dearest friend- but he could never forgive him for all the anguish he put Jon through, either directly or indirectly. Perhaps Stark have saved his nephew from the Baratheons and the Lannisters, but physical care is only part of raising a child. ‘Is it ironic that the man’s desire to protect his loved ones has hurt them in the long run?’

If he was being honest, Enzo had found little to like about this land. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He had, despite a rather… rough introduction, grown to like Lord Walrus; the man had been generous host -the large palomino palfrey stallion he had been gifted was a lovely mount, Enzo had taken to calling him Steeltoe- and his family had all been welcoming, but he never let the man too close, calculating as he was. The castle of Winterfell was suitably impressive; the system of internal heating was truly extraordinary, something akin to Dwemer craftsmanship.

The children of the castle were also rather pleasant, for the most part. The heir, Robb, was a strong young man and would in all likelihood be a fine leader one day; it was also clear that he loved Jon dearly, even if he couldn’t completely understand him. Sansa was the Stark child he had seen the least -which was almost certainly intentional- but he could tell she was very… young, still believing in the fanciful tales fed to her by a doting mother and caretakers; she’d need to be broken of that soon if she ever wanted to survive outside these stone walls. Arya was a delight, spirited and eager to learn -it was easy to tell why she had always been Jon’s favorite; Enzo had joined the pair in Arya’s nightly lessons and could tell the girl possessed true potential. Bran wanted to be a knight but the Redguard doubted he’d ever get there; he simply lacked the proper temperament and was surely destined for a different path. Rickon, however, might one day grow into an extremely fierce warrior.

The other one, Theon, was an interesting case. Jon had explained to him exactly how the Greyjoy boy had come to live with Starks and the precarious nature of his position in the household. A tragic fact of life was that when a war was waged, it was the women and children who suffered the most. This went far in explaining much about the boy; he was wild and cocksure, always sneaking off for meetups with tavern wrenches or brothel workers. Most would call this the result of a lack of discipline but Enzo knew better. He had been a wild boy too -when he was a child, Enzo had once snuck out of his home with plans of hunting down and riding a desert lion; he had been caught less than a mile away and dragged back to his parents by the ear- and knew that you gentled a child the same way you gentled a wild horse -a strong hand followed by a warm touch. The Lord of Winterfell may have applied a firm hand to the boy but, without a warm touch to follow it, the lesson would never stick. When Enzo had arrived home after his little adventure, his father had -with amused pride in his eyes- put him over the knee but afterward his mother had fixed Enzo a snack and asked him about his plans to track the lion. However, the Lady of Winterfell had about as much love for Theon as she did for Jon.

“If we leave soon, then there will still be time to write to your vampiric lady love when we get back.” Enzo cackled when his friend blushed a pretty pink at his jest. When he was in Jon’s room early that morning -what a disturbing feeling that had been, like looking through a man’s own memories- he snuck a peek at Serana’s most recent letter and the most disgustingly adorable thing he had ever seen.

To my beloved friend,

I have no idea how you put up with all these squalling lords and ladies! If I have to listen to Lord Hammer-Heart gripe about his wife ONE MORE TIME, he may just become my dinner. Other than that, I suppose everything is going alright, even if I did wish you were here with me. I helped the guards clear out a skooma den today, there were many of arrests but most of the addicts have been taken in for treatment. Jarl Balgruuf sends his regards, he hopes you are doing well and the cloak he gave you is warm enough. Next time I see you, you’re going to have to be punished for not telling me about all your creatures. I can handle an abecean ratter cat and I can handle your whiterun wolfhound -Jarlson is such a good boy, he growls whenever Nazeem gets close!- but a sylvan nixad and a cobalt sep adder? Why do you even have those things? Lydia has been helping me wrangle them; she says hello, by the way.

I’m glad things are going well with your family, but you better not actually think of staying unless you want to find all thar beautiful black hair of yours  suddenly urned pink. I’m jesting, of course; but if you do stay then you best make room for me because I’ll be joining you. I think Arya and I could get along swimmingly, don’t you? Just keep me away from Lady Trout, especially when I’m hungry.

Jokes aside, I miss you. Please don’t be away too much longer.

With all my love -Serana.

‘Those two really just needed to kiss and admit their feelings already,’ Enzo mused. It wasn't as if Jon’s lovelorn sighs and bright flushes weren’t amusing, but there was only so much of it he could take!

“We will leave once you finish copying that chapter. Now write!”

Enzo looked down at his assigned work, History of the Kings-Beyond-the-Wall, and sighed. He picked up a quill, ‘You are lucky I love you, Boy.’

“Excuse me, Jon Snow? I have been ordered to escort you to King Robert, please come with me. “

Enzo looked up at the servant; he didn’t recognize this one but the golden lion embroidered on the man’s crimson vest marked him as someone from the Lannister household. “There is no Jon Snow here, only Jon Whitewolf.”

If the man was surprised by this, he didn’t show it and instead bowed his head, “My apologies. Jon Whitewolf, please follow me, the king has summoned you.”

Enzo breathed in sharply; if the King had somehow figured out the truth of his friend’s parentage than they’d likely have to fight their way to freedom. It wouldn’t be a hard fight, of course, but it would be one nonetheless. Jon closed his book, “Oh, do you know what he wants?”

The crimson-clad servant frowned, annoyed now, “That is between you and King Robert, but I believed that he simply wants to speak to you.”

Enzo allowed himself to relax slightly; the danger wasn’t gone but it had lessened. “Alright then, take us to meet the king.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but the summons was only for….” The man trailed off nervously as Enzo stood to his full height and pinned down the man with a dark look.

“Would it be possible to stop by my quarters first? What I’m wearing isn’t exactly appropriate for such an occasion.” Jon asked, gesturing down at his ink-stained dove gray tunic and black trousers. The servant agreed, possibly just to get away from Enzo -the warrior was amusing himself by staring down unblinkingly at Lannister man as he- and off they went.

Needless to say, Enzo’s initial poor assessment of King Robert Baratheon didn’t change once he saw the man up close; the king had wine stains on his doublet, gravy smeared around his mouth, and a pretty young girl who was most certainly not the queen on his lap. He pushed the girl off as the group of three neared, but not before giving her one final slap on behind.

“Your Grace, I have brought Jon Snow as ordered.”

Enzo frowned at the name, which caused Jon to wince ever so slightly, and opened his mouth to correct the servant, only to be interrupted by Baratheon.

“By the Seven, he looks just like you, Ned!”

‘No, he does not; not really,’ Enzo thought as he glanced from Jon to his supposed father, who was offering the king a meek agreement. The two were similar enough in coloration, though Jon’s hair and eyes were black and near-black while the Lord of Winterfell’s had plain brown hair and slate gray eyes. Jon’s features did have a long slant to them but were far more polished than those of his uncle. That was where any similarities ended between the pair though; his friend had a slender build and a comely face while the Lord of Winterfell had a taller, stockier build and a plain face. ‘Perhaps we all only see what we want to see.’

“I have been told that many a time, Your Grace,” Jon said with a bow that Enzo made a point not to repeat. “I hope you and the queen will accept these gifts as a token of my esteem for one of the realms most celebrated warriors and Lord Stark’s oldest friend.

With another bow, the legendary Dragonborn offered a fur-wrapped package to the king and a red velvet drawstring pouch to the queen, who poured out a handful of gemstones. “These are a bit small, but I’m sure I can find some use for them,” she said dismissively even as she held a flawless emerald up to admire.

Baratheon rolled his eyes at the queen’s words but accepted his gift with a broad grin, pulling away the covering to reveal an ornate mammoth’s tusk; identically to the one Jon had gifted to his uncle. “It’s an ornamental mammoth’s tusk, Your Grace. I already gifted it’s twin to Lord Stark, so it is only fitting that this one goes to you.

“Astonishing, you got this from where you’ve been living?”

“Aye, Your Grace. I have called Skyrim my home for five years now; I’ve seen many wondrous sights and met amazing people, including my companion here.”

‘Sly boy, deflecting attention on to me,’ Enzo thought wryly as the king turned his attention to the Redguard.

“You're a big one. What’s your story then, I certainly didn’t summon you.”

“You may call me Enzo Vlast and I serve the Thane Whitewolf as both his companion and protector; in short, where he goes, I go.”

Baratheon snorted and turned his sights back to Jon, “Thane Whitewolf, huh? I’m guessing that’s you. Well, it sounds like you’ve got quite the story; I’d like to hear it. Pull up some chairs for the boy and his giant, your king commands it!”

Next chapter: The feast and its aftermath: some hunting, some sparing, and old faces.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell;  TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 14: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

Jon VII

“So, Boy, tell me what about this ‘Great Thane’ business.” King Robert asked as he wiped gravy from his mouth with a stained cloth napkin. Jon looked up from his roast, wishing he was literally anywhere but here. To sit at the high table with the king was supposedly a great honor -one that a bastard should have been elated to receive- but facing down Auldin again with only his skivvies and a fork for protection would legitimately be preferable that the situation Jon found himself in now. Squeezed in between the king and Lord Stark with half the hall’s eyes on him, the young Dragonborn hadn’t been this uncomfortable since the time Haelga invited him to ‘practice the Dibellan Art’ with her; he refused, of course, and proceeded to avoid the woman whenever possible for the next year.

“It’s one of the noble titles within the hierarchy of Skyrim, Your Grace.”

The king belched, “And you managed to achieve it, win some land in a duel?”

“Not exactly, Your Grace. The nobility system in Skyrim isn’t the same as Westeros, though there are some similarities. Skyrim is divided into nine different holds: Winterhold, Eastmarch, the Rift, the Pale, Falkreath Hold, Haafingar, Hjaalmarch, the Reach, and Whiterun Hold; these are similar to the different regions of Westeros. Each of the Holds has a slight difference in terms of climate and local government but is each ruled by a Jarl who resides in the Hold's capital city.

The jarls are akin to the Great Lords, I suppose. They’re largely independent, but do swear fealty to Skyrim's High King or Queen, who in turn swears fealty to the Septim Emperor. Each of the nine holds is further divided into five different fiefdoms; four of these are governed by a lord or lady and their family while the fifth, the one holding the capital city, is ruled by the Jarl directly. The jarls all have a court that is made up of themselves, their steward, the castle’s head...scholar, the governing lords and ladies, and four thanes.

The title of Thane is given by the jarl of a hold to a person of great importance; usually, they earn this position by performing great deeds of service for the Jarl of the hold and its people. This can be anything; healers, soldiers, and merchants have all become thanes for one reason or another. The belief is that since one has to earn the title, they will work harder to honor it, and since they come from all walks of life, each will bring a different perspective to the court. I am called Great Thane because I hold the title in all of the different holds.

Thanes aren’t granted any land -however many thanes do come to own plenty of it- but the position does come with plenty of perks that lords and ladies don’t receive. For one, newly titled thanes receive housecarls, highly-trained bodyguards who are sworn to protect the Thane, their families, and property until death. Also, while the title isn’t inheritable, children of thanes often make marriages with other noble lines, sometimes even into the families of jarls. Finally, when it comes time to collect annual taxes, the lords and ladies get to keep 10% of what is collected from their lands but thanes receive 5% of what is collected in total.”

Jon didn’t know if the king was actually listening to him -the glazed look in his eyes could either be from boredom or the massive amounts of alcohol he was consuming- but considering he was coherent enough to ask another question, it may have just been the man’s natural state.

“The High King you mentioned, where does he rule from?”

“Well, that's where some of the differences between Skyrim and Westeros lay; the High King -or High Queen, as it is currently- is actually also one of the jarls. When the previous king or queen dies a moot is held with representatives from each of the different holds to decide on who will hold the title next; this tends to be the child of the previous ruler but not always, sometimes it is the deceased's spouse, sibling, or a different Jarl entirely. But once they are elected, they rule as both as king or queen and as jarl of their hold.”

“Pardon me, but did you say that the land is ruled by a queen? I assume she rules as regent for her son.” The queen, who had previously been alternating between ignoring him and shooting him twin icy glares with Lady Stark, addressed him directly now. Her emerald eyes were still cold, but there was a kind of intense fascination dancing in them.

“No, Your Majesty. High Queen Elisif rules in her own name; although she did come into the position because she was married to the previous High King and Jarl of Haafingar, Torygg.”

“Is it unusual for a woman to rule in her own name?”

Jon thought for a moment, twisting the gold and ruby ring on his left thumb around. The ring was enchanted to neutralize poisons and venoms; he didn’t want to think anyone at Winterfell would actually try and poison him, but Serana’s warning still hung ominously at the back of his mind. “No, Your Majesty, not truly. Four of the nine jarls are women and there are quite a few ruling ladies; daughters are also in the line of succession, same as sons.”

“How...progressive.”

Jon shrugged, “Not really, it’s more due to practically. Women have always had a fair amount of freedom in Skyrim but not too long ago there was a great war that ravaged the continent; men went off to fight and women were left to pick up whatever work needed to be done. Boys grew up watching their mothers, aunts, and sisters working in mines, smith weapons, and run lumber mills so when they grew up, such things were not unusual. Some paths are harder for women, of course, but no one is truly going to bat an eyelash at a woman in the Imperial Legion.”

“Really! Ladies carry weapons there?” Arya said excitedly, gray eyes wide.

Jon couldn’t but chuckle, “Aye, they do.” He caught the look on Lord and Lady Stark’s faces, “Women in Skyrim carry weapons because everyone carries weapons; it is a harsh land fraught with danger, everyone needs a weapon.”

“And yet you seem so fond of it.” Lord Stark commented, bitterness tinging his words.

Jon bit his sharp retort back and instead fiddled with the amulet of Akatosh around his neck, “I am. The land is hard and cold, as are the people. Nords are a gruff lot, closed off and slow to trust outsiders. But once you earn their respect, you’ll have a loyal friend for life. It reminds me a lot of the North, actually.”

“What’s that you’re messing with?” King Robert asked, a low growl in his voice as he spotted the dragon-themed pendant.

“Oh, it’s the religious symbol of Akatosh, one of the Nine Divines; They are the principal deities worshiped in Skyrim.”

“So you worship their gods now too?” Every question Lord Stark asked was beginning to feel like an interrogation and Jon was sick of it.

“No, but the amulet was given to me by the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater, soon after I arrived in Skyrim and I’ve held onto it ever since; its a bit of a good luck charm, I guess.” Truthfully, Jon didn’t know who or what he should worship. As the Dragonborn, he was supposedly favored by Akatosh and, despite not being a Nord, Tsun promised that he had a place in Sovngarde. Jon usually trusted enormous half-naked men wielding giant axes, but he never actually met any of the Divines. He had, however, interacted with plenty of the Daedric Princes, even spoken to one face-to-face. That being said, Jon wasn’t sure he really wanted to worship any of them; even the most benevolent ones tended to have a dark side. As for the Old Gods, what did he really know about them?

“A kind gesture,” the Lord of Winterfell grunted.

“It was,” Jon eagerly agreed. “He’s a good man, Jarl Balgruuf; he’s been like a father to me.”

Lord Stark flinched at his words and started to respond, only for King Robert to cut him off. “It’s a damn impressive thing you did, becoming your own man. I wish either of my sons had the same fortitude, they’re both useless.”

Prince Joffrey took a break from flirting with Sansa to shoot a glare at his father but the fat king didn’t seem notice; his attention still uncomfortably fixed on Jon. “But you? You found yourself in a strange land with nothing and managed to pull yourself up into a powerful position. I’m proud of you; you’ve grown so much. I held you when you were a babe, did you know that? Your father stopped by King’s Landing on his way back to the North after the war and he had you with him. You were a tiny thing, quiet too; at least, until I held you. Then you grabbed ahold of my beard, gave it a mighty tug, and started wailing.”

Jon stared at the man who killed his father and laughed over the dead bodies of his siblings; he felt like he should hate him on principle but the king’s odd affection and strange wistfulness confused him. “No, Your Grace; I have never heard that story before. I swear that I have no desire to repeat such an action though.”

The king let out a hearty laugh and slapped Jon on the back before turning to speak with Ser Barristan Selmy, giving Jon the chance to move his seat further down the table.

“What are you drinking?”

Jon looked up at Theon, slightly embarrassed as he tried to shove the flask back into his trouser pocket. “Cyrodilic Brandy,” he admitted bashfully. “It’s hard to get your hands on, so I was saving what I brought for a special occasion. Surviving this damned feast is as good of a reason as any to break it out.”

“Hand it over!” Theon all but ripped the flask from his hand, gulping down a mouthful and puckering his face at the burn. “That’s got some kick to it.”

“After what I paid, it better,” Jon grumble, snatching it back and wincing when some of it spilled on the sleeve of his new tunic. He had changed into one of his new Radiant Raiment outfits: a sky blue tunic under a charcoal gray jerkin embroidered with pale gray beasts and black trousers. In addition to his amulet and the ring on his left thumb, he was wearing Lord Harkon’s bone hawk ring set on his three middle right fingers. At first, it had felt unnerving to wear the dead vampire lord’s jewelry but Nords were big believers in the idea of war spoils and, as Serana pointed out, it wasn’t as if Jon didn’t keep the man’s sword in one of his many trophy cases. So he kept the rings and enchanted each to increase his reserves of magicka, health, and stamina.

“It looks like you weren’t able to avoid the feast, after all.” Robb chuckled, cheeks flushed with wine.

“I really should have listened to Enzo when he said we should leave.” Jon conceded, glancing over to where the giant Redguard sat at the end of the table entertaining the younger children with stories of Hammerfell.

“You didn’t want to come to the feast?” Arya asked. The youngest Stark girl had been forced into a dress for the evening; it was simple enough, a dark blue velvet in the Northern style with a square neckline, tight sleeves, and a hemline that ended just under the ankles allowing for greater ease of movement than the standard floor-length Southern gown. Her hair had been done up in a plaited bun and -Jon felt his heart swell with a rush of affection- she was wearing the necklace he gave her.

“Not in the slightest.” Jon took another drink of brandy before the sadness filling Arya’s eyes made him quickly add, “It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you all, it just that I find that feasts tend to be incredibly boring.”

“How can you say that?” Sansa gasped; unlike her simple, the auburn-haired girl had gone all out for the night, dressing in an elaborate blue and gold gown with her hair twisted up in a Southern hairdo that Jon had seen Lady Stark use whenever her brother visited. “The royal family is here!”

The Legendary Dragonborn couldn’t help but smile as she excitedly whispered that last part. “I’ve met plenty of royalty, Sansa: kings, queens, emperors, princes, and princess. Believe me, underneath all the glamor and titles, they’re just normal flawed people like the rest of us.”

“That can’t be true; maybe the royalty from where you’ve been is different.”

‘Oh, Sansa, for better or worst you’re still so innocent. I can only hope you don’t get anyone killed because of it,’ Jon bit back a sigh. The innocence of children was a beautiful thing and should be cherished, but there was only so far it could go before it became ignorance. Ignorance got people killed. He started to try and gently argue his point about royalty to Sansa only for the king to demand his attention again.

“Do you hunt, Boy?”

The king was an avid hunter, Jon remembered; he supposed he was too -if culling rabid wolf packs, tracking down bloodthirsty bears, or helping the jarls fill up their stores counted as hunting. “I have, Your Grace, many times; though I rarely do so for sport.”

“Excellent! You’ll be joining the hunting party tomorrow then, you and the big man.”

It wasn’t a question. “Are you sure that want, Your Grace?”

“Damn right it’s what I want! Now, let’s get on with the dancing. Bards!”

The lower tables were pushed back against the walls and the bards began a lively chorus of "The Bear and the Maiden Fair". Multiple couples made their way onto the floor: Bran went out with a reluctant Jeyne Poole. Robb gallantly offered his arm to Princess Myrcella, who blushed scarlet but took it eagerly. Lord and Lady Stark followed slowly, neither looking particularly enthused. The Queen gracefully made her way to the center of the room, led not by her husband but by her twin brother. Sansa all but dragged the prince -who smiled but Jon caught the annoyance in his eyes- into a dance, thus ending Jon’s attempt to talk some sense into her.

“She acts so stupid sometimes.”

Jon glanced over at Arya, slumped down in her seat in a decidedly unladylike fashion. “She’s your sister; you don’t need to like each other but you do need to look after one another.”

“Well, she doesn’t make it easy. All Sansa thinks about is songs and stories; she never leaves the castle walls without an escort-”

“And you do?”

“Bran and I sneak out to play with the children at the orphanage; they’re nice but sad. Sansa doesn’t know what that’s like; she only gets sad about Father scolding her for spending her allowance on Myrish lace or not letting her foster in any of the southern courts. Maybe she can sew and sing and dance, but she can’t protect herself; not unless she plans on stabbing someone with a sewing needle. She’s never even tried to use a bow and I know archery is something high born Southern learn. I-I’m worried she’ll get hurt.”

The admission surprised Jon, Arya was never one to open up about her love for Sansa. “To be honest, I am too. There will come a time when Sansa sees her first true horror and when that happens, someone will need to be there to help her. In the meantime, I’ll speak with your father about the issue.”

“She annoys me, but I’ll protect her,” Arya swore with a solemn nod.

Jon reached out and tugged a loose strand of her hair affectionately, “That’s good to hear, Little Sister. But for what it’s worth, I hope that day never comes. I hope it never comes for either of you. Now, come on; let’s dance.”

“So you’re the bastard?”

Jon looked up from the book he was reading, Rubies and Iron by Maester Naylin. It was quite interesting, he would have to suggest it to Arya; she’d probably find the warrior women of Kayakayanaya, Samyriana, and Bayasabhad fascinating. After slipping out of the Great Hall -leaving Enzo dancing with whatever woman admired the man’s broad shoulders enough to approach him- Jon had stopped by his room for a bottle of spiced wine and two goblets before returning to the quiet sanctuary of the library; or, at least, what had been the quiet sanctuary of the library. The dwarf of Casterly Rock stood at the doorway, odd eyes studying Jon’s form. It was odd, how similar and yet how different he looked from his siblings; clad in scarlet and gold finery but with strange hair and eyes, he looked like a twisted mirror version of the ideal Lannister heir.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Jon said, returning to his book.

“Well I’ve heard that you are going by Jon Whitewolf now; it sounds like there must be quite a story behind that.”

Jon gave a nonchalant shrug, “Not particularly. Soon after I arrive in Skyrim someone asked what my name was. I told them it was Jon Snow, but they thought I was lying; after all, it was actually snowing at the time. I was asked again, so I came up with ‘Jon Whitewolf’ and I’ve been using that ever since.”

“Yet you cling to the name so tightly.”

“It’s the name I chose. I've lived under it for nearly five years now; it’s who I am.”

“Perhaps that is true, but it is important one never forgets where they come from -less they lose the roots of their being. I find that it’s vital to always remember who you are so it can never be used as a weapon.”

‘Alright, enough of this poetically philosophical back-and-forth,’ Jon narrowed his eyes at the Lannister. “Why are you here, Lord Tyrion?”

The dwarf approached Jon’s table, “To satisfy my curiosity. I saw you leave the hall after a dance with your sister and I thought I’d follow. Not many people would be anxious to leave the company of royalty; even if the royalty in question is my lout of a good brother. He’s quite taken by the idea of you, I wonder why that is?”

“I supposedly look much like Lord Stark did when he was younger, perhaps I make him think of his youth in the Vale.”

Lord Tyrion hummed with a thoughtful look on his face, “Ah yes, the king is obsessed with days long passed. But you don’t actually look much like him, you know? Lord Stark, I mean; not once you look beyond your coloring and slant of your features. I suppose it’s possible you favor your mother.”

He trailed off but kept his eyes firmly on Jon. He was fishing for something; Jon doubted the man knew anything about his parentage, but curiosity could be dangerous so it needed to be nipped in the bud. “It’s possible, but I wouldn’t know. Lord Stark never spoke about her, she is almost certainly dead by now though.”

“Well, we have that in common then,” Lord Tyrion comment as he slid into the chair opposite to Jon. “Oh, Rubies and Iron! Such an intriguing topic; though I do have to wonder if iron rings in the nipples make sex better or worse.”

‘That is not something I ever need to hear,’ the Dragonborn groaned internally. “I can’t comment on that but I do have to ask your opinion on a topic my companion and I have been quarreling over.”

“Your giant friend? I certainly wouldn’t want to get on his bad side; give me the details so I can agree with him.”

“Well when we stopped in Essos, I picked up some books to add to my library. Now, I bought the copies written in Common Tongue but the merchant also happened to have versions written in the original language, so I purchased those too. Enzo says the Common Tongue copies were enough but I believe that to fully enjoy a text, it must be read how the writer intended.”

“Oh, of course, the original text is ideal! You never know what is lost or ‘corrected’ during the translation.”

Jon smiled, he found that he was enjoying the Lannister’s company; it was nice spending time with Arya, Robb, and Theon but none of them were particularly interested in discussing the scholarly arts. “Would you care for a glass of wine, my Lord?”

“You might as well ask if I breathe air; poor away!”

Jon had intended split the bottle of wine with Enzo -which was why he had grabbed the second goblet- but seeing as the man was probably busy basking in the attention of lovely ladies, he saw no reason not to split it with the Heir of Casterly Rock.

Lord Tyrion took the glass with a grin, which widened along with his eyes after he took his first sip. “By the gods, this is fantastic! I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“You’re not the first to say that. It’s Spiced Wine, the signature drink of Solitude, Skyrim’s capital city; only one family in the whole country knows how to make it. I absolutely adore it, so I stocked up before leaving for my trip here.”

“I’ll pay you 25 gold dragons for every bottle you have.”

“That’s not going to happen; thank you for the offer but I have all the coin I need. I am will to share this bottle with you though.”

“I’ll have you know that I'm extremely used to getting what I want. However, I suppose that I can live with sharing a bottle of fine wine with some decent company.”

Jon refilled Tyrion’s glass, a smile on his face. “Excellent; now, tell me, what do you believe are the most seminal Westerosi works? I need to know what to buy before I return to Skyrim.”

“What exactly is it we are supposed to be hunting?”

“Elk, I think; maybe boar wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest.”

“I do not doubt it; when exactly did you go to bed last night?”

“Late, or early, depending on how you see it. All I know is that the music in the Great Hall had stopped by then. Thank that gods that health potions also work on hangovers.”

“I cannot believe you stayed up to all hours talking about books with the son of the man ordered your older siblings and their mother killed. Wait, actually, I can. That does not mean it was a smart idea though.”

“Lord Tyrion is a learned man, quite the exceptional conversationalist. And it’s not like we talked about anything personal. I mean, he did try but I brushed him off. Besides, I wouldn't even have ended up talking to him if you hadn't abandoned me in enjoy the admiration of hoards of Northern women. How many did you end up dancing with?”

“A little over twenty, got a few proposals for...private dances as well. I refused, more trouble than it could possibly be worth. As is this ‘hunting’ trip, there are mammoths herds that make less noise.”

Jon chuckled at his friend’s candor; it was true, the king’s voice bellowed through the forest as he spoke with Lord Stark was probably scaring off any wild animals nearby. ‘Is it possible for a man to be louder than a beast?’

“We should start planning our return tonight; your homeland has its charm but I am rather eager to return to Skyrim.”

“Agreed, if we stay too much longer than I just know Lord Stark will try to pull me into another heart-to-heart.”

A pensive look crossed Enzo’s face, “He wants you to stay.”

“He does, and he’s willing to say just about anything but the truth to make me. I’m going to give him one more chance to confess before… well, you know.”

“That sounds reasonable. I may not like him but he did raise you and I want you to be sure before you cut him off.”

“Me too,” Jon admitted. The pair were at the back of the hunting party with King Robert and Lord Stark in the lead with the middle filled by Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, Robb, Bran Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen, and the Hound. Robb was stuck in the unfortunate position of listening to the crown prince whine about the weather -the boy had insisted on wearing silks and wools instead of the much more practical furs and was suffering for it; yes, as it turns out trudging through the snow and cold in the early morning while wearing improper clothing was quite unpleasant- and had resorted to shooting sad, pleading looks back at Jon, who waved in return. At least Bran seemed to be getting along with the younger prince who was far friendlier than his brother, if rather timid.

“A wonderful day for a hunt, isn’t it, Ned?”

“Aye; this outing was a splendid idea, my King.”

Jon’s winced as his boot sunk into a patch of icy mud, ‘Splendid idea my ass.’

“Well my party will be here for another week; I don’t want you to dip into stores too much for our sake.”

“That’s extremely thoughtful of you, Your Grace.”

“I told you to stop with all that ‘Your Grace’ crap, Ned! We’re beyond such things and I get enough of it from those bootlickers down in King’s Landing, I don’t need you to suck up to me too.”

“Just kiss already,” Enzo grumbled, causing Jon to snort so hard it was almost painful. The older man leaned down, “Are you sure your mother was the king’s great Northern love?”

“I only mean to set a proper example for my boys, my- friend,” Lord Stark replied.

“You don’t have to worry about that; your kin will always have an ally in King’s Landing so long as mine is on the throne. Especially since... well, Starks will never have to worry about danger there. Isn't that right, Joffrey?”

“Why of course, Your Grace,” Prince Joffrey sneered at his father’s back. When no one commented, Jon figured that this was an uncommon occurrence.

“Yes, Father,” Prince Tommen chirped from Bran’s side.

“He didn’t ask you; you’re just the spare.” Hissed Joffrey back at his little brother who seemed to fold in on himself at the cold criticism.

Jon frowned and caught up with the younger boys, setting a hand on the young prince’s shoulder. When Prince Tommen looked up at him with big swimming green eyes, the Dragonborn smiled kindly, “It’s good of you to care for your father’s allies; it's the sign of a keen political mind.”

He was rewarded with an adoring look, “You’re Ser Jon, right? Bran was telling all about your adventures! Is it true you’ve fought pirates?”

“Aye, several times.” Jon chuckled, ‘Pirates and much, much more.’

“Wow, Joffrey has never done anything like that! Bran and Rickon also showed me the gifts you gave them; I really like the set of animal figures, do you have another one?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t. But, I’ll see if I have something similar. Sound good?” Jon asked, giving the little prince’s blond hair a ruffle when he nodded, knocking some snowflakes out of the boy’s hair.

“By the gods, everyone shut up and gather round. There on the hill ahead, see it? Look at the rack on that beast!” King Robert said in an excited whispered as he waved the group over and pointed at a fine, ten-point-stag up on the ridge of a hill. It was bent down nibbling on some green bits of a bush, steam rising from tawny fur in the cold morning air.

“An impressive bit of game, Robert. Would you like to do the honors?” His uncle asked, sounding very much like he was ready to go back to the castle already.

The fat king paused, perhaps aware that he no longer had the strength to throw his spear well enough to kill the deer. “No, one of the younger boys should do it. Joffrey, come up here. It's time to prove your worth in front of a crowd.”

The prince huffed but pulled his crossbow from his back and stalked closer to his father, nearly tripping over a snow-covered branch along the way. The Hound followed closely behind, somehow much far quieter despite his larger side. Joffrey grinned as he leveled his crossbow and lined up a shot on the crossbow, but Jon frowned; his time with the Dawnguard had taught him much about how to use crossbows and from what he could see, the prince wasn’t aiming properly.

“Your hand is shaking; steady it or the shot will go wide.” The king grunted.

“It is steady, Father.”

With that declaration, Joffrey pulled the release trigger and the bolt went flying. To be fair, the prince wasn’t too far off the mark, the bolt catching on one of the buck’s antlers and causing it to dart off into the trees with a screech. The whole party let out a frustrated groan, aside from Tommen who bit back a giggle.

“Seven hells, how’d you miss it by that much!”

“I hit its head!”

“It doesn’t matter,” The king waved him away. “Let’s go, men. I want that buck!” With a huff, he took off up the hill with surprising speed for a man his size. After around of grumbles from the rest of the party, they followed and tracked the deer for about another quarter mile before coming to a narrow path along a hillside.

“Careful there, Bran. If you slip it’ll be a long way down.” Jon cautioned to the surefooted young Stark.

“Don’t worry, Jon. I never fall; you know that.”

“Yes, but-”

“AHHH!” To Jon’s horror, a clump of dirt gave way under Prince Tommen, causing him to lose his balance and tumble from the path down the hillside. Everyone froze in shock before rushing to edge to try and help, the prince’s name on their lips. Jon was the first to react; skidding down the hill, bracing himself off of trees and boulders and using his superior balance and agility to his advance. Eventually, he got far enough down to where he could see Prince Tommen lying in a crumpled heap on top of a snow bank at the edge of a small clearing.

“Are you alright?”

The boy didn’t answer but did let out a low, long groan which reassured Jon that he was at least breathing. He hopped down the last few feet onto the level ground below, crouching by the young prince’s side Jon checked his pulse and cast Healing Hands on the boy. It wasn’t his most powerful healing spell, but it would look odd if Tommen walked away without a scratch. After a few moments, the boy’s coloration had improved greatly and he started to come around so Jon felt it was safe to move him into a more comfortable position. He propped the prince up against a tree trunk and started to brush snow from him when a slight snap caused him to freeze.

Slowly he turned his head to look over his to see a large shadowcat crouched to the ground at the other side of the clearing. Jon met the amber eyes of the beast and he got the sense that it was studying him even as he was studying it. The shadowcat was large for its species; most were roughly three feet tall at the shoulder and six-and-a-half feet long from nose to tail, but this one had an extra six inches in both height and length. It was skinny though, Jon could see prominent rib bones, and there were patches of fur missing from its pelt.

Tommen, still unconscious, let out a gurgle; the shadowcat’s eyes flicked to his prone before returning to Jon’s and the Dragonborn instantly understood. The beast was hungry and desperate, the young prince looked a good meal, but first, the beast needed to judge if going through Jon to get to him was worth it.

‘Go away. Go away, I don’t want to kill you,’ Jon thought desperately even as the shadowcat’s lips pulled back into a snarl, revealing sharp yellow fangs, and lean muscles coiled as it prepared to pounce. Jon’s lips began to form the first word of the Kyne’s Peace shout before he bit it back, the rest of the party was close enough that they would certainly hear it -the same was true of any spells he cast- and while he would reveal his secrets if it absolutely came down to that but he really didn’t want to. That left his bow, but could he pull it from his back, notch an arrow, and shoot before the predator was on him?

He’d have too because, with a loud cry, the beast lept forward with its claws outstretched; Jon stumbled back, trying to arm himself but resigning himself to the fact he may need to reveal his abilities in order to save the lives of both himself and Prince Tommen. He pulled in a deep breath and prepared to FUS RO DAH the beast into Oblivion when-

“REEEEEEEE!’

Jon gasped when a brightly-colored shot down from the sky, slamming into the shadowcat’s side and knocking it away, leaving smears of blood on the snow. The feline predator rolled to its feet and engaged to blob, shrieks, and yowls filling the air. When his mind caught up with his eyes, Jon realized he recognized the blob; the ten-foot wingspan, the bright orange-red feathers, the deadly black talons, and beak -it was Sweet Roll, his pet Bone Bird!

“Sweetie…” the Dragonborn breathed as he watched the enormous predatory bird grip his opponent's neck with his talons while darting forward to stab a razor-sharp down into the shadowcat’s face. The beast reared back a deadly clawed pawed to slash at the giant bird but Jon managed to pull himself together enough to shoot an ebony arrow through its left eye, killing the feline instantly.

“Jon!” The dark-haired youth turned to see Enzo stumble to his side, his large frame for once more of a hindrance than an advantage. “It that…?”

“Yeah, I think so!”

Jon heard his name called again, this time by Lord Stark. “Son!” the man cried, gripping his shoulder, “We heard fighting, are you injured?”

He shrugged out of his uncle’s grip, "No, I am fine. Prince Tommen needs a maester though; he’s unconscious but I think he’ll be fine as long as we return to the castle quickly.”

The rest of the hunting party pooled into the clearing and Ser Barristan bent down to check on the young prince, “His breathing is steady, Your Grace, and I believe he will be coming to soon. Still, it would be best if we headed back immediately.”

“What? Oh, yes. Clegane, pick the boy up and carry him back.” The king said from where he was examining the dead shadowcat. He pulled the arrow from its skull and turned to Jon, “This arrow is yours, I suppose? You saved my son, Boy. You’ve done the royal family and Westeros as a whole a great service; I see to it you're properly rewarded.

“What the fuck is that thing?” The Hound roared, pointing up to where Sweet Roll was preached on the branch of a tree. Prince Joffrey took aim at the bird with his crossbow and was ready to shoot before Jon slapped the weapon down.

“YOU DARE-”

“That’s my bird! Come here, Sweet Roll!”

The Bone Bird cocked his head at Jon -who for a moment worried the beast would choose now to be difficult- and took off from the branch, flying a loop around the clearing before landing on Jon’s shoulder. He winced, a twenty-pound bird on your shoulder wasn’t very comfortable, and the others in the party gathered around to examine his pet.

“What is this thing and why did you call it Sweet Roll?” The king demand as he attempted to touch an uninterested Sweetie, jerking his hand back to avoid losing a finger to the bird’s sharp beak.

“He’s a Bone Bird; a friend gave him to me as a gift and another named him Sweet Roll as a joke. I could never get him to answer to anything else though, so the name unfortunately stuck.” Jon explained as he reached up to scratch Sweet Roll’s chest feathers.

“And what is he doing here?” Lord Stark inquired as he stared at the bird with a look of both horror and amazement.

That was an excellent question. One Jon had neither considered nor had an answer too, “Well...he, uh-”

“-must have followed us from our ship, Lord of Winterfell.” Enzo cut in, his black eyes meeting Jon’s briefly. “Bone Birds are highly intelligent, both excellent trackers and fantastic lookouts; sailors often keep them aboard to watch for pirates. We brought Sweetie with us on our voyage but left him in the care of Captain Vendicci when we set off on land for Winterfell; clearly, he must not have found the arrangement agreeable and followed us.”

“Oh, well, that makes sense, I suppose.” Lord Stark said, eyes still on the bird who stared back intently.

“Ned, we’re heading back. Lannister, grab the cat. I want to take it back with us,” the King bellowed. “Shame we never did get that deer, but it’s almost time for luncheon and I’m fucking cold.”

No one could disagree with such a statement; heavy, dark gray clouds hung low in the sky, dripping fat snowflakes onto the landscape. A wind had started up too, cutting through Jon’s fur cloak; returning to the warmth of a fireplace sounded divine, but there was something he needed to do first. “I’m going to stay behind for a bit, Your Grace.”

“What for?” Lord Stark asked, his brow furrowed deeply as his slate gray eyes traced Jon’s face like he was looking for something.

“I want to see if I can track down the shadowcat’s den, make sure there are no others lurking around.”

“A good idea, Son. If the population if getting desperate enough to attack armed grown men than they need to be culled. I’ll come with you.”

“There is no need, Lord of Winterfell. I will accompany Thane Whitewolf on this endeavor.” Enzo stepped to Jon’s side and Lord Stark scowled. It was clear that no fondness had grown between the pair in the past week; that didn’t exactly surprise Jon -Enzo was extremely protective- it couldn’t say it made him happy.

“I-”

“Come on, Ned. Leave the boy to it; he’ll be fine. I wish either of my boys showed that initiative.”

It took him a moment, clearly unhappy about the situation, but Lord Stark did follow his king and oldest friend. Jon and Enzo both watched as the hunting party disappeared into the trees and stayed silent -aside from the quiet squeaks and chirps from Sweet Roll- until they could no longer hear the group tromping through the underbrush. When they were sure they wouldn’t be overheard, Enzo turned to Jon, “What in the hell is your demon bird doing here?”

“How would I know? I’m just as confused as you are! And don’t call Sweetie a demon bird, you know it hurts his feelings!”

“He is a bird! A bird that you left thousands of miles away and yet somehow showed up at your childhood home in time to save you from being mauled!”

“I know, I know,” Jon groaned, raking a hand through his dark curls. “Maybe...maybe someone used a portal spell to send him here?”

Enzo mulled the idea over in his mind for a moment, “That is a possibility, I suppose. But portal spells take decades to master, and that is only if you are extremely talented. Could Lady Serana have sent him?”

“No, I don’t think she knows any of those spells; her mother might though. I’ll ask in my next letter but I honestly doubt it was either of them; if they could open portals here then they’d probably just come themselves.”

“Well, do you know anyone else who could?”

“I know the Daedric Princes can, a few master mages, Tsun, and maybe the Psijic Order. But the question remains, even if they could open a portal to send Sweet Roll here, why would they?”

“A true mystery,” Enzo hummed as Sweet Roll took of off Jon’s shoulder, flying through the trees. The bird didn’t seem to be trying to leave, exactly; he landed a few yards away and squawked until the two warriors followed. When they got close, Jon’s familiar repeated the action until he led them to a small burrow.

“Why’d you lead us here, Sweetie?” Jon wondered out loud as he crouched down and ducked his head inside, casting Candlelight so he could see. “There’s nothing-oh, I see!”

“No, absolutely not.” Enzo snapped when he saw what Jon had pulled out.

“C’mon, Enzo! How can you say no to this face?” Jon held up one of the mewling balls of fur to his friend’s face. The baby shadowcat squirmed and reached out to bat at the giant’s nose. Jon could see the Redguard was starting to melt so he pushed a bit more, “They’ll die if we don’t take them. Their eyes are open and teeth have come in, they won’t be too much work.”

Enzo bit his lip, “You have enough animals.”

“One of them is for you. Please! I feel guilty about killing their mother, the least I can do is make sure they survive.”

There was a pause, but Enzo eventually sighed and took the tiny feline from Jon -it easily fitting into the palm of his hand. “Fine, but you and I are sparing this afternoon. I am sick of all this inactivity.”

Jon smiled at his victory and cuddled his new companion to his chest, “Deal.”

Two ebony sword clashed and sent their songs through the air of the courtyard. Jon leaned forward, close enough that only his sparring partner could hear him, and whispered, “People are watching.”

Enzo’s eyes twinkled with mischief, “Than let’s put on a show.”

Showing off was probably a bad idea, was certainly a bad idea, but Jon smiled back at his friend and gave a quick nod.

Then the pair danced.

Jon smoothly bent backward at the waist as Enzo’s blade slashed the air above him in a gracefully. From his position he could see faces in the windows above, watching the mock duel with intense interest. They had chosen a relatively small and empty courtyard in the hopes that they wouldn’t be disturbed, but the pair had attracted quite a crowd just the same. It was funny, this sparring match wasn’t even that intense -their true matches, the ones they had in Skyrim, took place far away from anyone or anything that could be injured by their shouts or spells- but people were still gawking in fascination.

He pulled himself upright, parrying off one of Enzo’s strikes, and twisted to the side, getting behind the giant. He went down to one knee and struck a vulnerable section of his friend’s armor with the pommel of his sword, causing the older man to stumble forward. In terms of pure martial skill, they were rather evenly matched and their winners of weekly sparring matches back home tended to come down to chance more than anything else. But there were differences between the two: Jon’s slim, slender frame afforded him greater speed and maneuverability, especially since he was wearing a light set of sleek black and red leather armor. Add to that his years spent learning to traverse rooftops and scale the sides of walls, and Jon’s agility made him an acrobatic and dangerous opponent. Enzo, while far from slow or clumsy, was a big man; he was incredibly strong but his size, coupled with his heavy set of ebony armor, meant that he couldn’t move the same way Jon could. Their matches were a battle of power vs speed, strength vs grace.

The battle went on for nearly an hour, each participant giving and taking in equal measure as the crowd grew larger and larger. Jon, admittedly, put on more of a show than was really needed; at one point leaping on top of a stack of crates and flipping off. But it eventually had to end and when the opportunity presented itself, Jon swung his sword upward and it connected with the side of Enzo’s helmet, knocking it askew. His friend chuckled and sheathed his sword, admitting defeat. Jon gave an exaggerated bow when the crowd applauded his victory, but a voice rang out clearly through the courtyard.

“Well that was certainly an exciting display,” Jaime Lannister drawled as he sauntered over to the young Dragonborn. “Where did you learn to fight, Boy? I couldn’t have been in the North.”

Jon avoided stiffening at the insult to his homeland; it was true that North was not known for its exemplary warriors -their fighters tended to be hardy, but rarely were their skills the subjects of songs. “Ser Rodrik taught me the basics, Ser. Then I learned on my own, I had a few instructors but mostly life was my teacher.”

“So you never squired under a real knight?”

“No, never.” Jon paused before adding, “Nor do I have any desire to do so.”

The blond kingsguard nodded in what appeared to be understanding and held out his hands, “May I?”

Jon reluctantly handed over his ebony sword -named Sightless for its lightning enchantment- for inspection. The oldest Lannister son had earned his moniker by killing Jon’s grandfather, but the Dragonborn couldn't find it in himself to blame the man for his actions. As far as he was concerned, nothing of value to the world was lost when Ser Jaime struck down the king he was sworn to protect. That didn’t mean Jon trusted him though.

“I’ve never seen a blade like this before,” the knight mused as he admired the glossy black material decorated with delicate white swirls. “What is it made off?”

“Ebony, Ser Jaime.”

“It’s made from wood?”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s confusion, “No, it’s actually closer to steel. I was confused when I heard the name too.”

The golden knight tossed him back his blade, “Well come on then, let’s have a go at it.”

“Are you sure, Ser Jaime?” Jon studied the knight, wondering if the man had some ulterior motive. ‘This is a bad idea.’

“Afraid of a little fight, Snow?” A smug sneer, eerily similar to the one his eldest nephew wore when he was displeased by something, crossed the comely man’s face.

Jon clenched his jaw at targeted us of his former name, “I may not be a fan of pointless battle, Ser Jaime, but I do like to win.”

And with that, the legendary Dragonborn lunged forward with his sword raised.

Ser Jaime reputation was not without merit, Jon realized as he parried a strike. The Lannister was a truly excellent swordsman and was actually much closer to Jon in terms of speed and agility. This was a fight Jon had to be fully present for, which was honestly quite refreshing; as fierce as their sparing matching could become, he knew that Enzo would never harm him. But that safety net didn’t exist now and Jon loved it; it had been a long time since some gave him a real challenge.

Oh, Jon had no doubt that he could beat the Lannister if he tried a bit harder. But he also knew that doing so was more trouble than its worth, so he was resigned to either drawing the fight out before eventually ‘losing’ or having it end in some sort of stalemate. Jon was considering his best course of action as he traded blows with his opponent when a sharp cry of, “Jaime!” stopped the match abruptly.

The queen was storming her way towards the pair, clad in a luxurious gown a crimson velvet with embroidered golden lions and what must be at least ten pounds worth of jewelry hanging from her neck, wrists, and ears. Her technically beautiful face was a cool porcelain mask of indifference but even from this distance, Jon could see emerald fire burning in her eyes.

“Jaime, I need you to come with me now!” She snapped before leaving without even bothering to check to see if her twin was following.

Jon watched as a frown replace the gleeful smile that had grown on Ser Jaime’s face during their match; it was only there for a second before it was replaced by a forced grin. The golden knight turned back to him and offered a handshake, which Jon accepted. “That was a good match, Jon. You’ve got real talent; hopefully, we can spare again soon.”

“Jaime!”

“Coming, Sister Dear.”

As the kingsguard left to do his duty, Jon glanced around the courtyard; some of the crowd had disbanded already but on the faces of those that remained there were mixed emotions: awe, surprise, attraction, pride, and, on the faces of Lord and Lady Stark, a mixture of anger and fear.

‘I could have handled this better.’

Next Chapter: Jaime makes an observation, Catelyn has an argument, Jon spends so time with royalty, and the king makes an 'offer', 

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell;  TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell:  TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

Jaime Lannister I

“That boy is not Ned Stark’s son.”

Cersei glanced up from where she fixing her hair in a cracked mirror. The tower they had chosen for their tryst was abandoned, crammed full with battered old furniture and dust covering every surface while cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling and moth-eaten drapes covering the walls and windows. One of which he pulled to the side to peer down at one of Winterfell’s many courtyards where the supposed bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark was assisting one of the younger Stark boys -Jaime didn’t know which, he hadn’t bothered remembering their names or faces- with his archery.

“What are you going on about?” Cersei joined her twin at the window, turning away from him with the silent command to lace up the back of her dress. He did so with practiced ease but kept his eyes on the boy.

“You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed how little Jon actually resembles his supposed father."

“Oh, the bastard is Jon now?”

Jaime ignored the jab, too excited about his discovery, “I wasn’t sure at first, but after crossing swords with the boy I’m certain that he is the son of Ashara Dayne and Brandon Stark.”

Cersei’s lips pursed and she cocked her lovely blonde head to the side as she took in Jon’s distant frame. “He’s certainly comelier than Stark, though that’s not saying much; Brandon was supposedly the fairer of the brothers -don’t look at me like that, I’m only speaking objectively; I’d never touch any of them- and that Dayne girl was pretty enough, but how can a simple sparring match make you certain of such a thing?”

“Because he is far too good with a blade to be the son of Ned Stark; I’ve only seen that level of skill in a precious handful of men, Arthur Dayne a cut above them all.”

“Stark defeated Dayne in combat,” Cersei reminded him slowly. She knew the death of his idol at the hands of the judgmental Warden of the North was a sore subject even after all these years.

Jaime gritted his teeth, “Perhaps he was the one who walked away from the battle alive but the day I believe the Sword of the Morning was truly bested by someone like Stark is the day I surrender my right hand. Besides, everyone and their drunken uncle have said how out of character it was for Ned Stark to sire a bastard so soon after his marriage, even if it was to a woman he didn’t love."

The Queen of Westeros’ hummed thoughtfully as her brow furrowed, “I suppose I can see the sense in what you're saying. You know, I once heard Selmy say that the Dayne girl was dishonored by a man at the Tourney of Harrenhal who supposedly got a child on her. He said that she later gave birth to a stillborn daughter and that, along with the death of her brother, was why she threw herself into the sea.”

“Be careful how much trust you put in Selmy’s tales; he was obsessed with Ashara, fancied himself in love and would have likely forsaken his vows if she spared the man a kind glance or some sweet words. That story is well known, though, the name of the man is never mentioned though.”

“Exactly!” His beloved sister was excited now, she had always enjoyed plots and knowing things others didn’t. “Most assume it was Eddard, but Brandon was a known cad; Dayne would hardly have been the first noble lady to lose her maidenhead to him. Harrenhal was too soon for Snow to be conceived but she was at the Red Keep when Brandon was arrested, perhaps she made a stop at his cell at some point. Still, I can't help but wonder why would Stark lie about such a thing. No one would fault the man for taking care of his dead brother’s child, some might even praise him for it. So why besmirch his own honor by claiming the child as his own?”

“Who knows?” Jaime shrugged and fell back into a decrepit armchair, knocking a cloud of dust out of the cushion. He sneezed, the forgotten tower was far from the most romantic spot to lay with the woman he loved but it had done in a pinch; his sister’s temper had been burning bright since their arrival in Winterfell -why wouldn’t it? This was the birthplace and resting ground of the woman her buffoon of a husband would trade his crown, kingdom, and queen for in a heartbeat- and if he hadn’t taken the proper steps to sooth it, she would have likely smothered the fat king in his drunken sleep.

He finished retying his trousers and set to pulling on his boots, “Maybe Stark didn’t want his new lady wife to know that her dead betrothed had preferred stars to fish? Maybe he was worried that the boy being the son of the original heir would cause problems, even if he was just a bastard? Maybe he thought it would be a horrible scandal and wanted to maintain his brother’s dignity? Maybe he was jealous Brandon got the woman he wanted and diluted himself in to believe the babe was his? Maybe he claimed it so he’d be allowed to keep the boy in Winterfell and not be pressured into sending down to Starfall, you know how the Dornish like to keep any bastards born with their blood. Anyway, whatever the reason, I’m sure it makes sense in the man’s head.”

“You’ve been giving this boy an awful lot of thought; no matter where he came from, a bastard is still a bastard.”

“That bastard saved Tommen’s life.”

His sister’s face softened slightly before rehardening, “Yes, I suppose he did. Still, that is hardly a thing to praise heavily, Tommen is his prince so it was the boy’s duty to protect him.”

Cersei was growing tired of this conversation, the huff in her voice was noticeable, so Jaime pulled her into his lap and kissed her neck, “Oh come now, Sweet Sister, you must admit that he’s the most interesting thing in the whole of the North -aside from yourself, of course- and it's been a long time since I’ve had such a productive sparring match.”

“So that’s why you let the match go on so long, your lingering admiration for the boy's uncle?” She was relaxing under his lips and hands now; he pinched a nipple through the thick material of her dress and felt himself stir at the breathy moan that left her luscious lips. Jaime knew her body as well as he did his own, probably better, and he never felt so at peace as he did when they were together.

“The match went on so long because the boy is good, extremely good. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I would have won eventually, but what's the harm in enjoying something to the fullest? Speaking of which…” He let his right hand slide between Cersei’s legs.

The gilded Queen of Westeros leaned back against Jaime’s chest as she enjoyed his ministrations, “Be quick, we can’t be missing much longer.”

They were quiet for a moment as Jaime serviced his beloved sister before she let out a sharp laugh, “I’m just thinking of how much fun it will be to know the truth about the bastard next time I’m forced to enjoy the company of Lady Stark. I swear, that woman is as intolerable as her cow of a sister. She actually expected me to join her in her daily prayers at the sept! And Robert, he blathers on about him endlessly and now I get the pleasure of knowing Snow isn’t even Ned Stark’s bastard. Why, the way he talks, I’d swear that oaf is half in love the boy; it’s a good thing Robert’s proclivities don’t extend to pretty young men, otherwise, there’d be serious cause for concern.”

She tilted her head back against Jaime’s shoulder; he could tell she was getting close when a loud voice -Jon’s voice- froze them cold and killed any desire boiling in their blood.

“BRAN, GET DOWN FROM THERE THIS INSTANT! YOU KNOW YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE CLIMBING THE OLD TOWERS!”

“C’MON, JON, YOU KNOW-”

“NOW!”

The second voice was much closer; in fact, it sounded as if it came from just under the window. Cersei started to say something and moved to get out of his lap but Jaime clamped a hand over her mouth and, with an arm tight around her waist, slid them from the chair onto the dirty floor. There they stay for what seemed like hours, silent as every muscle in their bodies tensed like tight, coiled rope.

Eventually, the second voice responded with a sharp, “FINE!” and they both let out an audible sigh of relief. The stayed on the floor for a bit longer though, until their hearts finally stopped racing.

“That was close,” he smirked at his beloved, trying to make a joke out of nearly getting caught in their traitorous act.

Cersei clearly didn’t find it funny though; with a face white as milk she slapped dainty hand into his chest, “He saw us, Jaime! He knows! We need to-”

He caught her wrists and soothed, “He did see anything, he couldn’t have. Now, what we need to do is calm down, get cleaned up, and then leave this tower. If anyone sees us together you’ll say that you simply wanted to explore this magnificent old castle and I was escorting you, okay?”

Though her face was still pale, the Queen of Westeros gave a shaky nod and rested her head against his heart. Jaime wrapped his arms around Cersei and allowed himself, just for a moment, to imagine they were the only two people in the world.

Catelyn Tully Stark I

“What do you think, Mother? Mother?”

Catelyn blinked, “I’m sorry, dear, what were you asking?”

Her eldest daughter rolled her eyes, “I asked if you thought Father would be alright with me paying Mikken to make me a necklace with all the jewels Jon brought me.”

The Lady of Winterfell went tense for the briefest moment, freezing at the mentioned of her husband’s bastard; the same bastard who seemed to habitually spoil everything she worked for. After a shaky breath, she returned to the task of brushing out her daughter’s brilliant auburn hair -the same lovely hue as her own tresses- and the same color shared by all of the girl’s brothers instead of the common brown locks historically found in Starks. The repetition soothed her, even as she watched Sansa arrange her new collection of gemstones in a pattern on the vanity before her; occasionally swapping one out for the other, an emerald for a sapphire here and an amethyst for garnet there. Seeming to eventually decide on a combination of garnets, sapphires, and pearls.

“Well, what do you think?”

Catelyn bit her tongue as the precious stones mockingly glittered up at her; she decided to deflect the question, “Mikken is the castle blacksmith; he probably could make you a necklace but it isn’t where his training lies. You’d better off hiring a gold or silversmith for the task.”

“Gold, it will have to be gold,” Sansa answered quickly as a faraway look began to fill her eyes.

“That be quite expressive, Sweetling.”

“I know, I can use the allowance I’ve been saving. This is more important.”

Cat pursed her lips, “You should be saving that money for building your trousseau.”

“I was, but with all the material Jon brought me I can dip into my funds a bit.” Sansa gestured to the partially finished gown that was draped around a mannequin in the corner. Her daughter had started working on the outfit nearly the moment she had gotten her hands on the fabric; the body of the dress would be made from breezy royal blue fabric that would be overlayed a strange, opaque material the color of pale lilac; there would be violet silk drapery gathered around the waist to match bell sleeves and a train intercut with sections of snow-white bone lace. The design was fairly elaborate but still didn’t take up a third of what had been gifted to her darling girl by the Bastard. It would be a striking number once but would certainly take a great deal of work to complete and yet Sansa was determined to have it ready for the royal party’s going away feast in two weeks time.

The eldest Stark daughter paused and tilting her head to the side in thought, “But maybe you’re right, I should save that money for later. Perhaps I can convince Father to have the necklace made for my next nameday gift, or maybe as a piece for my wedding."

She said the last party wistfully and Catelyn smiled genuinely for the first time in what felt like days. “You and the crown prince have been getting along then?”

“Oh, isn’t he the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, Mother? Joffrey's hair is like spun gold and his eyes glitter more than these emeralds; he’s gallant and kind and well-spoken too, just like the songs!”

Catelyn fought the urge to roll her eyes; she remembered what it was like to be the captivated by a man, remembered it well enough to know the inevitable disappointment that would eventually follow. She also failed to find Prince Joffrey nearly as impressive as her daughter did; with his Lannister features, he should have been a remarkably handsome young man, but for some reason, Cat couldn’t help but find something uncanny about his appearance. It wasn’t the hint of femininity in his features -she, like nearly every woman and girl in Westeros, had admired Prince Rhaegar’s looks and it was widely agreed upon that he was prettier than his wife- but there was just an oddity about his appearance that tugged at the back of her mind, even if she couldn’t put a name to it. Similarly, there was something about the prince’s personality that was just...off; it was something in the eyes, something that put her teeth on edge.

‘Be that as it may, he will still be the next king of Westeros and, therefore, the best match possible for my Sansa. After all, it is a wife’s duty to temper and whether her husband’s bad habits and, if nothing else, I’ve ensured that Sansa knows how to be a good wife.’ Catelyn smiled to herself, she had been elated when Ned informed her of the agreement he had made with King Robert. Of course, she would have been preferred if he had agreed outright -with the crown prince being such a coveted match, surely there were other families hoping to make a betrothal themselves- but also knew that it was completely in character for her cautious husband to make such an arrangement. Still, it would be good for Sansa to get a taste of Southern court life, even if it was for just a short time; Catelyn hoped her daughter’s gentle nature would attract friends there, instead of predators.

“It is important that you go out of your way to make him and his family welcome.” Cat reminded her daughter as she pinned up a thin braid with a decorative hairpin.

“I’m trying, Mother! That’s why I need to have my new gown ready before the royal party leaves; I want to be sure Joffrey can’t think of anything but me the whole night.”

The Lady of Winterfell chuckled, “You’re a beautiful, charming young lady, Sansa, I’m sure you’ll be on his mind regardless of what you wear. But, in the meantime, you need to win over his family. During your tea with Princess Myrcella remember to flatter her with compliments -talk about her hair, her dresses, her courtly skills- and ask her many questions about herself, Prince Joffrey, and life at King’s Landing. If you can win her friendship than you will have an invaluable ally.”

Sansa nodded rapidly, “I will! I was up late last night thinking of things to say to the Princess.” Then the auburn-haired girl scowled, “I just wish Arya didn’t have to be there, she’s probably going to ruin everything.”

“You must be patient with your sister, Sansa. She’s younger than you and needs your guidance; Arya will learn to play her role eventually,” Catelyn chided gently, even as she struggled with the nagging voice in the back of her mind that agreed with her eldest daughter.

“Alright,” the young lady sighed as she fiddled with a large, round emerald. "What are you going to do with your half?"

“My half of what?” Catelyn asked absentmindedly as she put the finish touches on her daughter’s hair.

“The gems and fabric. Jon said half of them were for you- ow, Mother!”

“Sorry, Sweetling,” the Lady of Winterfell muttered as she rubbed her fingertips against Sansa’s scalp, soothing the area she had accidentally irritated when she sharply tugged a lock of hair. “Don’t worry about me, Sansa. I have all the dresses and jewels I need, you can keep them all. Besides, you’re a talented seamstress than I; you’ll be able to do them far more justice.”

Blue eyes, identical to Catelyn’s own, studied her with a touch of apprehension, “But didn’t you always say that it is rude to reject-”

“Sweetling,” the Lady of Winterfell cut in; she was using what Robb had dubbed her ‘Lady Mother Voice’ instead of just her ‘Mother Voice’ and it quieted the girl instantly, “it is time for the tea party. You should leave now, a true lady is never late for social engagements.”

Sansa hesitated for a moment but ultimately nodded, swiped the gemstones back into the leather drawstring pouch they had come in and rushed from the room before catching herself, slowing to a more appropriate, lady-like pace. When she had gone, Catelyn turned to glare at the innocent looking pouch on the vanity. Not for the first time, she felt the urge to fling the whole thing into the deepest pit she could find; it’s sister urge, the desire to rip all the fine, exotic fabrics into pieces and throw the shreds into a fire, also called. It was a childish impulse, she could admit, but one that bit at her nonetheless. The gifts had been an obscene show of wealth -pride and vanity were grave sins, every properly righteous child was raised to know that. But what did bastards know about piousness?- and she held a callow annoyance that the Bastard had gifted her something so generous. After all, if he had neglected to bring her something then she could claim to her husband that he was being disrespectful; instead, Ned forced her to acknowledge his so-called ‘generosity’.

She forced the urge away -it would be impractical to destroy such things, especially since they could be used to further her own sweet daughter’s livelihood- and caught her reflection in the mirror. Catelyn was no longer the fresh young bride she had been upon her arrival to Winterfell; wrinkles tugged at the corners of her eyes and there were strands of silver among the waves of auburn. ‘But,’ she thought as she brushed a hand against her abdomen, ‘it’s not too late. Old Nan gave birth to her last child at the age of forty. I can give Ned another son, one who looks like him.’

It would be dangerous, but Catelyn was still hearty and hale; she had only ever lost one pregnancy -one between Sansa and Arya- due to the horrible flu that swept through the castle. Other than that, she never experience any true problems in the birthing bed so there was still a chance she could give Ned a dark-haired, gray-eyed son; one who could make him forget all about the Bastard who haunted her dreams and caused her to agonize over every aspect of his features, trying to piece together an image of what his mother must have looked like.

Every time some servant or some visiting lord had commented on how much the Bastard resembled her husband had been like a slap to the face; as if the true-born sons she birthed we somehow less than true Starks just because they looked like her. It hurt even more because for the life of her, she. could. not. see. it! Maybe the hair, eyes, and length of the face were similar enough but the arched brows, the full lips, and the thick curls? The slender build? The long tapered fingers? They could have only come from his unnamed mother.

‘Ashara Dayne was the most beautiful woman in the world,’ the treacherous voice that haunted her at night reminded. Catelyn shook it away, but, honestly, part of her actually hoped -most of her was actually sure- the Bastard’s mother was Ashara Dayne. As much as she hated the woman she only met once -couldn’t even bear to hear her name- at least Ashara was dead; dead and gone and unable to return or tempt Ned ever again. It was a sick thing, to be happy about a young woman’s tragic death but the shadow she had cast over Winterfell for nearly ten years was thick and dark.

It had, whenever Ned refused to speak of her or send the Bastard away, caused Catelyn to question the love he had for her and the children she bored him. She married the man knowing he was only doing so out of duty and not because he wanted her -it stung, at the time, but she could hardly blame him because the same was true of her- but Ned truly had wanted Ashara? Had he dreamt of wedding her? Of raising a family with her by his side whilst serving as Brandon’s vassel? If so, did that mean the Bastard had been the child Ned always wanted while her own were merely to be tolerated?

It was an absurd worry, of course; any man with eyes could see the Ned adored all their children. But still, it hung in her mind whenever Ned looked at his bastard with such painful affection; was he looking for the shadows of Ashara in their son’s face? Catelyn knew thick, dark curls were common among the Dornish; could that be why Ned had refused whenever Cat suggest they cut the Bastard’s hair short so it was more manageable? ‘It matters not,’ she consoled herself. ‘Once I give birth to a son with true Stark features everyone will see that the Bastard didn’t fit in at Winterfell.’

But for that to happen, she’d need to convince Ned to lie with her; something he hadn't done for over six moons. Men have needs and if it had been any other man, she’d be sure Ned had a mistress stashed somewhere on the sprawling grounds of Winterfell. She knew that wasn’t the case though, so why hadn't he come to her?. Catelyn wasn’t a lustful woman -she had been taught better than that- and while sleeping with Ned was far from a burden, it also wasn’t high on her list of favorite activities. But she missed the closeness, the feeling of his warm body against hers through the long, harsh nights of the North; the last time they even shared a bed was two months ago. Now, though, with the stress of everything that was going on around them, perhaps she could tempt him.

A smile graced her face as she wound her way through the halls of Winterfell, busy servants parting before her as they rushed to perform their duties. But the smile fell from her lips though, when, through a window, she spotted the Bastard sparing with her eldest down in one of the courtyards, his strange black sword clashing against the blade he had tempted Robb with; they went back and forth until Robb’s sword was knocked to the ground, Catelyn’s heart along with it. Rage replaced that feeling when the pair of laughing young men were joined by Ser Barristan Selmy; the famed knight offered her son, the Heir of Winterfell, only a few brief words before turning his attention to the Bastard.

The Lady of Winterfell fell her body begin to burn and a bitter taste filled her mouth. He was at it again, the Bastard was stealing what belonged to others; he always did that, if it wasn’t her husband’s love, it was her children obedience or the attention of the king and renowned knights that should have gone to her son. His presence was bad enough, but why did he have to ruin everything?

Even after the Bastard did the proper thing and left Winterfell of his own accord, his shameful presence continued to stain the castle. When he disappeared it left her husband in shambles, so she was left to deal with the sadness of their children. She tried to do the right thing; Ned’s endless searches and offered rewards may have given the children hope of seeing the Bastard again but she needed to make them understand that there was no way a boy of four-and-ten could survive on his own, especially after a storm -the worse anyone has seen in decades- swept over the land the day after he had disappeared. Catelyn tried to get her children to each light a candle at the feet of the Stranger for the Bastard so that they could move on but only obedient Sansa and baby Rickon had done so; Robb refused outright and hadn’t entered the sept in years while Arya threw a vicious fit -joined by Bran once he figured out what was going on- and then they both told Ned, who was furious.

However, once that fury passed, he -helped by a visit from Benjen- began to pull himself from his stupor. He returned to his duties both as Warden of the North and as a father, taking time out of every day to spend time with each of their children. Then, slowly but sure, Ned worked to repair the divide that had grown between the two. Two years passed and a new peace settled over Winterfell; a better peace, in Catelyn’s opinion. Which had, of course, eventually been ruined by the Bastard with just a simple letter; it hadn’t even said much, just that he was alive, doing well, and living in a land far, far away from her and her family

The Lady of Winterfell hadn’t exactly been glad to hear from the Bastard, but the knowledge had made her husband and children happy so as long as the only presence the boy had in Winterfell was in the form of letters, she could silently bare it. Her peace had been shaken but, as long as her family was content, she could carry on. Things changed once again, though, the day she found her husband distraught in his solar. When Catelyn tried to figure out what had upset him so, she had been rebuffed; later, after much pushing from herself and Robb, Ned had finally admitted that Jon was angry with him and didn’t want to maintain correspondence anymore. He refused to say what the argument had been about, but Cat just knew that the Bastard wanted something her husband had been unwilling to give. So, she did what was necessary and banned her children from writing to their bastard brother. They hadn’t liked it, but she did what she had too -even as a cloud somberness filled the castle yet again.

The Bastard’s return had made her near physically ill; how dare he show back up after all these years, at a celebration she planned. It was bad enough that so many of the people she invited could -or wouldn’t- come, even her own brother hadn’t been able to make it, but the Bastard had to show up too? Everything, even the upcoming arrival of the royal family, had been tainted the moment he had arrived at Lord Manderly’s side with a chest full of exotic gifts and a strange, dark-skinned giant at his beck-and-call. He had made Ned dismiss her, made her children praise him, and even made dutiful Sansa disobey her. Then he ingratiated himself into the king and members of his party's with gifts and flattery, stealing attention that should have been her children’s while his cohort poisoned the minds’ of servants against her.

Catelyn, red-faced and pulse racing, she flung the door to her husband’s solar open. Ned jumped up from his seat, eyes wide with surprise, “Cat, what’s-”

“You need to stop this now,” she hissed bitterly.

“W-what do you mean?”

“The Bastard, you need to stop him!”

“Cat, you’re not making any sense. What is wrong with Jon?”

“He’s stealing from Robb, from all of your other children! He’s showing off in front of everyone and throwing himself at the king because he wants Winterfell and you don’t even care! But I won’t stand for it, he must go! If you ever cared for me than you’ll send him away and tell him never to return!”

Catelyn knew she sounded hysterical because Ned just signed and slumped down into his chair, rubbing his brow, “You need to calm down, Cat.”

“Why can’t you see the danger he poses to Robb and the other boys? That’s why I forbid the children from writing to him!” She hated the dismissal, hated the way he looked up at her like she was the mad one and hated the way the face she had grown to love twisted in anger now.

“Wait, did you ban the children from writing to Jon? You had no right to do that!”

“I had every right! I’m trying to protect us all! Why don’t you understand?”

“Jon would never harm his siblings, you’d know that if-”

“Maybe he won’t harm them physically, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to undermine his siblings! And what happens when Robb marries Margaery Tyrell? Bastards are lustful creatures by nature and the girl is said to be a great beauty, what if he ends up cuckolding Robb?”

Why, why couldn’t Ned just understand that she was just trying to protect her family? Instead of listening to her, Catelyn could see the sparks of angry lighting in Ned’s eyes; then, in a coldly calm voice, he tore her hopes of the future to shreds. “Robb won’t be marrying Margaery Tyrell, he is going to marry Alys Karstark if my talks with her father go well. Rickard seems receptive to the idea but there is the small matter of her technical engagement to Daryn Hornwood; their families were waiting until Alys flowered to wed the two but since that has come and gone without any marriage, they might be convinced to set the betrothal aside. If not then there is always Karla Umber or Wynafryd Manderly, though there are some issues with her.”

Catelyn was aghast, “B-but those are all Northern matches.”

“Aye, marriages are the best way to ensure loyalty.”

“Northern houses have always been loyal, nothing will change that.”

“I hope that is true, but if loyalty is ignored long enough then it can turn into bitterness. This will ensure my vassals know that the Starks are as devoted to the North as the North is to them.”

“But I thought we talked about Southern matches for the children? We agreed-”

“We agreed on nothing. You talked about Southern matches, Catelyn, and I listened, to an extent. If all goes well than Sansa will marry Prince Joffrey, but Robb and Rickon will both have Northern brides. I’m not sure about Bran yet, however, I do think that having him foster at Riverrun while squirting under your uncle is a good idea.”

It was, but Catelyn was still too shocked to be happy about it, “Arya-”

“Arya will be marrying in the South as well, I’m working on finding her a match in Dorne.”

The idea of one of her children in the barren wasteland horrified Catelyn. “Dorne? You can’t possibly send our daughter there! Its filled with nothing but violent, godless heathens! They-”

“They afford women far more independence and flexibility than anywhere else in Westeros. Arya will be happy there and that's all we should care about. I will send the first offer to Doran Martell soon; if he rejects it than the heir of Starfall is close to her age."

Starfall. ‘So it all comes back to the Daynes,’ the Lady of Winterfell spit bitterly in the safe void of her own mind as icy wrath replaced the boiling anger she had been feeling a moment ago. Her eyes narrowed and she glared at her husband of near twenty years, “So that's it then? You don’t care what I think? You just want to feel close to her again, don’t you? Ashara is gone, Ned! She is dead and nothing can bring her back; not marrying Arya into her family and not showing preference to her bastard son!”

Ned slammed his hands down on the desk, starting her. “By the gods, this nonsense needs to stop, Catelyn! Arya’s potential future marriage has nothing to do with Ashara and I’m having a hard enough time trying to convince Jon to stay without your childish jealousy making it harder.”

Catelyn went still, not at the claim her anger was childish but at something else.“W-what do you mean, you’re trying to convince him to stay?”

“Jon doesn’t want Winterfell, Cat! He doesn’t even want to stay in Westeros!” Ned explained desperately, looking at her like he was seeing a stranger.

Catelyn stared back, confusion filling her. “If I don’t want him here and he doesn’t want to be here than why in the world are you trying to convince him to stay? Are you really so desperate to be reminded of his mother that you’d go against his own wishes?”

“He doesn’t know what he wants, he’s too young. Besides, Winterfell is where Jon belongs.”

Cat shook her head desperately, “For someone so honorable, you are a selfish, selfish man, Eddard Stark.”

“That’s enough, Cat. Now you are the mother of my children and I love you dearly, but this petty hatred of Jon has gone on long enough. I've stood by silently for years as you tried to alienate him from his own home and siblings. That’s on me; I tried to do my best by both you and Jon and I only ended up hurting you both. I am truly sorry about that, but I won’t let you continue to harass my blood because of your hurt feelings. You’ll never love the boy, fine, but for everyone’s sake you need to move on.”

Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and words caught in Catelyn’s throat, “How can you say that to me? I’m your wife! I’ve given you five healthy true-born children and you can’t do this one thing for me? You’re right, I do hate the boy! I think he’s a horrible stain on this entire family and that you should have left him in the desert where he was born. I can’t stand the sight of him! If he dropped dead before me I wouldn't waste a tear on his corpse! I don’t want him anywhere near me or my children and if you try to keep him here I’ll- I’ll-”

“We’ve clearly come at a bad time.”

A familiar deep voice cause pulled the pair’s attention from each other and to the doorway where the Bastard and his giant cohort were standing. The Bastard’s face was carefully blank but Catelyn could see the glint of malicious amusement in Vlast’s eyes.

“Jon…” Ned took a step towards the pair, face crestfallen as the Bastard turned on his heel to walk away.

Vlast watched him go before returning his attention to Cat’s husband, “I apologize if my companion and I interrupted you, Lord of Winterfell. But we thought it important to let you know that we intend to take our leave from this castle in three days time.”

The Lady of Winterfell’s heart leapt at the man’s words and the promise that she wouldn’t have to put up with the Bastard much long, only for it to come crashing back down when Ned spoke up. “No, he can't leave yet. You both need to stay-”

“Your offer is generous, Lord of Winterfell, but it really is time for us to take our leave. The journey back to Skyrim is long and Thane Whitewolf has many responsibilities he needs to return to. We also would not want to continue making anyone uncomfortable with our presence.”

The man didn’t look at her, didn’t even acknowledge her, but Catelyn knew mocking when she heard it. She felt her cheeks flush red -embarrassment, anger, or a combination of the two, she did not know- and she opened her mouth to berate this man, this stranger, who dare insult her in her own home but he spoke up again before she could get a word out.

“Well, now you know. I have several people I need to speak with about gathering supplies for our return. I thank you for hosting me, Lord of Winterfell; my visit to your home has been interesting but it would be a lie to say I hope to ever return.”

The man left, almost certainly to go spread foul rumors about her to the servants he had integrated himself with, and left Ned standing there silently. Discomfort filled the air and, after a moment, Cat reached out in an attempt to comfort him. “Ned…”

Her husband waved her away, “Cat, just- I can’t deal with you right now. Please, just go away.”

Despair filled Catelyn’s heart as Ned left her in his solar, never once looking back. She stood there for a long moment, heart pounding in her ears. When she was sure Ned was gone she fled to her private quarters, keeping her head down so that no one would see the tears she was fighting back. Those she only let them out in the safety of her room.

Collapsing in the armchair closest to the fireplace, the Lady of Winterfell pulled the softest blanket she had around her shaking body as she desperately tried to get warm.

Jon VIII

‘It’s not like I didn’t know she thought that,’ Jon assured himself as applied red paint to the hair of a figurine. ‘So why did hearing it hurt so badly?’

But the young Dragonborn had mastered the fine art of emotional repression long ago so Jon simply shoved any lingering pain -the pain he should have gotten over by now- to the side and replaced it with the comforting knowledge that he soon would be leaving the ghosts that haunted Winterfell behind. Saying goodbye to Robb, Arya, and the others would be hard but regular correspondence could start again and maybe, one day, they could visit him in Skyrim. Until then all he had to do was avoid Lord and Lady Stark; hiding out in one of the rarely used lounge annexes might be considered cowardly but, honestly, Jon didn’t care.

The small room was a quiet place for Jon to be alone with his thoughts and distract himself by working on his carvings. Well, he wasn't entirely alone, Enzo had been with him briefly but had left a while ago to talk to servants about the best places to buy foodstuffs in bulk. He also, Jon figured, could wait to gossip about what Lady Stark had said with the castle staff. The giant Redguard was an honorable man in many ways, but, when it came protecting loved ones, he could be creatively vindictive. Jon, for his part, wasn’t a good enough man to try and stop his friend. Ghost had also made a reappearance, having apparently decided to forgive Jon for shrinking him -though the direwolf might have been motivated by some jealousy over Jon's new female shadowcat kitten, Phantasm- and was currently basking by the fire.

So here he sat, singing “Brundi and the Sea” under his breath and putting the final touches on a carving of Aela; it was about a foot tall and depicted the huntress with her bow drawn and a fierce expression on her painted face. Over the years he had created figurines of most of his friends, including all of the Companions. He even did two larger depictions of Kodlak and Skjor that stood in remembrance at Jorrvaskr. Jon smiled down to the painted green eyes, Aela -tough and stern as she was- had been like an older sister since he first arrived in Skyrim. She had given him his first bow and taught him how to use it.

“That’s a pretty song.”

Jon jerked his head up to see Princess Myrcella standing at the doorway, smiling nervously with her hands knotted in the skirt of her green and gold dress. He bowed, “Your Royal Highness, how can I help you?”

“Please, I just need someplace quiet to sit for awhile.”

“I can leave if you wish.”

“No, no, it’s alright. You don’t need to leave on my account, Ser Jon.”

“It would be inappropriate of me to stay in your company without a chaperone, Princess.”

“It would also be inappropriate to leave a helpless young lady alone and defenseless, especially after she got lost wondering this grand old castle. You wouldn’t do such a thing, would you, Ser Jon?” Princess Myrcella slipped into a padded armchair across the table and cocked a golden brow at him as her emerald eyes glittered with mischief. Ghost came over to her and, after licking her outstretched hand, plopped his massive head down in the princess' lap. 

“Very well, but you don’t have to call me ‘Ser’. I’m not a knight.”

“Maybe, but you did save my brother and that makes you as good as any knight I know. Even better, actually, because you did it without wanting or expecting anything in return.”

It was true. When Tommen had fallen down that hill, Jon hadn’t seen a prince or an opportunity, he had seen a little boy in danger and had reacted as such. Even though King Robert had promised to reward him -which he hadn’t yet, Jon honestly hoped the fat king had forgotten all about it- it didn’t change anything. “That should be the norm, in my opinion.”

“Perhaps,” the princess said wistfully as she stared at the fire, “but it’s rarely the case. When you’re royalty, people -even the ones who may truly care for you- always see you in terms of what you can do to, or for, them. You’re always watched, everything you say or do or wear is scrutinized.”

There was a story there, likely a somber one, but Jon knew better than to bring it up so he sat in silence with the young princess. Eventually, she spoke up again, “That song you were singing, I’ve never heard it before.”

“It’s a song I learned while in Skyrim, “Brundi and the Sea”, it’s quite popular in port towns and cities.”

“It’s pretty,” the girl repeated, firelight catching in her hair.

“It is, but it’s also sad. Yet I still find comfort in it. Serana -she is a friend of my mine- loves that song, asks me to sing it so often that it always makes me think of her.”

“Are you a bard?”

“Not exactly, but I do have some training. I can also play the lute quite well, if I do say so myself.“ Jon had learned that something people had a hard time talking even when they wanted to get something off their chest; when that happened it was best to talk until they felt comfortable to let it out.

“I had tea today with your sisters.”

“Oh, did you enjoy yourself?

“I guess,” Princess Myrcella shrugged. “Lady Sansa was the one who talked to me the most. She nice, but…”

“But?”

“But she acted just like all the other ladies. I know that she probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it but Father said that people in the North are different so I hoped…. She did the same things everyone does: compliment my hair, tell me how lovely my dress it, and ask me about my brother. They always ask about Joffrey, sometimes Tommen too but always about Joffrey. No one ever just wants to know about me; well, they want to know about Princess Myrcella Baratheon but not about me, Myrcella.”

Jon felt an ache of sympathy for the young princess, “Don’t you have any friends?”

Another shrug, “I have handmaidens and bedmates, there is my cousin Rosamund too but… I don’t know, they were all chosen for me to serve some greater purpose. Don’t get me wrong, I get along with them all well enough -Rosie and I are really close- but I know they report back on me to their families and would use me to get ahead in life if they could. I have Tommen, but now that he’s started martial training we don’t have as much time to spend together as we use to. Aside from him, I get along best with Uncle Stannis’ daughter, Shireen, and Uncle Tyrion -they like to read and learn as much as I do- but Mother doesn’t like when I spend too much time with either of them.”

“That’s odd, do you know why?”

Princess Myrcella’s eyes dipped low, “Mother has been getting more controlling as I’ve aged but at the same time, she’s been more distant. We did so much together when I was younger, she used to have matching gowns made for us. Now that I’m older, though, she seems more and more… dissatisfied with me. If she doesn’t like the things I read or the clothes I wear or the people I spend time with than she gets rid of them; she doesn’t consider that they make me happy, just replaces them with what makes her happy. That’s why I spend almost all my time surrounded by my Lannister cousins, Mother chooses them for me. It just would be nice to have a friend that I wasn’t related to or wasn’t picked out by someone else.”

Gentle green eyes sad, the princess looked at him then and asked, “Could you be my friend, Ser Jon?”

The painfully shyness that colored her voice broke Jon’s heart; he knew what it was like to feel alone even whilst surrounded by people you cared for. “I’d love nothing more  than to be your friend, Princess, but I’m returning to Skyrim soon.”

“You could still write me letters,” her brow furrowed deeply but a brightness returned to her eyes. “No, no, you’d have to address the letters to Tommen; it would look too odd otherwise. But you saved Tommen and he thinks you’re the greatest thing since cake -he talks about you so much that it makes Joffrey jealous- so it wouldn’t seem suspicious if you had a correspondence. Father is already taken by you too so he wouldn’t mind; Mother will probably object but so long as Father allows it there isn’t much she can do about it.”

‘This girl has a mind beyond her years; if it was properly honed I doubt there would be anything she couldn’t accomplish,’ Jon thought with a grin. “It would be an honor.”

Myrcella met his eyes with a smile before they flicked to the drying figurine on the table, “What’s that?”

“Oh, I make little wood carvings in my spare time; it helps me relax. This one is of my friend, Aela; she’s the greatest hunter and tracker I’ve ever met.”

“You can do much and yet you never brag; I wish Joffrey could be more like you, he’s all bluster with no substance.”

From what Jon had seen of the crown prince, he didn’t seem like the boy had many great accomplishments; not that he’d ever say such a thing out loud. He held out both hands so Myrcella could see the dozens of scars that covered them, “It takes time to develop any sort of skill. I must have cut myself a thousand times when I started making carvings.”

“You kept at it though. Do you have any more I could see?”

“Sure,” he passed her the box that held all the ones he had worked on during the trip. The golden-haired princess handled each one with extreme care; examining each one with intense fascination. He pointed at the two she just pulled out, “Those are Farkas and Vilkas; they’re twins. Vilkas is the smaller of the two, even if he is the older one; one of the best strategist I’ve ever seen but extremely grouchy, especially if you wake him early in the morning. Farkas is tough as steel but a real puppy dog on the inside; he claims not to be much of a thinker but is smarter than he gives himself credit for.”

A pearly smile turned into a gasp of delight when Myrcella pulled out a finished piece, a painted snow fox. “It’s beautiful, looks just like Ghost.”

The giant direwolf’s red eyes flicked open and he gave a dissatisfied huff at what he seemed to feel was an unflattering comparison. Jon chuckled, “You really like it? It’s yours then.”

“Really? Thank you! I’ll take good care of it, I swear! I’m going to call it Vix. Would you mind if I picked one out for Tommen?” The girl clutched the carving to her chest, fingers curled over its ears.

“Of course, go ahead.” The fox wasn’t anything he had an emotional connection too and it wasn’t as if he couldn’t make another.

After careful consideration, Myrcella selected a red fox figurine to match her own. “He’ll like this one; Tommen loves animals.”

“Well, I’m glad they’ll be going to someone who will appreciate them. Otherwise, they’d just end up sitting in one of my houses collecting dust.”

Myrcella propped her chin up on her hand, “Can you tell me more about Skyrim? It sounds like a fascinating place.”

Jon hesitated, he had to before how much he revealed about his home, but the earnest look on Myrcella’s face make him give in. “What would you like to know?”

Supper that night was not as loud or rambunctious as it had been for the past few nights; there was still plenty of food -though only five courses instead of nine- and even some music. The Great Hall was also far emptier than it had been, most of the Northern households had already left, aside from the Karstarks, Umbers, and Manderlys. That being said, a heavy, uncomfortable atmosphere hung in the room, choking everyone but the youngest children with the feeling of claustrophobia.

Enzo -who sat, looking very much like the cat that ate the canary, at the end of the table describing the different holidays celebrated in Hammerfell to Rickon, Bran, and Tommen- had wasted no time spreading descent among the castle staff. The serving girls who cleared plates, filled drinks, and brought new food gave him warm, sympathetic glances along with ensuring he was given fine cuts of meat -almost certainly on Matlyn’s orders- while being as coldly polite to Lady Catelyn as they could without risking punishment.

The Lady of Winterfell sat stiffly next to her husband; the pair had not looked at, spoken to, or even touched one another for the entire evening and, when spoken to, Lady Catelyn gave short, terse answer before returning to her food. Robb obviously knew what happened because he refused to meet Jon’s eyes, instead forcing himself to engage in a conversation with Prince Joffrey about the younger man’s hobbies which seemed exclusively be hunting and boasting about his supposed martial prowess. Theon drank most of the meal away, likely wanting to avoid as much awkwardness as possible. Jon had managed to engage Sansa in a brief conversation about the dress she was making but mostly she just kept trying to get the crown prince’s attention. It wasn't too lonely though, he still had Arya and Myrcella to talk with; he even got the two girls to bond over their shared interest in falconry.

It also seemed that, at the very least, the king was still having fun. After managing to pull his attention away from a serving girl’s generous cleavage, the king called to him, “Boy, I’ve been thinking about what would be an appropriate reward for saving my son and have come up blank.”

“That’s quite alright, Your Grace. I was only doing what anyone would; I don’t need a reward for common decency.” Jon didn’t want anything from this man, except maybe to be ignored; too bad the king seemed to want Jon’s… would affection be the right word?

King Robert let out a hearty laugh and slapped Lord Stark on the shoulder, “Common decency, eh? He’s just as honorable as you, Ned. Now, normally I’d knight you but since I doubt knighthood means much in that strange land of your’s, it would be a meaningless gift. I could legitimize you, if you want-”

“That’s not necessary, Your Grace!”

“-but I can tell you’re the kind of man who takes pride in his identity, and you built a good one around a name of your own choosing. So, I’ll tell you what, you're coming with your father and sister when we all leave for King’s Landing in two weeks. You’ll stay at the Red Keep as my honor guest and get to see the splendor of the capital. Ned told me you haven’t seen much of Westeros outside of Winterfell so I’m sure it’ll be exciting for you. So, what do you say?”

Every part of eyes in the hall slide to Jon, who could only give a shaky smile and a mental, ‘Fuck!’

Next Chapter: Things between Ned and Jon reach a boiling point, but maybe that is for the best.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

THIS CHAPTER IS DEDICATED TO THE WONDERFUL JESS, YOU DREW AND SENT THE LOVELY SKETCHES THAT CAN BE FOUND AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE...ONCE I FIGURE OUT HOW TO DO THAT!

LOVE YOU, JESS!

Ned III

Ned was beginning to understand why men drank. The Warden of the North was a man of few indulgences; both his father and Jon Arryn had stressed the importance of personal restraint and self-control, so even when things when bad he rarely turned to the bottle for relief. Still, he was starting to see the temptation of such a thing; alcohol never judged, only provided some brief imitation of comfort.

‘Comfort would be nice,’ Ned thought glumly as he made his way towards the Godswood, snow crunching under his boots. ‘As of now all I have is a wife who refuses to look at me, a beloved nephew who hates me, a castle full of gossiping servants, a blood son torn between two people he loves, and a long winter breathing down the back of my neck.’

Supper last night had been a painfully awkward affair, even before Robert’s offer. Catelyn had wanted nothing to do with him and, at the time, he had wanted nothing to do with her either. The long-simmering anger that had finally boiled over in his solar yesterday was nothing but poison but -in the moment- releasing it felt like the purest ecstasy; finally, after so long, he was able to speak his mind about Catelyn’s behavior and defend his son. Now though, he wished he could take it all back.

Something must have upset Cat, leaving her in such an unreasonable state; surely she couldn’t have honestly meant what she said! It was Ned’s fault, he should have been calmer with her and explained things better. Instead, he let his own anger get the best of him, raising his voice and even getting some measure of sick satisfaction at the woe on Cat’s face when he tore her plans to shreds in front of her. It was wrong and now they could barely be in the same room together.

Their marriage needed to be fixed, preferably before Ned left for King’s Landing; the idea of leaving his wife alone and angry for so long while he was in the South caused Ned agony. One of the best pieces of advice he had ever received was not to go to bed angry, something he already failed at; he refused to leave his home angry too.

A bird chirped overhead and Ned allowed himself to enjoy the momentary peace; it was a rare temperate day, the clouds had cleared to give the denizens of Winterfell a glimpse of the sun, which reflected off the layers of snow in a harsh glare. It was still bitterly cold, but at least it wasn’t as dark or wet as the past months had been. The reemergence of sunlight also reinvigorated the inhabitants of the castle; everyone he passed wore chipper smiles and a relaxed posture. Ned wished he could share their enjoyment of the weather.

The walk along the familiar path over the snow, moss, and old, packed earth to the center of the Godswood soothed Ned; the ash, chestnut, hawthorn, ironwood, oaks, sentinel, and soldier pine trees formed a thick, dense canopy overhead, blocking out some of the rare sunshine. But Ned found comfort in the shadows, not fear; he knew these woods, knew each leaf and each twig snap and each animal call that echoed through the brush. This was his place.

This was also, apparently, someone else’s place of comfort. As he entered the clearing that housed the weirwood tree, he noticed a dark-haired figured crouched by the icy black pool of water; one he knew all too well. He approached cautiously, keeping his steps as quietly as possible until he was close enough to reach out.

“Jon…”

His son when stiff under Ned’s palm, near-black eyes flicking up to the Lord of Winterfell’s face. For a moment it seemed like the boy was going to flee, but instead, Jon just tightened his jaw and gave a brief nod. Ned took this as an invitation to sit so he settled down next to Jon, wincing as his body protested the motion; gods, he was getting old.

“I’m not interrupting your prayers, am I?” Ned asked, a touch of nervousness in his voice as he adjusted his cloak so it would offer some padding against the cold, damp ground.

“No, I don’t...pray much anymore. I found that it never leads anywhere; I don’t know if the Old Gods exist, but I do know that I can’t expect them to solve my problems. When I want results, I take matters into my own hands. But this has always been a good place to think.”

The apparent nihilism that had grown in Jon’s heart pained Ned; unlike his children with Cat who had been raised half in the Faith in the Seven and half in the religion of the Old Gods -Robb and Arya had mostly denounced their Mother’s faith; something that hurt Catelyn but their agreement had always been that the children would be allowed to choose who they’d worship once they aged- Jon had always prayed to the Old Gods. Ned had personally overseen the boy’s religious instruction, had taught him the rules and customs. When the other children were with Catelyn in the sept, Jon had been with Ned in front of the heart tree.

In the past, he savored those moments and now cherished those memories.

“I can leave if you’d like to pray in privacy,” Jon offered, his eyes fixated on the dark pool before him.

“No, no. I just came here for some quiet; dear as Robert is to me and as much as I enjoy him being here, I need some time to myself.”

Jon gave a brief chuckle, “The king does seem quite...attention hungry.”

Usually, Ned would scold Jon for such a comment -true as it was- but seeing as he still had hopes of convincing his boy to stay at Westeros, he bit back a frown. “Robert’s parents died in a horrifically tragic ship crash when he was a young man; it affected him greatly.”

A brief shrug was Jon’s response, “I can imagine. Don’t suppose you have any idea why he’s decided to fixate on me?”

“You’re quite remarkable. I’d have been more surprised if Robert wasn’t fascinated by you, he’s a good judge of character.”

That comment earned him a soft smile, which made Jon look so much like he did when the boy was young that it hurt Ned’s heart. It also made him regret having to ask his next question.

“Are you going to accept the king’s offer?”

Downcast eyes reflected in the water, “No...it’s time for me to leave; I have much to do back in Skyrim. I’m just trying to figure out the most polite way to turn to decline the king.”

Ned didn’t release the breath he was holding in, but it was a close thing. There were few things in life he wanted less than for Jon to go to King’s Landing; not as long as the image of three broken bodies -two of them gruesomely tiny- wrapped in bloodstained cloth and lying on the hard stone floor of the throne room haunted his dream. “He might be angry, but I can help you break it to him. He’ll accept it easier coming from me; Robert’s anger is like a summer thunderstorm; fast and furious but always quick enough to blow over.”

Jon nodded and the pair sat in silence, listening to the wind and the birds around them. Eventually, Jon glanced up at the weirwood above them, “You know, when I first arrive in Skyrim I felt lost and alone. I picked up on the language quickly enough -it’s quite similar to Common Tongue- but, as I said, Nords are an insular lot; it took me a while to prove myself to them, had to run a lot of errands. Time passed and they accepted me but for a while, I still felt isolated, so -in order to get some familiarity- I made myself a little heart tree; It’s only about three feet tall and I carved it from an old chunk of wood then painted it. But it gave me comfort and even though I don’t pray anymore, I still keep it in one of my houses.”

The confession warmed Ned; Jon hadn’t forsaken his roots after all. Maybe he could use that to convince him to stay, at least for a little while longer. Still, this was the happiest conversation he’d had with Jon since the boy arrived back at Winterfell and he didn’t want it to end. “I know you mentioned owning several properties, how many houses do you have?”

“Nine. Five of them are in major cities, three of them in more rural areas, and one is on a nearby island; that one I was given as payment for services rendered. I also have a permanent room in one of the other cities. I also own six mines, three stores, a mill, and a few other various properties.”

Ned let out a low, long whistle and a smile twitched back onto Jon’s face. “I know, sometimes I’m not even sure how I did it. But I’ve come upon many down-on-their-luck folks during my travels, and my businesses give me a way to help them; few Nord’s will accept outright charity but they will accept the opportunity to work for fair wages. The people of Skyrim have been good to me, much better than they needed to be -even in the beginning- so giving them a source of honest employment is the least I can do.”

That was so much like Jon; the boy had always wanted to do the right thing, just like Lyanna. Ned took a chance and wrapped an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “I am proud of you, son. Despite everything I’ve said, I’m proud of how much you’ve been able to accomplish.”

His words were genuine and meant to comfort his boy, but instead had the opposite effect. Jon went stiff and pulled away from Ned, eyes dark and angry. He rolled to his feet, “No proud enough to respect my own choices obviously.”

Ned stood and grabbed Jon’s arm, pulling him in for a tight hug, “Jon...I want you to stay, I won’t lie. When you left, it tore me apart. What I said in the crypts was wrong, I understand that now but I still need to ask at least once more; will you stay?”

Jon didn’t answer immediately but Ned was content to hold him against his chest until the boy was ready to speak. Eventually, he did so, “I’ll...consider it. If you tell me the truth about my birth.”

The Lord of Winterfell went cold; Jon had asked about his mother at least a dozen times over the years, each time more desperately than the last, and each time Ned managed to avoid answering, usually by promising to tell the boy when he was older. Now though, if he had any hope of keeping his son, he needed to give some answer, any answer. “Your mother was Ashara Dayne; I loved her but the death of her brother broke her mind, she made me swear to care for you as she knew she would never be able to. I never told you before because-”

“Unbelievable! Even now you can’t bring yourself to tell the truth!”

Jon shoved Ned away -the older man stumbling and barely avoiding falling into the frigid, dark pond. The Warden of the West looked as his boy -whose eyes were now burning with fury- in surprise, “W-what?”

“I know, Lord Stark!”

Ice flooded Ned’s blood, ‘No, he can’t possibly…’

“I know that my mother isn’t Ashara Dayne or some other woman and I know that you are not my father. I am the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, aren’t I? Say it!  I want to hear you say it!”

Jon was like a storm, face flushed and hand wound into his own dark hair. Even so, Ned couldn’t bring himself to do it, he just couldn’t; this was a truth he hid for years, barely even allowing himself to acknowledge it. “How’d you-”

“I heard you! That night, after my nameday, I couldn’t sleep so I was just wandering the halls when heard you talking to Uncle Benjen in one of the empty corridors; I heard what you said!”

Tears bloomed at the corners of Jon’s eyes and Ned felt any resistance he still had erode away. He couldn’t deny the truth any longer; the only thing he could do now comfort his son. “I’m so… sorry, Jon. I never meant to hurt you. You’ve got to understand, if the truth was ever revealed, it would have been disastrous for everyone. I don’t care what happens to me but you and Cat and your siblings? I couldn’t risk their lives. So I lied; I lied and let you be hurt be and I am so sorry. Every time I saw you cry and every time you asked about your mother, it broke my heart.”

The hot rage in Jon’s eyes was replaced by cold wrath, “It broke your heart? Well, I’m sorry, Lord Stark, that must have been awful for you!”

Ned didn’t have anything to say to that, couldn’t think of some way to defend himself. So he could only watch sadly as his nephew -the boy he raised as his own- stormed off into the woods. He turned to the heart tree, it’s carved face weeping red sap as it stared down at him judgmentally. “I don’t suppose you can give me any advice?”

“Liquor already, Ned? It’s not even noon yet.”

The mostly-empty bottle slipped from between Ned’s fingers, falling to the stone floor and shattering into glittering fractals. “Howland!”

It had been long since he’d seen the Lord of Greywater Watch, too long, but the man hadn’t changed all that much; he was older, of course, but still slim and slender with fantastic green eyes that even now seemed far too old for his face. On top of his head was a messy thicket of hair that more silver than brown and the man was wearing a simple dark green tunic with sturdy brown trousers and boots. When Ned pulled him into an embrace, he smelt earth and fog on the man’s skin. “It’s good to see you, Old Friend, but I’m afraid you’ve missed Robb’s nameday feast. The king is still here though.”

Howland returned the embrace before pulling back, kindness in his eyes but a somber look on his face. “I’m not here for any celebration, Ned. I had a dream.”

“Why’d you bring this?”

“I thought it might be of use.”

“I told you to destroy it.”

The trunk sat in the center of his solar innocuously, like it couldn’t destroy lives and leave Westeros in ruin. It was a simple thing; worn black canvas, tears and holes revealing the wood underneath, with a once red sigil of a three-headed dragon that was now smudged and the color of rust. Such a simple thing and yet it mocked Ned ruthlessly.

“It wasn’t mine to destroy; it isn’t yours either. It belongs to him; it’s always belonged to him. We’ve just been its keeper, but now it’s time for us to give it back.”

“Jon knows, Howland; that's why he left. What good could the contents of this trunk possibly do for anyone?” Ned asked solemnly, brushing his thumb over the center dragon’s head; the old paint rubbing off like colorful dust.

“Whatever pieces of history he may have found, he needs to know the whole story from the hands of those who wrote it. The boy will never see his parents’ faces, never hear their voices, or feel their touch. But their words? Those he can read.”

A hand, thin but callous and strong, squeezed Ned’s shoulder. The Warden of the North sighed, “No matter the situation I just can’t seem to make any right choices when it comes to Jon; I trust you on this, my friend, even though I hate to do it while Robert is under the same roof.”

The hand squeezed again, “I know this is hard, but I’m glad you see that it is necessary. The truth is often painful, Ned. But like an infection needs to be cleaned out for a wound to heal, the truth must be known for lives to move forward.”

There was a pause before Howland added, “Besides, I didn’t exactly intend to give you a choice. I’ve already sent someone to get Jon and bring him here, I was going to tell him whether you wanted to or not.”

“Howland!”

The Crannogman shrugged, “You’re a stubborn man, Ned; it’s a Stark trait, I assume. I knew if you wouldn’t listen to reason than I’d have to put you on the spot. Now, I suggest you prepare yourself; this isn’t going to be easy on anyone.”

Jon IX

Thwam!

Jon slammed the door to his room behind him with such for it rattled in its frame; his body was boiling, he was nearly vibrating with bottled-up energy. He paced the length of the room like a caged animal; on one of his passes, his hip knocked into the dresser corner. Anger still clouding his mind, Jon violently kicked the bottom drawer once, twice, three times before the wood began to crack. A distress cry from little Phantasm -previously asleep on his pillow- brought him to his senses.

He sat back on the bed, folding in on himself with elbows on his knees and hand buried in his hair. He took a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart, closed his eyes, and remembered.

“He asked about his mother again, said her name was all he wanted for his nameday.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“The same thing I always do, that I’d tell him when he was older.”

Jon peered out from around corner, watching and listening to his father and uncle hushed conversation. He knew eavesdropping was rude and that he’d likely be punished if caught, but they were talking about him -talking about his mother- and Jon was sure he could stay hidden. He was crouched down in the dark halls of Winterfell with not even moonlight shining through the windows and the only source of light being the lantern Father carried; so long as he remained silent, there should be nothing that would give him away.

“He’s four-and-ten now, you won’t be able to say that much longer.”

“Aye, but soon he’ll be able to join the Night’s Watch; after that, it will be safe to tell him the truth.”

Uncle Benjen frowned, the flicking lantern cast dark shadows over his face, “I know we’ve talked Jon’s future before, but I’m still not sure the Wall is the best place for him. He’d do well there, certainly, but he’s too good, too soft-hearted for such a place. The Wall is far from a noble organization these days; it’s full of robbers and killers and rappers who all decided a slow, cold death is somehow better than a quick one at the chopping block or the hangman’s noose. The whole thing is just barely kept in line by the Old Bear and who knows how much longer he’s going to last.”

“I’m not saying it’s a perfect plan but it is the safest; besides, at least he’ll have family that he can rely on.”

“If it's me you're referring to, my duties as ranger keep away for long stretches of time with no guarantee I’ll ever return. I can’t be there to protect him and, believe me, a boy like Jon will need protecting. But if you’re referring to-”

“Don’t! Speak his name in front of me, not in this household!” Father cut Uncle Benjen off sharply, a severe look on his face. “That man and his family have no place here in Winterfell and certainly not in Jon’s life.”

The atmosphere grew dark and tense; Jon watched both men tighten their bodies and set their jaws from his hiding place. Who was at the Wall that didn’t belong in his life? Could his mother -could he- have a relative there? A grandfather or uncle? Maybe even an older half-brother? The idea was so exciting that Jon nearly let out a gasp, only just managing to smother it by biting down on his thumb.

“Of course, you get to decide that! Just like you get to decide Jon will know nothing about the truth of his birth until you deem him ready.” There was a sharp sneer in Uncle Benjen’s voice now; Jon shivered, he’d never hear his uncle sound so angry.

“Oh, don’t start again! Every choice I’ve made has been to protect Jon, just like she wanted. If you’d had your way he’d be off living in Essos with the other two. He wouldn’t even know Winterfell; at least this way he’s grown up around his family.”

Uncle Benjen let out a dark chuckle, “Aye, I’m sure Lyanna would be so grateful to know her son get to enjoy the loving warmth of your darling wife.”

Lyanna? Why would his dead aunt care about- No. No, it couldn’t be! There was no way he could be Aunt Lyanna’s child. That would mean he wasn’t his father’s son and that was… that was all he knew. Jon bit down on his thumb harder.

“Don’t you say a word about Cat. This isn’t her fault; she can’t help it,” the Lord of Winterfell growled.

“No, you’re right, it’s your fault. I asked you -no, I begged you- to let me take Jon in. We could have gone anywhere; I’d have claimed him as my own and if we got far enough away, no one would have ever questioned it. He’d have been safe, he’d have been happy, and he’d have been with family. But no, you wouldn’t hear of it.” Uncle Benjen’s tone was accusatory now and his eyes, they were just...cold.

“Lyanna wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“How would you know?” the ranger snarled. “You didn’t know her; you or Brandon, not Father either! You don’t know what she’d have wanted, not that any of you would have cared even if you did! I did know her though, and all I ever wanted was for her to be happy.”

“Yes, you knew her so well that you not only let her run off, you actually helped her! And look where her grand expedition for happiness ended; with her dead alongside thousands of others. Father, Brandon, and Rhaegar, all dead because you helped her!”

The Warden of the North was spitting mad now but Jon couldn’t hear anything else that was said. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything; nothing but his own heart pounding in his ears.

Rhaegar. Rhaegar Targaryen was his father. Rhaegar Targaryen, the Targaryen Prince, who had supposedly kidnapped and raped his aunt. The married Targaryen Prince who, if he understood correctly, his mother ran off with consensually, -that, at least, was a small comfort; he may be a bastard, but at least he wasn’t one born of rape- despite being betrothed to Robert Baratheon.

Something hot and salty burst over Jon’s tongue. He pulled his hand back to realize he had bitten through the skin of his thumb; he hadn’t even registered the pain. Blood ran down his wrist like teardrops and dripped to the floor. Jon balled his fist, pressing it into his chest and smearing red on the front of his nightshirt, and stood. In a daze, he silently padded back to his room. He collapsed on his bed; Ghost -only the size of a hound dog then- sensed his distress and join him on the mattress, licking his face as his eyes began to water.

It was funny how life works sometimes; if Jon had been able to sleep that night, he wouldn’t have gone out walking the halls trying to clear his head. If he hadn’t gone out walking than he would have never stumbled upon and overheard his Uncle Benjen and Lord Stark talking. If he hadn’t overheard them talking than his life would have never been ripped apart. If his life had never been ripped apart than he would have never run away. If he never ran away then he would have never ended up in Skyrim and things would be very, very different.

When he woke up the next morning, Jon hoped -he prayed- that it had all been some sort of strange, terrible dream. But the swollen and painful bite on his thumb had proven otherwise. He spent the next few days in a haze of horror, fear, anger, regret, and agonizing sadness, pleading illness and poor sleep when asked why he was acting so strangely. Everything he knew was a lie and the man he loved and trusted above all others had been the one to feed that lie to him. Eventually, everything subsided except for the anger; anger he felt over the lies and the deceit. He knew now - even knew on some level back then- why Lord Stark lied, but that hadn’t chased the anger away.

So it grew, like some sort of vengeful beast, not at all help by the fact he couldn’t talk to anyone about what he discovered; he wasn’t mindless, he knew that by hiding his identity Lord Stark was effectively committing treason. So he was alone with his anger and it brewed until it finally gave birth to a tremendously foolish idea- run away to Essos and find the last of his Targaryen family.

It was such a stupid idea, in hindsight. He had been a green boy with little experience with the world outside of Winterfell; he had a bit of coin saved up, about seventy silver stags, but no real plan on how to get to Essos beyond the basic idea of ‘get to White Harbor and take a ship to Essos.’ He barely gave any thought on what he’d do when he got to Essos -the closest he got was learning some basic Valyrian from books in the Winterfell library; he had a natural talent for languages, Maester Luwin always said- or how he was supposed to find his aunt and uncle, but at the time none of that mattered; his bitterness was all the encouragement he needed.

So he gathered his money, packed away his warmest clothes, stole a few books on Essos from the library, and said his goodbyes as nonchalantly as possible. He left a note; nothing to detailed, just a scrap of parchment with just six words on it, ‘I’m sorry. I needed to go.’ Then, on a morning that was fairly clear and everyone was busy, he took one rarely used horses from the stables and, the moment he had an opening, slipped away from all he ever knew with Ghost at his side.

The horse that Jon had taken was far from the most sprightly but they still managed to make good time, even taking the lesser traveled roads to avoid bandits and any men Lord Stark sent looking for him. He never came across anyone on the road though; possibly because the next day, a truly...unnatural storm blew over the land, coming out of nowhere. He was only just able to get the horse, Ghost, and himself to the relative safety of a small cave with the intention to wait out the freakish blizzard.

Those plans were shattered, however, when Ghost had run off into the snowstorm. Jon, of course, followed his beloved companion into the gale that quickly swallowed the pair up. He couldn’t say how long he stumbled aimlessly through the whiteout -ice shards cutting to his face and freezing in his hair all the way- but he did know that when it finally cleared, he was in a completely unfamiliar land. Skyrim.

He wandered for about a mile, maybe hoping to find Ghost or maybe just hoping to find any signs of civilization. Unfortunately, the civilization he found was a squabble between Stormcloaks and Legion soldiers. Before he even realized what was happening, Jon was knocked unconscious, bound, and loaded up in a cart to Helgen. It didn’t matter that he was only four-and-ten or that he wasn’t a Stormcloak -something Ralof even attested to- or that he spoke another language or that his name wasn’t on the list; the female captain ordered him to the chopping block, all the same, the bitch. But he was saved from execution by Alduin -something he would forever find hilariously ironic- and after escaping the burning town alongside Hadvar, the pair made their way to Riverwood; along the way, to Jon’s enormous relief and delight, Ghost found them, saving the two young men from an ornery boar.

The rest, he supposed, was history.

The door creaked open and Jon, assuming Enzo had come to comfort him -the older man had the uncanny ability to tell when the young Dragonborn was upset- addressed him without looking, “Do you have your things packed? I want to leave here as soon as possible.”

“Did my old furniture truly offend you so gravely, Nephew?”

Jon shot to his feet, a wide smile tugged on his face, “Uncle Benjen!”

His beloved uncle hadn’t changed much from Jon’s memories; a bit more gray in his hair, a few more wrinkles, a couple new scars, but beyond that? He was the same; the same features -sharper than the average Stark- with the same tired but kind blue eyes -not Tully blue, but a darker cobalt blue- and the same thin frame covered in black clothing. Unlike the eerie sameness of his childhood bedroom, Jon found the familiarity of his uncle’s appearance immensely comforting. The man beamed at him, eyes full of warmth, and held his arms open for a hug.

Jon took a step forward, intending to step into the embrace when a traitorous thought slipped into his mind.

‘He lied to you too. He doted on you most of all and still lied to you.’

The thought stung; he’d always took a quiet revelry in his uncle’s unspoken favoritism for him. He was the one Uncle Benjen spend the most time with when he visited and he was the one who received small little gifts of arrowheads and carved bone trinkets. He didn’t want the bond tainted so he shook that thought off and embraced his uncle, ‘He wanted to tell me; he wanted to claim me as his own and take me to live in Essos. It’s not his fault Lord Stark wouldn’t let him.’

“Jon, it’s so good to see you!”

“You too, Uncle! And in one piece, no less.”

The older man grinned, “Aye, despite the gods’ best efforts I remain whole.”

The pair shared a brief chuckled before a shared awkwardness crept over them. Jon fought the urge to fidget or bite his thumb; his eyes flicked over to his assortment of chests, “Oh, I have something for you. I brought in on the off-chance we bumped into one another.”

He rustled around the few remaining items in the chest, eventually pulling out a sheathed Nordic dagger. He passed it to his uncle, “Nothing too fancy but its light and won’t dull easily, should do you some good out there.”

Uncle Benjen pulled the dagger from its cover to admire the quicksilver and bronze blade with its Nordic design. “Good balance,” he commented, attaching the sheath to his belt. His eyes met Jon’s, “Do you hate me?”

Silence. Then Jon shook his head, “No, you didn’t want to lie to me.”

“I wanted to raise you; I wanted to take you far away from where anyone would hurt you. I was just a boy myself, really, but I was sure I could do it. Perhaps it was foolish, but it was what I wanted.”

"Your brother didn't let you though."

The older man sighed but nodded, “I won’t ask you not to be angry with him, Ned, nor will I expound any justifications to you. It is not my place and even if it was, I suspect you wouldn’t want to hear them. However, I will ask that you listen to him speak at least one last time.”

Silence, but Jon eventually acquiesce, “I owe him that much.”

Uncle Benjen smiled, clasped Jon on the shoulder, and led him through the lesser traveled corridors to Lord Stark’s solar. He knocked on the door and the pair was let in by a short, thin man with graying brown hair and brilliant moss green eyes. He brightened up when he saw the young Dragonborn and grasped Jon’s hands in his own, “You’ve grown well.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

The man smiled, “No, I suspect not; you were just a babe when you last saw me. I know you though, and I’m so happy to see you.”

Realization dawned, “You’re Howland Reed.”

A nod and Lord Reed opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by Lord Stark, “Howland, Benjen, could I have some time alone with Jon please?”

The two men glanced at each other, then at Lord Stark, and then back at each other before finally nodding and leaving the room. “C’mon Ben, I’m sure you’re feeling peckish after such a long trip. I brought some delightful lizard-lion jerky up with me, can I tempt you?”

“Howland, you could feed me raw frog legs and it would still be better than what they feed us up at the wall.”

Their voices fade behind the closed door, leaving Jon and Lord Stark alone in silence. The Warden of the North sat in his favorite armchair, eyes closed and head rested in his hand. On the floor before was an old trunk, one with a very familiar sigil. “Lock the door.”

Jon did so silently, eyes still on the trunk.

“Sit. Please,” the older man gestured to the chair across from him. Jon took it and waited, the atmosphere in the room suffocatingly heavy. Eventually, the man started, “You are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. You were born at a place called the Tower of Joy in Dorne; horribly ironic name if you ask me. Lyanna died due to complications during childbirth; when the time of your birth was nearing Ser Oswell Whent had traveled to Kingsgrave in order to secure a midwife but you were born sooner than expected and they only arrived after you were born. Ser Arthur Dayne and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower were forced to help with the delivery themselves and, great warriors that they were, how to safely deliver a child was not among their skills. The midwife did what she could but it was too late; by the time I arrive and fought my way to her, she was already at death's door. Before she passed, though, she begged me to make her a promise -a promise to protect her son, the son she had with Rhaegar. Then the midwife passed you to me, wrapped in this…”

His uncle opened the trunk, pulled out a black and red cloth, and handed it over; Jon turned the cloth over in his hands, spreading it across his knees. It was a cloak. “This is a…”

“Marriage cloak? Aye. Rhaegar draped that over your mother’s shoulder when he wed her in front of a heart tree.”

The idea -the fact- that his parents were married sunk into Jon’s bones slowly. He was a legitimate child, not a... “Rhaegar was already married.”

His uncle nodded slowly, “The Targaryens, along with the other dragonlords of Valyria, practiced polygamy in addition to incest. When they came to rule Westeros, that custom was mostly given up; after Aegon I the only Targaryen king to take multiple wives was Maegor the Cruel. Do you know why this is?”

Jon tried to remember his lessons with Maester Luwin on the subject, “To appease the Faith?”

“Correct. While only a few Targaryen kings could be called deeply devout followers of the Seven, most knew the importance of keeping the Faith at least tentatively on their side -especially once they lost their dragons. So an unspoken agreement was reached; the Faith considered both incest and polygamy to be sins, but they’d tolerate the incest if the polygamy was stopped. However, the practice was never officially outlawed for Targaryens.

There would be some who’d call the marriage invalid because it was conducted in accordance with Northern tradition, but there signed statements from witnesses -Hightower, Whent, and Dayne- and Benjen is a living witness to the union.”

“Uncle Benjen was there?”

“Aye, he was there. He helped arrange the ceremony and gave her away in the place of our father; he knew about it all.”

This was just...so much information to process. But there was still more Jon needed to know, things he needed to be sure about. “So...Rhaegar didn’t kidnap my mother, didn’t rape her?”

“No. From what I know- well, what do you know of the Tourney of Harrenhal?”

Jon shrugged, “What everyone else does, I suppose; Rhaegar crowned Lyanna Stark his Queen of Love and Beauty instead of Princess Elia.”

“That is...part of it, but only the last part. You have to understand, that tourney was a big deal; everyone who was anyone -or wanted to be someone- was there, including King Aerys and the royal family. Howland had also come but was accosted by three squires; he’s not much of a warrior -he’ll tell you that himself- and three were a bit much for him to handle. But Lyanna came to his rescue -she recognized who he was, a vassal of our father, but I’m sure she would have come to the aid of anyone- and, after running the boys off with a tourney sword, brought him to the Stark family tent where Brandon, Benjen, and I met him.

We insisted that Howland join us for the tourney and later he pointed out the three young men that attacked him. Benjen offered him the means to joust against the young men and regain his honor, but Howland declined; he was shy back then and was worried about making a fool of himself. So imagine our surprise when a mystery knight -small, clad in mismatched armor but with a booming voice- showed up, challenged, and then defeated the three knights whose squires who had attacked Howland. Once the three knights were defeated, mystery knight demanded that the knights teach their squires honor as the ransom for their horses and armor before disappearing into the woods.

King Aerys, the paranoid arse that he was, believed the mystery knight to be a foe bent on assassinating him and sent Prince Rhaegar off to find him. But the prince never did, returning with only the man’s shield, emblazoned with a smiling weirwood. King Scab wasn’t happy, but the tourney continued and Rhaegar went on to crown-”

“Lyanna!” Jon realized with a start. “Lyanna, my mother, she was the mystery knight.”

The Lord of Winterfell smiled then; it was a soft, bittersweet smile of remembrance. “Aye. Brandon, Howland, and I didn’t even realize she and Benjen had snuck away and when they returned the two of them refused to admit to anything. We knew though; jousting is mostly horsemanship and, even though she was just a young girl, Lyanna was an exceptional horsewoman -she could outride any of us, that's for sure. Oh, I wish you could have known her Jon; she was so much like Arya is now -like you too, in certain ways.

Anyhow, as it turns out Rhaegar did find the mystery knight and was apparently quite surprised to find a young lady under the helm. When he asked her what she was thinking, Lyanna -ever the brave one- looked him dead in the eye and explain herself, refusing to apologize or be shamed. But Rhaegar was deeply impressed, both by her skill and her integrity, and let her go; he knew she could never be honored for her deeds though, so instead he crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty.

“So he didn’t lust after her?”

“From their correspondence, I don’t believe so; at least, not at that point.”

“Correspondence?”

“Ah, yes. Well, it seems that the pair struck up a secret friendship over the next year. I have no clue how they kept it hidden, but they exchanged many letters and that friendship eventually developed into something more -a deep affection. This...changed things, especially when Lyanna’s inevitable marriage to Robert drew closer; she didn’t want to marry Robert, didn’t think he’d be a good husband or would make her happy. Our Father told her that she must do her duty but, as I said, Lyanna was like Arya -not one to take things lying down.

She wrote to Rhaegar about her fears and together -along with the help of Benjen, who she was closest with, and Rhaegar’s closest companions: Arthur Dayne, Gerold Hightower, and Oswell Whent- a plan was hatched. Rhaegar and the knights would sneak up North, meeting up with Benjen and Lyanna, and he would marry Lyanna -making her his second wife. Then they would abscond to Dorne until things calmed down enough to be sorted out. Why Rhaegar thought things would work out so smoothly, I have no idea, but he did.”

“Things didn’t go smoothly though, did they? Uncle Brandon thought the prince had kidnapped his sister and went to King’s Landing; that led to his and Grandfather’s death and the start of Robert’s Rebellion.”

“Yes, but…” his uncle trailed off, eyes downcast.

“But what?”

The Lord of Winterfell sighed again, “Lyanna left behind a note, Jon. In it, she detailed everything; she made sure it was clear that she went with Rhaegar of her own free will. She also said that she didn't care if Father disowned her but that, no matter what happened, she wasn’t going to marry Robert. Our Father burned the note though, made sure no one outside the family saw it. Why he did this, I can’t say. Maybe it was out of anger and shame over having such openly defiant daughter? Maybe it was for her own protection? If she was a victim then there was still a chance of her making a respectable marriage. Maybe it was out of guilt? He knew Lyanna didn’t want to marry Robert but hadn’t cared. Perhaps he blamed himself for the whole thing? Whatever the reason, do you understand what the means, Jon?”

It took a moment. “That Brandon made false allegations against Rhaegar; he knew that the prince didn’t kidnap her but still threatened him.”

His uncle nodded slowly, “Brandon had the wolf blood, just like Lyanna. He didn’t care what the note said, he wanted Lyanna back. He immediately road to King’s Landing with Ethan Glover, Kyle Royce, Elbert Arryn, and Jeffory Mallister and...well, you know the rest of the story. War raged...people died, including Rhaegar, Princess Elia, and their children...and, near the end, Lady Ashara wrote to me in secret telling me where Lyanna was; she’d hope it would save lives, including that of her brother.

It was all for not, of course. I arrived at the tower with Lord Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, Ser Mark Ryswell, and Howland; Howland insisted on coming despite his lack of fighting prowess -he felt partially responsible, I believe. He went down first in the ensuing fight, badly injured, but it was a good thing he came because once my companions fell along with Whent and Hightower I was left to battle Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He would have killed me, I have no doubt; his skills vastly eclipsed my own. But before he could deal the killing blow, Howland stabbed a dagger through the back of his neck; he saved my life that day.”

There it was then; Eddard Stark never defeated the Sword of the Morning, merely survived him. “Why did he never claim such a kill? Such a feat is surely song worthy.”

Lord Stark shook his head, “You would think, but no. Ser Arthur was near as adored by the people as Rhaegar was, even more so within Dorne. No one had much love for the Crannogmen though, and if word got out that Howland killed Arthur in such a seemingly dishonorable way there’d be plenty who wouldn’t have a second thought about killing a minor lord as retribution for the famed knight’s death. But I was a high lord; I could...get away with it. I needed lie in order to protect my friend; after all, he agreed to protect my greatest secret.”

He looked at Jon then, love and sadness swirling together in his gray eyes, “Lyanna was near death when I finally reached her. But she lived long enough to entrust you to me; the last remaining child of Rhaegar Targaryen, a small quiet babe by the name of Jaehaerys Targaryen. You.”

Jaehaerys Targaryen. ‘That’s my name,’ Jon thought. ‘That’s the name my mother gave me and yet…’ “What happened next?”

“Nothing pleasant. Not much I’m particularly proud of,” his uncle admitted. “We destroyed the tower, burying all the dead except for Lyanna in the rubble. I traveled to Starfall with you, Howland, and the midwife to return the sword, Dawn. Ashara saw you and understood; she cursed me for Arthur’s death but let us leave unharmed, even giving us supplies and the use of a wet nurse named Wylla. Do you remember her? She cared for you until you were four.

Then we traveled north; we stopped by King’s Landing in time to see the bodies of your… of Princess Elia and her children. I saw them and knew that I could never, ever breathe a word of your true parentage to anyone. When we reached the Neck, Howland and I separated; I took you and he took everything of importance that had been in the tower.”

The Lord of Winterfell gestured to the trunk before him and continued, “Benjen knew the truth the moment he laid eyes on you; he begged to take you as his own, but I refused and instead...insisted he join the Night’s Watch. It was foolish, the Stark line had been whittled down to near nothing and I all but forced one of the few carriers of the name into a life of celibacy. But, you see, I was angry. My older brother and father and sister and friends were dead. I had been made to marry with a woman I did not know and did not love. I was forced to shoulder the responsibility of being Lord of Winterfell, something I had never been prepared for, and I blamed Benjen. Lyanna was dead, I couldn’t blame her, but Benjen -Benjen who helped Lyanna run away with Rhaegar- was alive and he wanted you, my most terrible responsibility and greatest gift. So I sent him away. Then I came to Winterfell and made you a bastard. I took a boy who could have -perhaps should have- been king and made him a bastard. I let you think you were less than you are and, in the process, hurt you so badly enough that you ran from me.”

“If it’s so dangerous for me to be here, then why do you keep asking me to stay?”

The Lord of Winterfell hung his head in shame, “Because I am a selfish, selfish man, Jon. I kept you close when I could have fostered you at White Harbor or Greywater Watch where you might have been happier. I told myself that I did it as part of the promise to Lyanna, but truthfully I just wanted to keep you close because… because you’re the only thing I have left of her. I treated you like a thing -a living memento- instead of a little boy and I can never apologize enough for that.”

It was surreal, finally hearing the truth of his life and finally having the lies put to an end. How strange it was, to get something you’ve always wanted only for it to feel nothing like you expected. “I… am grateful for everything you’ve done for Lord Stark. I understand it’s been difficult for you all these years, being stuck between Lady Stark and I, and, believe me, I know what it’s been like to have deadly secrets.”

“That’s not the point, Jon! You are -you were- a child, you shouldn’t have had to be grateful for anything!” The Warden of the North sighed, rubbing his face.

Jon had always hoped the revelation of his parentage would be a joyous occasion but now his uncle just looked… worn. “I do love you, Lord Stark; you and Robb and Arya and Bran and Rickon. I wouldn’t trade the childhood I spent with you all for anything in the world, even if it wasn’t always perfect.”

Lord Stark perked up at his words, light filling his eyes once more, but before he could say anything more Jon cautiously added, “I’m not ready to call you Father again -at least, not in private- and I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready; but, I’d like to call you Uncle, if that is alright?”

His uncle smiled softly and nodded, “Only when it is the two of us, but, yes, I’d like that very much.” The man cleared his throat and sat up, gesturing to the trunk, “This, and its contents, are yours. I told Howland to burn them long ago but he obviously didn’t listen; he always was smart like that. Everything I’ve told you and more can be backed up by documents in there; they’re yours to do with as you please, though I must insistent that you don’t go around showing anybody.”

“Alright,” Jon breathed; then, mostly to himself, he repeated, “Alright.”

As promised, the trunk was full of documents: stacks of letters bound together in brown twine, tight rolls of paper tied with ribbon, a few books -diaries, if he had to guess- and what must be dozens of loose sheets of paper and parchment.

‘It’s going to take all day to sort through this mess,’ Jon thought as uncorked a bottle of Black-Briar mead, taking a deep swig, and reaching for a random piece of paper. Uncle Ned had promised to give him all the time he needed; he was going to have a servant bring Jon his meals and ask the other Stark child to leave Jon be for the day. He turned the paper over in his hands,

Possible Baby Names

(Girls)
Visenya
Lyserra
Maiella
Jaehaera

(Boys)
Daeron
Benjen
Jaehaerys
Torrhen

Rhaegar is positive the babe will be a girl, a Visenya for Aegon and Rhaenys, but I’m not sure… Something tells me it's going to be a boy. If its a boy than I want to name his Jaehaerys. I’ve always liked ‘J’ names… It’s a tried and tested name too! Jaehaerys I, everyone loved him, he was one of the best kings Westeros had ever known. Jaehaerys II… his rule wasn’t long but it was successful enough. It’s a good name, a good Targaryen name

 

‘I wonder what life would have been like if I had been a girl?’ Jon though ideally as he set the paper to the side. Phantasm let out a mew as she crawled on shaky legs into his lap, he scratched the kitten’s behind the ear, and pulled another document from the trunk -one that turned out to be sheet music. ‘Rhaegar was supposedly an accomplished musician, this must be his.'

He moved on to the letters then and, through sips of mead, read how through careful, secretive correspondence a mutual admiration grew into a strong friendship, which then grew into a gentle friendship and, eventually, love.

Hello Gar,

I went off trail on my ride again today; Father would lock me away in my chambers if he knew -he’d say it was too dangerous- but I know these lands, nothing could ever harm me. Besides, my rides are the only peace I get these days; all I ever hear is ‘marriage’ and ‘duty’ and ‘expectations’... I don’t want to marry R, but gods’ forbid I say such a thing; N assures me their of strong character and that I’ll grow to love them but I prefer running to the Wall. Maybe one of these days I’ll simply not return from my ride and instead travel even further north…

Best Wishes,

Lyon

***

Dear Lyon,

I’m going to have to advise against running away to the Wall; while I’m sure you could do the order justice, I don’t want you to become another musical tragedy. I understand the urge though; I’ve visited the Wall myself and it is magnificent -brutally cold and windy, of course, but magnificent.

I know you upset about R, is there nothing you can say to your father to convince him to change his mind? If not then, I swear, we’ll figure something; I won’t let you end up in the same situation as my mother. I’m going to get her out of that as soon as possible. Be safe.

With the Greatest Respects,

Gar

***

Gar,

I’ve talked to BJ about the plan and he is willing to help; he doesn’t like the idea of me marrying R either. But I’m worried, I know you say your wife is okay with everything but I need proof. For as much as I despise the thought of wedding R, I don’t want someone else to suffer for my happiness.

Yours Truly,

Lyon

***

The letters went on like that; sometimes only a brief paragraph or two and sometimes for pages. There was never anything overtly romantic and everything was written in using false names, presumably so nothing could be pinned on the pair if the letters were ever to be intercepted. Perhaps even more interesting, was the third set of handwriting that flitted across a scroll of fine, heavy parchment from which a golden armband fell when Jon picked it up.

The armband was gold -true gold, not gold plated iron- and shaped like a snake with small ruby eyes and a scale-like pattern; it was designed to wrap around the bicep -a woman’s bicep, judging by the size- twice, mimicking the shape of a coiled serpent. Jon slipped it around his wrist and unrolled the scroll,

Dearest Lyanna,

First off, forgive me for using everyone’s true names, but this needs to be written in a way that can hold up to scrutiny. Secondly. Rhaegar told me you were worried about me disapproving of this entire venture; so I wanted to assure you by my own hand that I not only approve, I was the one who pushed him to take action. I’ve read your letters, Sweetling, and I know your feelings on this Robert. I don’t want you pushed into an unhappy marriage either. In Dorne, men who beat their wives rarely live to have long marriages; I know this isn’t the case in the rest of Westeros.

But beyond that, I have other reasons; I will admit them to you now, I want a trust to develop between us. I am quite alone here in King’s Landing; lions stalk and thorns grow and King Scab waits for the moment he can get rid of me. He fears Rhaegar now… he should. I know that you do not desire the power of the throne and having someone I can trust by my side will allow me to sleep easier tonight. Oh, I have guards and my uncle nearby, but there is something about having a trustworthy woman by your side that is very different.

The other reason is...I don’t know how much longer I will live. I’ve never been the hardiest of women and childbirth has not improved my health. I cannot have any more children; I have given the crown a healthy prince so I cannot be tossed aside easily, but who will question a frail woman falling ill? Even if my death isn’t helped along but some scheming party, you never know when a flu or slip on the stairs may get lucky and strike me down. When I die, I want Rhaegar to have someone trustworthy to support him; less Cersei Lannister attempts to sink her claws into him.

In all seriousness, I know you’re scared, Lyanna. But don’t worry, you’ll be safe in Dorne; I’ve sent along some insurance to be sure of that. The armband, it is part of a set; when a Martell girl flowers, a set of matching armbands is crafted for her. I send this one to you as a sign of our upcoming sisterhood. If you ever need help while in Dorne, simply present the armband to any friend of House Martell -never show it to someone from House Yronwood, the bitter fucks- and they will help you. Don’t you worry about how my brothers will react to all this, they both have tempers that run as hot as the Dornish sun but I’ve got them both wrapped around my little finger; I won’t let them do anything foolish.

I hope my words pacify you, Lyanna. For we will be sisters soon and our children will one day not just rule the Seven Kingdoms but will guard against the evils that lurk in the shadows. They are destined for greatness you see, and our names will go down in history.

All my love,

Elia

 

Jon read the scroll over once, then twice more. The next thing he picked up was a small, blood-stained diary; most of the contents had been rendered unreadable due to blood stains but from what he could tell, it was a record of Lyanna’s time in the Tower of Joy. He flipped to the last page, covered in a wild, messy scrawl with bloody fingerprints and ink splotched by teardrops.

IT’S ALL MY FAULT. THEY’RE ALL DEAD NOW AND IT’S MY FAULT. BRANDON, RHAEGAR, FATHER...THEY’RE ALL DEAD. IM SORRY, IM SO, SO SORRY. IM GOING TO DIE SOON TOO, MARLA AND ARTHUR SAY I’M GOING TO BE FINE BUT I KNOW THEY’RE JUST TRYING TO COMFORT ME.

MY SON. MY SON, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS I NEED YOU TO KNOW THAT I ALWAYS WANTED YOU. ME AND ELIA AND RHAEGAR, WE ALL WANTED YOU. THIS ISN’T YOUR FAULT AND IM SORRY FOR WHATEVER YOUR LIFE BRING BUT I LOVE YOU.

I LOVE YOU, SON. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Jon blinked away the tears forming in his eyes and opened another bottle of mead.

The Dragonborn bolted up in his bed, phantom screams echoing in his ears and the sensation of warm blood splattered across his face. A massive hand clamped over his mouth, smothering the scream that tried to escape his throat.

“Relax, you were having a nightmare.”

Jon struggled against the hand before Enzo’s soothing voice broke through the blood-curdling shrieks ringing in his ears. He met the giant Redguard’s eyes and gave a slight nod but didn’t move. Enzo scanned him carefully from where he was reclined on the foot of the bed, he let the paper he was reading fall his lap and moved his hand from Jon’s mouth to his forehead; the dark-haired young man leaned into the touch, pressing himself into the man’s warm callous hand.

“You feel warm, are you ill?”

“Too much mead; not enough food,” Jon grumbled as he just began registering a pounding headache.

Enzo snorted but tossed him a healing potion and a water skin before turning his attention back to the back to his reading, “So the Lord of Winter finally told you?”

Jon gulped down the potion, washing the thin, sickly-sweet fluid down with water. “Aye. He didn’t have much of a choice in the matter but, yes, he told me everything. It was...tiring but I feel better now that I know.”

“The truth is often difficult,” Enzo agreed with a nod. “But it is good that you know the full story now. I imagine all these papers were overwhelming to take in all at once; you should have asked me to help.”

“It was something I needed to do alone,” Jon insisted. Then he blinked, “Wait, how did you get in here? I put a locking ward on the door.”

The Ebony Warrior quirked an eyebrow up at Jon, an amused smile creeping onto his face. “Right, foolish of me to ask,” Jon snorted and flopped back on the bed. They were both quiet for a while, the only sound in the room being the shuffling of papers as Enzo looked through the trunk, before Jon spoke up again.

“Jaehaerys.”

“Pardon?”

“Jaehaerys, that’s my name; the name my mother gave me. Jaehaerys Targaryen.”

“Ah, interesting. Is that who you feel like?”

It took Jon some time to answer, “No.”

It was true; just like Jon may have been Jon Snow at one point in his life, Jaehaerys Targaryen was an identity best left in the past. He was Jon Whitewolf and that was enough for him. Still…

“Enzo?”

“Yes?”

Jon brushed his fingertips against his face, tracing where he had felt warm, fresh blood splash against his skin, “Would you mind terribly if we visited King’s Landing?”

Next Chapter: Jon prepares to leave for King's Landing so he's going to have to say some goodbyes. 

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.

Robb Stark I

The inhabitants of Winterfell fluttered around, preparing for the departure of the royal family with his Lord Father and Sansa. They would be leaving on the morrow and, apparently, his brother would be traveling with them alongside his giant companion. But be that as it may, Winterfell seemed quiet now, quiet like snow; the castle had been so full the past month that, with all noble families aside from the Manderlys, Karstarks, and Reeds (who had shown up very late and seemingly not for his nameday celebration at all) gone, it felt so empty. It was cold too, Robb noted; a frosty air creeping into the stone wall of Winterfell and winding its way through the corridors and wherever the Lady of Winterfell tread.

The Heir of the North internally winced at the thought; for the past few days his mother had been the center of all the talk among the servants. Oh, they were careful about it and never spoke up around him or acted inappropriately in front of the Lady of Winterfell but in a community so small words traveled far and fast, even seeping into the mouths of visiting nobles and those who lived in Winterfell. They spoke of a callous and vengeful woman who wished death upon a kind and generous soul; someone who had come to visit his beloved family, only to be met with mockery and scorn. They whispered of jealousy that grew into a plan to murder an innocent babe.

It was all such utter shit and yet there was nothing that could be done about its; servants and smallfolk talked and short of removing tongues, that was one of the few constants of the world. Not that his father seemed to have any desire to quell the talk; the Lord of Winterfell didn’t seem to notice the gossip about his wife or, if he did, didn’t feel the urge to try and stop it. Perhaps he was too distracted or perhaps he believed the talk himself; Father hadn’t exactly been the warmest to his wife in the past few days.

The whole thing tore at his brain and at his heart because he knew what it all was about; on one hand, the part of him that was a dutiful son wanted to defend his mother, but, on the other, the part of him that was a protective brother wanted to be angry with her. That had always been the great dichotomy of his life, ever since he learned that Jon was different, honoring and respecting his mother while loving and protecting his brother. It was hard, and got harder with every year and every bitter glare his mother threw and every silent bit of pain he could feel in his brother’s heart but he managed to the best of his ability.  Even if the difficulty increased once Theon came into their lives and needed affection as well.

When he was young, Robb made a vow to himself that, since Jon didn’t have mother to love him, he would love him twice as much. And he did; though he loved Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon fiercely, his love for Jon was special. Jon was his twin in all but techniquallity, yes, but he was also Robb’s little brother, his first little brother, and there was few events in the heir’s life that hadn’t been done with Jon by his side.

That was, until, Jon disappeared leaving only a frustratingly vague little note and a gaping hole in the hearts of his father and siblings. It wasn’t fair to compare grief, but Robb is certain that he and Arya were the ones hit hardest, aside from their father, of course. He had felt as half of his entire being -the half generally in charge of keeping him from making stupid decisions- had vanished overnight. But where there had been pain there had also been anger; the heir had always counted on the fact that Jon would be by his side and support him. Jon left though, left Robb behind without as second thought. So, as much joy and relief Robb felt upon seeing his brother again after all these years, there was also bitterness; especially since it seemed like he was planning on doing it again.

Robb poked his head through the library door, Tully blue eyes scanning the chamber for a familiar head of curly dark hair. He spotted it bent over a dusty, leather bound tome, surrounded by stacks of other books. Jon’s new scholarly side had come as somewhat of a surprise; he had always been the more diligent student of the two boys -three counting Theon- but he’d never shown any great academic interest or integrity, unless you counted him never letting Robb copy off his sums sheet. Now though, he seemed content to wile away the hours with his nose buried in a book and a glass of wine in hand or talking with the Lannister imp.

It was disconcerting, how much his brother had changed, and even as Robb enjoyed the warm weight of his new he couldn’t help but feel a sense of regretful sorrow at the divide that had grown between them.

“There you are,” he called, causing Jon’s head to pop up in his direction. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you; you’re not planning on spend the last night before your departure hiding among the shelves, are you?”

Jon gave a dry chuckle, “I had given it a thought; to be frank, I’m sick to death of all these feasts.”

“Then King’s Landing is not the place for you; I hear the king throws massive feasts everyday and for every meal,” Robb commented as he slid into the chair across from his brother. “It hardly seems like your idea of a good time, why’d you decide to King Robert up on his offer?”

“I have my reasons,” Jon said with a shrug as he began to sort the mess of papers and books before him.

‘Do those reasons have anything to do with my mother?’ “So will you be coming back up with Father after the festivities.”

“No, Enzo and I will be leaving from King’s Landing. I’ve already cleared it with Captain Vendicci and the East Empire Trading Company; there are still a few trading details that need to be hammered out with the Manderlys and it turns out part of the shipment they picked up in Braavos was defunct -dyes they picked up aren’t working properly- so they need to return there for a little while to get it sorted. The ship with pick us up once their business is complete.”

Jon met Robb’s eyes and his lips twitched into a wry grin, “Don’t worry, I’ll send up a nice marriage gift for you and the future Lady Stark with Father.”

Robb rolled his eyes and gave the younger man a rude gesture. Last night the official announcement about his engagement to Alys Karstark had taken place to all who were still at Winterfell. It had been met with polite congratulations but the Umbers and Manderlys while the King seemed to view it as an occasion to have many toasts; the King seemed to view most occasions as being worthy of drinking.

For his part, Robb couldn’t help but wonder if he should be feeling more. There was relief, he supposed, that he wasn’t marrying some girl he’d never met or was much younger than him. It was true that Alys was no great beauty -being a tall, skinny, coltish young woman with braided, thick brown hair, a small bosom, and a long pointed pale face with blue-grey eyes, and small ears- like Margaery Tyrell was reported to be and that her family wasn’t particularly wealthy like the Tyrells were, but she was of the North and from what he knew of Alys, believe her to be sensible and sturdy. He supposed that she was someone he could be content with.

“Too bad you can’t be here for it,” he said nonchalantly as possible, leaning back in his chair. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Jon stiffen slightly, “The wedding, I mean. Father says it’s going to happen as soon as he gets back from King’s Landing. That way Alys and I will have some time to get to know one another -her and her two eldest brothers will be staying here for the time being- while Mother arranges everything.”

It was a mistake to mention Mother, but at Jon’s lack of visible reaction to his words Robb pressed hard. “It be nice to have you be there, give a speech and all that. I always assume-”

“Robb, stop it,” Jon cut him off, annoyance across his face. “I put up with quite enough of that from Father and I won’t tolerate from you either. Now I love all of you dearly but I am not staying, not in Winterfell or in the North or anywhere in all of Westeros. I’m sorry if that makes you upset but it’s just the way things are.”

“But why? I know you say you’re happy in Skyrim, but you could be happy here too. You’re my brother, you promised to always be by my side! Once I’m Lord of Winterfell than you won’t have to worry about your position, I could make you lord of your own hold and even legitimize you if that’s what you want!”

Jon shook his head, “We both know it’s not that simple.”

“Why? Is it because of Mother? Because of what she said? She’s just overwhelmed, Jon, she didn’t really mean what she said!”

“Yes she did,” Jon’s voice was calm but he slammed the book he had been reading closed.

Everything Robb had been about to say died in his throat with just a strangled, “What?” managing to escape.

“She hates me Robb, has always hated me. She meant everything she said and probably more.” Jon stood to return a pile of books to their proper places on the shelves.

Robb followed, his mind whirling. This had never happened before; in the past, whenever Mother did or said something that upset Jon, he’d apologize on her behalf and Jon would just smile, accept the apology, and they’d move on. His brother had never...acknowledged, at least openly, his mother’s disdain. Guilt bubbled in his gut but he still felt the need to defend his mother, “That isn’t exactly fair.”

“It’s the truth and the truth has to be neither kind nor fair, it merely has to be truthful.”

The guilt started to become tainted with anger at Jon’s flippant tone, “She’s my mother !”

Jon sighed but took Robb by the shoulders, “I know that, and I assure you that I’m not insulting her. I know she loves you dearly, we both do. But we’ll never love each other and it would be hell for both of us to continue living under the same roof. It’s not just that I can’t stay, Robb, it’s that I won’t; I won’t do that to either of us.”

The guilt and anger were extinguished and instead replaced by a deep sadness. Tears pricked at the corners of Robb’s eyes, “If you truly loved me than you’d stay.”

It was a horrible thing to say, Robb knew that as soon as the words left his lips, but it was the only thing he could think to say in the moment. Jon looked at him, regret in his eyes that seemed so much older than his face, and replied, “And if you truly loved me than you’d understand why I can’t.”

Then he left and Robb was alone with his thoughts.

Ned IV

“Father, I need to speak with you.”

His youngest daughter stood at the doorway of his solar with an uncommonly serious look on her young face. Ned raised his eyebrows in wordless amusement but gestured to chair across from him. Arya slid into with a dancer’s grace, folding her hand and squaring her shoulders. He bit back a smile, she looked so much like Lyanna did when she annoyed about something, “What can I help you with, Arya?”

“King’s Landing, I want to go with you.”

To say Ned was surprised was an understatement; Arya had never showed any interest in the South or any court beyond Winterfell’s, aside for the occasion mention of wanting to visit Bear Island one day. “I see, and what exactly, may I ask, brought this desire?”

The girl’s composed demeanor dropped for a moment and she shifted in her chair, “Jon. I want spend more time with him; King’s Landing sounds dull as dirt but if I can be around him for a bit longer, it’ll be worth it.”

That made so much sense it hurt; Ned wasn’t sure why Jon decided to take Robert up on his offer and he wasn’t happy about it, but the young man had asked for trust and Ned was -begrudgingly- willing to give it to him. “And what does your Mother have to say about this subject?”

Arya shrugged, “Mother hasn’t had much to say about anything these past few days. But she’d probably like the idea, right? She’s always wanted me to be more like a Southern lady, probably be happy about mingling with the nobles  of the Red Keep. Plus, with me being away she’d have one less person underfoot while planning Robb’s wedding. It just makes the most sense for me to go with you.”

“She’d likely see the logic in such an idea,” Ned acquiesced. A pang of guilt hit his heart; he knew the reason for his wife’s withdrawal, she felt like he didn’t listen to what she said so now she refused to speak at all. He’d need to deal with her soon, tonight would be preferable.

He scanned Arya’s face, barely concealed hope painted all over it. Perhaps it would be good for her to experience at least a taste of life down south; life in the capital was certainly quite different from that in Dorne, but the experience could still be education. If only because it would help to teach his daughter to curve her wild side, “I’ll make you a deal, Arya. I’ll consider it, and I’ll speak to your mother, but you must swear to follow the rules: you must be dress appropriately, conduct yourself with proper etiquette, be polite to those around you -including Sansa and your Septa-, attend all the events expected of you-.”

“Including the tourney?”

“Yes, I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“No, Sir,” Arya chirped with a energetic shake of her head.

“Good to hear. And finally, you must swear not to wander off alone. King’s Landing is full of dangers, Arya, and you’ll need to stay close.” A small smile played on the Lord of Winterfell’s lips and he gave his youngest daughter a consipitoral look, “Or, at least, stay close to Jon.”

She seemed to study him for a moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t fooling her, before her face split into a wide grin. “Deal!” she exclaimed with an enthusiastic nod.

“Alright then, go get packed up. Just in case,” he jerked his head in the direction of the door. The girl scampered away with a spring in her step, ‘Oh, what did I just agree to? More headaches for myself, that’s for sure. Still, I’d have to be heartless to deny her the chance to spend for time with her brother; this may be the last time they ever see each other face-to-face.’

With a sigh, the Warden of the North leaned back in the chair and wondered what in the world he would say to his wife.

“Cat, can we speak?”

Aside from a slight movement of the head, his wife gave no indication that she heard him. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk with her before supper -which had again been painfully awkward- and who knew if he’d the chance before they shipped out tomorrow at midday. He needed to do this now.

“Arya asked me if she could come to King’s Landing with Sansa, Jon, and I. I’ve decided to let her, I think it will be a good experience for her.”

Cat didn’t even move this time, instead continuing to stare directly into the fire that reflected gold in her long, loose hair. His wife was bundled in a thick dressing gown with a heavy lambswool blanket across her lap, a piece embroidery grasped in a white-knuckled hand.

He cleared his throat and tried again, “Cat? What do you think?”

“Oh, so now you care?” Her voice was thin and sharp, “Does it even matter what I say, or will you disregard me on this too?”

Ned bit back a groan, “Don’t be like that. I was harsh with you the other day, I’m sorry-”

“So you’ll listen to me and send the Bastard away then?”

This time he couldn’t keep the hiss out of his voice, “You will not refer to him that way anymore, Cat. Just because I regret how coarse I was with you, doesn’t mean I take back what I said; Jon will be leaving with me tomorrow, you will most certainly never see him again, so it is time for you to get over it .”

Cat flinched at his tone and Ned fought against the guilt that hit his gut. “Why are you here then, if not to continue to disrespect me?”

“Because...because I still love you, Cat,” he admitted softly. “I love you and our children and the life we have together. I want things to be better between us and I think they could be if we just talked .”

“Not until you get rid of him. You claim to love me but it will never be as much as you love him though, him or his mother.” She turned in her armchair to glare at him, her face seemed more deeply lined than he’d ever realized before.

He gave a forlorn shake of the head, “It's not a matter of you or him, Cat. I love you both and I’m not going to choose between you two. Please don’t try to make me.”

His beloved wife returned to staring at the fire, back to him. After a few long moments he sighed, “I see. Goodnight then, Cat. I hope you will be there to see us off tomorrow, but if not, than I suppose it’s goodbye for now.”

With a heavy heart, the Lord of Winterfell closed the door between himself and his wife of near twenty years and left to ponder the future.

Jon X

It was hard to say goodbye to Winterfell; He had done before, years ago, but as the time to leave came closer -now only mere hours away- it felt like an immersible feat. The last time he left, Jon hadn’t allowed himself to think of the good memories or the people he loved, just the anger and confusion. This time though, things were different. He was different, and now, gazing into the nursery that once housed him as a child only to now stand vacant and largely abandoned, Jon couldn’t help but think that this was likely the last time he’d ever walk these ancient corridors or breathe in the icy fresh Northern air or eat Matlyn’s cooking -he said goodbye to her earlier that morning; there had been tears. And screaming. And the promise of letters. And a tasty bundle of freshly baked spice cakes- or lay his eyes on familiar faces.

“Jon, is that you?”

His head wirled to the side, “Old Nan!”

To be completely honest, Jon hadn’t even considered the possibility the elderly woman would still be among the living. There she was though, uglier and older with less teeth and hair that he remembered but with such a kind look on her withered, wrinkled face and in her squinted, sightless eyes. A rush of warmth came over Jon’s heart at the sight of the comforting figure from his childhood in apparent good health. “How did you know it was me?”

“Oh, my eyes may have forsaken me but I still have my ways,” she answered, pulling him into surprisingly tight embrace. “Now, come here and let me see you.”

With gnarled, blue-veined hands soft as worn paper, Old Nan gently traced the lines of Jon’s face. She smoothed her thumbs along his eyebrows and down his nose, cupping his jaw in her palms and brushed her fingertips over his ears. After what felt like a comfortably long time her face split into a toothless smile, “You’ve grown up handsome; I always knew you would.”

“I don’t know, I always thought I was a odd looking child,” he japed.

The old woman patted his cheek, “Perhaps for a while, but you always had such a warm heart; I’m glad to see that hasn’t cooled. For awhile I was worried that when you returned -I always knew you would eventually- your heart would be as cold as poor Adara’s.”

“The girl from your story about the ice dragon?”

“Aye,” Old Nan nodded fondly. “That was always your favorite story. I must have told it to you at least a hundred time.”

It had been; the story about a girl different from all those around her and blessed with the both the coldness and beauty of winter. The girl had befriend an ice dragon -the one creature who could truly understand her- and love him until the day it died saving her family. Was that irony or was that fate?

“A hundred times easily, but only me. I don’t recall you ever telling that story to any of the others.”

She took one of his callous hands in his own, “That’s because it was your story, Sweet Boy, just for you. Even if you did always get sad at the end.”

Jon chuckled, “I couldn’t help it; the end is happy enough for Adara, her family is alive and her heart has melted so she could finally be accepted by other children but the dragon went and melted into a puddle. It gave it’s life for her.”

“Such a gentle boy. That’s what happen to ice dragons, they melt and leave no other trace behind aside from pool of frigid  water. Fire dragons though, now they’re different; some folks say they can turn themselves into stone when they want to sleep the centuries away.”

Jon, who had some experience with dragons, found such an idea amusing. “Somehow I doubt such a thing is true, Old Nan. Everyone knows stone is-” a realization hit him like a battering ram to the gut and struck him cold, “dead.”

The wagons were packed, the women and children were loaded into the wheelhouse, the horses were warmed up, everyone was gathered, and it was time for final goodbyes to begin.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Jon mummered, pressing a kiss into Rickon’s unruly auburn locks as he hugged the boy tightly. The boy didn’t say anything in return, just squeezed Jon around the neck.

“Is this the last time we’ll ever see you, Jon?” Bran asked mournfully, his bright blue eyes starting to swim with tears.

Jon hesitated, even though he had quite a bit on his mind at the moment he didn’t want to lie to his little brother -he had spent enough time doing that- so he merely folded the boy into him embrace. “I hope not, Bran. But I promise that I’ll write every chance I get; I’ll even send gifts. How does that sound?”

Both boys gave small, tearful nods against his chest before letting go to run off, likely to get one last look at all the knights. In there place set Robb, the two young men stared each other for a moment, awkwardness from their last encounter tainting the air. Jon rocked back on his heels, “Well, Robb, I wish you well your upcoming nuptials. I imagine-”

He was cut off when Robb tugged him close, “Stay safe, Little Brother.”

Robb’s smile, bright and bold with the left corner of his mouth tugged a little higher than right, was achingly familiar, as was the gloved hand that dragged across his dark hair; Robb’s smile had comforted Jon during many a dark moment in his younger years and it still calmed him all this time later.

“The same to you, especially when you become the next Warden of the North. I don’t want to hear you’ve gone and done something foolish as soon as you’ve gotten the job.”

“That is a fool’s hope and you know it, Wolf. Robb here has never been able to stop himself from making stupid choices,” Theon called from his spot slouched against one of the walls of the courtyard.

“You’re one to talk, Greyjoy! It’s a miracle you’re still alive with all the risk you take,” Robb joked with a roll of the eyes and a rude gesture in the Kraken’s direction before turning back to Jon. “I’m serious though; if King’s Landing is anything like Father describes it, than it’s one big cesspool of filth, crime, and-”

“Debauchery; don’t forget the debauchery. Jonny is going to be in the city that houses the finest brothels this side of Dorne,” Theon chimed in.

“Thank you for knowledge that I have absolutely no use for, Squid, and you don’t need worry about me, Robb; I know how to handle a bunch of overstuffed politicians and greedy businessman. Besides, I’m just going for the tourney, what possible dangers could there be?”

A lot, if what he was planning came to head, but Robb didn’t need to know that.

“And here you’re telling me not to be foolish,” Robb mumbled with a final hug. Jon chuckled and left Robb to say goodbye to Sansa and Arya.

“I see you’re all ready to head out.”

Jon gave a light jump -it was rare that someone could sneak up on him- and turned to kind, if slightly unnerving green eyes of Howland Reed. “Oh, Lord Reed, I didn’t see you there. You’re not coming with us?”

“No, Ned requested I stick around for a little while and look after the younger boys. I don’t mind, my daughter, Meera, seems to enjoy the ice fishing. She’s close to Bran’s age, so I’m hoping she’ll find some companionship with him. Additionally, me being here means Lady Stark is under less pressure as she plans Robb’s wedding ceremony,” the man jerk his head to where Uncle Ned appeared to be exchanging what looked like extremely uncomfortable farewells with Lady Stark.

Jon hoped they wouldn’t go on too long, he had something he needed to talk to the man about. Instead he excused himself from Lord Reed’s company and instead strolled over to where Tyrion Lannister was finishing up getting prepped for travel, “Lord Tyrion, I hear you’re going opposite way as the rest of us.”

“Oh, yes. I have decided to run north and join the Black Brothers; my father will be thrilled. I shall defend the realm nobley against snarks and grumkins.”

Jon gave a snort, “Well I’m sure you’ll serve the order well, My Lord. Do keep an eye on my uncle, won’t you?”

“Well, fine. If you’re going to be cheeky about it, I’ll have you know I’m going because I’ve always wanted to see the Wall. It's one of the nine Wonders of Man, you know? I intend to stand on the top of it and piss off the edge.”

The young Dragonborn wrinkled his nose at the crude -if somewhat amusement- statement, “I hope you enjoy yourself; I’ve heard it's a magnificent place, if brutally cold and windy.”

“How joyace,” the youngest Lannister sibling drawled.

A hand settled on Jon’s shoulder; Uncle Ned had joined them. “Lord Tyrion, ready to start off I see.”

‘Uncle, could you be anymore blunt about wanting all the Lannisters out of your castle?’

Thankfully, Lord Tyrion -who was certainly intelligent enough to detect the underlying unfriendliness in the Lord of Winterfell’s voice- pretended not to notice.

“Once your brother gives the word we’ll be going. I must thank you for your wonderous hospitalities though, Lord Stark.”

He did, however, respond with his own bit of sarcasm.

His uncle remained unperturbed though, “Think nothing of it, I wish you safe travels. Now if you’ll excuse us, I need to speak to my son.”

Lord Tyrion nodded and gave an exaggerated half-bow as Uncle Ned lead the dark-haired young man away to a secluded archway. “Jon, I know I promised to trust you on this but I still feel the need to ask once more if you’re sure about this?”

There was worry dripping from the words and for a moment Jon felt guilty about causing it; what he was planning needed to be done, certainly, but that didn’t mean he relished causing the man who raised him worry. “It will all be fine, I assure you. I will not put you and our family in danger. Beside, I’ve already arranged things with Captain Vendicci. So what am I going to do until I can get another ship home? Wait here?”

The man let out a small wince, glancing back over his shoulder to where Lady Stark dispassionately observing the bustle of the courtyard. “Just swear to me that you aren’t planning on, I don’t know, burning down the Red Keep in an act of revenge?”

“I swear that isn’t my plan; that idea hadn’t even crossed my mind,” Jon assured with what had to be an almost comical amount of seriousness. “But there was something I wanted to ask you. I was hoping to visit the crypts one last time to...say goodbye. Do you think we have enough time?”

Understanding flashed in the Lord of Winterfell’s eyes and he nodded, “Aye, we’re doing one last total check before heading out. You should have around an hour to do what you need to.”

“I will, thank you.”

“There is something unnerving about this place; I feel like the dead are watching me.” Enzo’s ink black eyes scanned the statues of the dead Starks, the flickering shadows created by the torch he held gave the illusion the statues eyes were blinking.

“They probably are,” Jon said absentmindedly as he led Enzo to the enterence of the blocked off section of the crypts that his dreams always directed him to.

“This is it then?”

“Aye, this is where I need to go; according to my dreams, at least.” He paused for a moment, “Do you think I’m mad?”

“I have assumed you were mad for a long while, but your dreams have proven useful in the past so I suggest listening to them. What do you need from me?”

“I need help clearing away enough of this debris that I can squeeze through. I believe a telekinesis spell will do the job but I wnated an extra set of hands incase mine aren't enough.”

The giant Redguard agreed -he didn’t look particularly thrilled about it though- and together the pair both cast the spell. A reddish glow illuminated the darkness as the two worked to carefully create an opening; they moved away the smaller pieces first until there was eventually a narrow crevice between two large holders that Jon could squeeze through.

He looked back through the opening at his friend, “If I’m not back soon-”

“I will come and drag you out by your hair. Now get going.”

Jon chuckled but did so, casting Magelight in order to navigate the narrow tunnel. The smell of hot, moist earth tickled his nose and did little to calm his heartbeat which raced faster and faster the further down he descended. The ground under him was soft, soft enough that his boots sunk into the dirt. The air grew humid too, to the point Jon needed to pull off his heavy fur cloak. Eventually, heat became so oppressive the it was hard to go on, yet he did; he couldn’t turn back now.

He pressed on, not sure how much time had passed until, just as in his dream, came to an old wooden door. Jon touched it -neededing to assure himself it was real- and the wood was damp, almost pulpy, and flaked away with a rub of his fingertips. He reached for the handle, but froze.

“Open it,” Jon told himself. “You must open it.”

So he forced himself to do it, grabbing the handle -the brass almost burning him though the leather of his gloves- and gave it a mighty tug, forcing the warped door open. In the back of his mind, Jon released that, unlike his dream, the door hadn’t been locked. He was hit with a cloud of steam that had filled and now flowed out into the tunnel behind him.

The steam was coming from a large hot spring that took up most cavern, the water boiling more viciously that any of the others at Winterfell. In the middle of of pool, though, was a pile of rocks that rose above the water-level and perched atop them was a rusted metal chest. With a mumbled spell and a flick of the wrist brought the chess closer to a curious Jon. The Legendary Dragonborn pried the chess open and lost every breathe in his lungs when it finally gave way.

Because inside we’re three eggs. Three large eggs. Three large  dragon eggs. And when Jon picked one -smoke gray with orange-red swirls- up, it pulsed gently against his palm.

Next chapter: Jon relaxes by a river, Tyrion chats with a bear, and Arya makes a discovery.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.

Jon XI

This was, by far, the best weather Jon had experienced in a long while. No one would ever call Skyrim a balmy land with the Rift being able to truly be called temperate, mostly during the months of Sun’s Height and Last Seed. But here, on the banks of the Trident, it was quite comfortable with a clear sky, bright sun, and lack of wind; it was still far too cool for any swimming to be done, but the sun-warmed shallows were very pleasant to rest his feet in and Jon intended to make the most of it.

“Have you figured out what you want to do with these yet?” Enzo asked, turning one of the dragon eggs -this one a stunning azure blue interwoven with glistening pale gold waves- over in his hands.

Jon shrugged with a non-committal hum, crossing his arms behind his head and shifting his weight to get comfortable in the grass while using a knapsack as a makeshift pillow. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to bask in the sun, “Not sure yet; I can’t exactly go hatching them in the middle of the capital.”

“Then why did bring them?”

“What else was I supposed to do? Stick them in Winterfell’s chicken coup and hope no one tried to use them to make breakfast?” Enzo snorted but Jon paused, remembering the years he spent ignore the calls from the crypts that echoed in his dreams, “They need me. I couldn’t leave them down in the crypts, all alone and unprotected.”

There was a long moment of silence, leaving Jon briefly wondered if Enzo had finally decided that Jon was truly mad and it was time to lock him away, before the older man simply sighed, “Do you think they are viable?”

“Yes,” Jon answered immediately, recalling the way the egg had pulsed against his hand like a little heartbeat. That egg -all of them- were alive, alive and aware of the world around them. “I don’t know how; they’re old and they were down in those crypts for a long time -a century at least- so they should be stone by now. Maybe it had something to do with the heat of the hot springs, I cannot say, but I know they’re alive in there.”

Enzo hummed, giving the egg a gentle shake, “I would like to see a baby dragon.”

Jon chuckled, “As would I, but sadly I have absolutely no idea how to hatch dragon eggs.”

“Well, how did you ancestors do it?”

“That is an excellent question. The Targaryens may have had some secret method but it must have eventually stopped working because it seems that one-day dragons just stop hatching. That’s not to say that they stopped trying though; my great-grandfather, Aegon V, tried to hatch a set of dragon eggs and it caused a devastating fire that killed over a dozen people, including himself and his eldest son. Not many dabbled with dragon eggs after that and I don’t intend to start, at least not right now.”

Enzo nodded, pensiveness carved on every line of his handsome face, “We will have to keep these hidden, trouble would almost certainly follow if anyone were to discover them in your possession.”

Jon considered pointing out that it was Enzo who dragged them out from where Jon had tucked them away in a secret compartment of a trunk under the security of a trio of locking wards to discuss them in the open. Well, not open exactly; the pair’s tent was set up away from the main camp -under the justification that Sweet Roll became unruly around large groups of people and that Enzo was an extremely light sleeper- so it was just the two of them aside from Ghost, Sweetie, Phantasm, and Specter -Enzo’s male shadowcat. But he ultimately decided against it as he watched the giant Redguard situate the blue eggs back in the truck alongside the other two: the mostly gray one and the third of the trio, a gloss black specimen that reflected tints of green, blue, and purple when the light it just so.

‘The gods know he’s put up with plenty of my antics,’ Jon mused as he settled back into the of grass, hoping to catch a bit of a nap before supper. The party had been traveling for a while now, a little over two weeks, and were only about halfway to King’s Landing. This was due to the rather slow, almost tedious pace they were forced to travel at; the Queen’s wheelhouse looked like a magnificent work of art and was about a practical for long-distance travel as one too, breaking down every few days and needing repairs. Additionally, Prince Joffrey had a tendency to complain about saddle sores if they road more than a few hours any given day. Jon initially thought the king would force them to remain on schedule, but the man seemed to find long days of riding almost as enjoyable as his son (though that meant less work for the man’s poor horse though, if nothing else).

‘At least he decided to skip a visit to Riverrun, I’ll be eternally grateful for that.’ It went without saying that there was little less in the world Jon wanted to do than visit the family home of Lady Stark, not that he would be welcome anyway. Though, as a personal guest of King Robert, they’d be expected to receive him graciously. Jon gave a small, wry grin at the thought; oh, the Tullys would hate that.

But in the end, the potential of making the Lady of Winterfell’s family squirm was outweighed by his general happiness of just not encountering them at all. After all, Jon had more to important matters to focus on than indulging his own vindictive spite. Besides, the two nights stay at the Twins was more than enough for him. Oh, the castle itself was quite impressive to look at but its inhabitants were…less so.

Jon had come to the conclusion that Lord Walder Frey was, in fact, not a man but rather a cockroach that somehow -possibly through magic- took on the form of a man. It would certainly explain his hideous appearance, horrendous personality, and rather uncomfortable ability to breed a family larger than would ever really be needed. Few people had the ability to induce the desire for a bath by simply being in their presence but Lord Frey was one of them.

‘It’ll all be worth it in the end,’ Jon reminded himself. ‘You’ve got to see this through, for them.’ He let out a long, slow breath and allowed his mind to wander far until he felt the familiar sensation of slipping into Ghost’s skin. It was a strange, but not entirely uncomfortable sensation and, while it had once been something that caused fear, Jon had come to welcome it. Things were easier while wearing Ghost’s fur, thoughts simpler and instincts more pronounced as the minds of man and wolf blended together, the world around him nearly overflowing with interesting sounds and smells.

Ghost -he- was crawling through the underbrush downstream, Nymeria by his side. The pair had been hunting - the metallic tang of blood filled the back of his throat- and it was time for a drink of water followed by a nap in the sun. But those plans were interrupted when his packmate’s ears pricked back as the she-wolf let out a deep growling, shooting forward ahead of the crimson-eyed wolf.

He followed, his larger size allowing him to pull ahead and catch Nymeria with a careful, but firm, bite on the scruff of her neck. She snarled and tried to shake him off, only to eventually bow in submission when he increased the pressure of his jaw. Her displeasure continued though, and he felt her desire to break through the last bit of brush between them in the river. The sound of familiar man voices caused his ears to perk up and he pushed his head through the undergrowth.

There was the she-pup, the one Nymeria claimed with another, this one with an unfamiliar scent. The pair seemed to be play fighting with sticks while two other pups, the female who had scratched him behind his ears and her smaller male littermate, made sounds of encouragement. All seemed content and safe, he could sense no reason for Nymeria’s anger, but that became clear when two others intruded on the peace. One was Lady’s chosen, the other was that runtish pup; the one who smelt wrong and rabid. He stalked forwards and every instinct within Ghost’s body was screaming to put the whelp down. He started to salivate at the thought-

-and Jon opened his eyes.

“Fuck!” He shot to his feet, pulling on his boots.

Enzo looked up, concerned, “What is the problem?”

“Joffrey is a little shit!” With that thorough explanation, Jon dashed into the undergrowth hoping he reached Arya and the others before either one of the wolves -or his little sister- decided to take a chunk out of the Prince’s throat. Sticks and leaves crunched under his boots as he was led to Ghost by the subconscious pulling at the back of his mind that was the product of their bond. It took only moments for him to reach the direwolves, but it still felt far too long. Ghost still had a hold of Nymeria, but she was struggling now and it was only a matter of time she was able to slip away. The massive she-wolf wasn’t simply mad, she was furious and she wanted blood.

Jon couldn’t blame her. The Prat Prince had a disgusting smirk on his and his sword at the throat of an ugly boy with a rough face, freckles, and red hair -he has seen the boy before, he was the son of a nearby butcher who befriended Arya. Misha? Mikhail?- who was positively terrified. As for his little sister, Arya -teeth bared and fuming with rage- was being held back by the fearful Myrcella and Tommen. Sansa, on the other hand, stood away from everyone else, eyes wide with dainty hands clasped over her mouth.

It was all Jon to could do not to tear that blade from the little cunt’s hand and beat him bloody. The look on the prince’s face, the sheer enjoyment he got from the terror he caused in others, disgusted him; it was easy to be brave when you had a sword in your hand and the belief the world existed solely for your pleasure running through your head. It would have been wondrous to teach the boy what it’s like to be humbled at the feet of someone far superior to you.

But, sadly, this was not the time or the place for that. It didn’t mean he couldn’t put the prat through a bit of humiliation while preventing bloodshed. Jon murmured a spell under his breath and focused on a medium-sized tree across the river, twisting his wrist sharply with his hand curling into a fist.

CRACK!

The tree snapped in two, the top half crashing to the ground. The crash echoed across the water causing everyone to jump in surprise. The Prince pulled his attention from the frightened butcher boy, lowering his sword, and looking across the river, perhaps expecting to see some strange beast he could boast about fighting off. He took a step forward and Jon saw the perfect opportunity; using another telekinetic spell he froze the boy’s right foot in place while forcing his knee to bend, causing the prat to pitch forward into the shallow water and mud with shrieked cut off by a splash. The sight was truly glorious, and it took every once of the young Dragonborn’s self-control not to burst out laughing even as he remembered to magically tug the sword out and away from Prince Joffrey’s hand so as to minimize the risk that the boy would fall on his own blade.

There was a silent pause as the prince struggled in the muck but that was broken when Arya burst out laughing, quickly joined by Tommen and Myrcella. Jon chose this moment to emerge from the underbrush, Ghost at his side and Nymeria darting straight to Arya who brightened immediately at their appearance. “Arya, is everything alright? I heard a scream.”

“I’m fine,” she said with a smirk, pointing a finger at the wet and muddy heir to the Iron Throne, “he was the one who screamed.”

Jon smiled but looked over to the still terrified butcher boy; they locked eyes and Jon mouthed ‘run’ with a jerk off his head in the direction of the brush. With a shaky nod, Misha-Mikhail-something hurried off, quickly disappearing into the treeline.

“Joff, Joff, please, let me help,” Sansa pleaded as she hesitantly reached out to the crown prince, who was finally managing to pull himself to his feet, mud and lake water dripping from his clothes and hair.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarled, shoving her hand away. He turned his glare to the still laughing Arya, eyes burning with a fury that coldly silenced Myrcella and Tommen who both ducked behind Jon. “Stop laughing or I’ll have your tongue!”

Jon bit back a threat of his own only for Nymeria to lung forward, lips curled back in a snarled. It wasn’t an attack, as the she-wolf pulled back to her place at Arya’s side almost immediately it was clear that what she settled on merely giving the prat a firm warning about threatening her girl. It was still enough to send the coward tumbling back on his ass though, a pitiful whimper on his lips and fear in his eyes.

‘Direwolves respect personal strength, dear Prince, and you have none that wasn’t handed to you,’ Jon thought with a small smirk playing on his lips as Arya opening began laughing once again. “Are you alright Prince Joffrey? Would you like assistance?”

“Silence, Bastard! I’ll-”

“Seven Hells, what is all this yelling about?” King Robert boomed as he stormed towards the small group, followed by the Hound, Jaime Lannister, Queen Cersei, and his Uncle Ned. “What are you doing in the water, Joffrey?”

“That beast attacked me, Father!” The prince shrieked, pointing at Nymeria who certainly didn’t help matters by baring her teeth at the runt. “I want its pelt!”

“Stop lying, you prick,” Arya snapped. “You tripped over your own two feet and you know it! Quit pretending to cover your own idiocy!”

“Shut your mouth, you horrid little girl. How dare you insult my son, the future king!” hissed the Queen as an emerald fire burned in her eyes. She turned to the king, pointing to Nymeria, “That beast is savage, I want it put down now!”

“Hold your horses, Woman! We don’t even know what happened here yet.”

Queen Cersei’s face flushed red, “Don’t know what happened? It’s obvious, that rapid monster attacked a child!”

“No, she didn’t,” Myrcella cut in, her voice soft in comparison to her mother and brother, but still firm. She stepped forward, the back of her small hand brushing against the back of Jon’s; her little chin raised, the princess deliberately avoided the eyes of her mother and older brother, looking only at her father. “Joffrey fell, Father. Nymeria attacked no one, she only growled when Joffrey threatened Lady Arya for laughing.”

The King snorted, “There you have it, your son is a clumsy fool and the wolf is just being loyal to its master.”

“Myrcella is just a girl, she can’t be sure what she is talking about,” the Queen retorted. The woman pinned her gaze on the younger prince, still partially behind Jon. “Tommen,” she called, sweetness dripping from her words like poisoned honey, “would you please explain to your father what that beast did to your brother.”

The boy bit his lip nervously, green eyes fixed firmly on his feet. Jon reached down and gave him a nudge forward, nodding his head slightly when the lad looked up at him, trusting Tommen to do the right thing.

This trust was proven right, when the youngest prince sucked in a breathe and let the words tumble out, “Nymeria is nice; she didn’t hurt Joffrey, he just tripped into the water.”

Queen Cersei gritted her teeth in displeasure, “What about the other two, they haven’t said anything yet. I’m sure the girl will know what to say.”

“Gods be damned, what more do you want?” King Robert grumbled though he did not stop her.

Wariness shaded Uncle Ned’s face as he looked to Jon’s auburn-haired cousin. “Sansa, do you have anything to say?”

Eyes flickering between her father and the queen, Sansa squirmed for a moment but eventually squeaked, “I cannot say, Father. It all happened so fast, I cannot be sure of anything.”

The Queen pursed her lips but his uncle just nodded, “Jon, what about you?”

With a serene smile, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his melt, Jon looked directly at the king and queen, “The banks of the river are quite slick; I fell once myself, there is no shame in it.”

“Well, we have it four-to-one that your son is just an idiot. Now, let's be done with this shit so we can eat.”

“No! I want-”

“Be silent, Woman! I will hear no more of this; the little girl isn’t to blame and neither is her pet. If anything happens to either of them, it’ll be you who's on the line for it. Understand?”

If looks could kill than… well, King Robert would have been dead a long time about, but for now, she simply gave a terse nod while glaring death at her husband.

“Good, now grab your son and get him cleaned up for supper. He looks like he wallowed in a pig pen.” With that the king left, leaving the Hound with Queen Cersei as she fussed over her eldest and Uncle Ned to gather up his daughters and the man’s two youngest children. Jon took this as an opportunity to speak with the king in relative privacy.

“Your Grace, I was wondering if I could speak to you about something?”

“Huh? Of course, m’boy, take a seat,” the fat king gestured for Jon to join him by the main campfire, motioning to a servant to bring something to drink. “What do you want to know?”

“The tourney, I was wondering if you know who might be attending?”

King Robert took a deep swallow of wine, “As competitors or spectators?”

“Both.”

“Well, you can never be too sure about these things; something could always up. But it’s going to be a big one, I’ve got quite the prize set up for the events, so plenty will be there. The youngest Tyrell boy, Bronze Yohn Royce, and that Dayne fop will all be there. Dondarrion and his crowd will likely show up. I know that Old Tywin is bringing a few of his bootlickers from the Westerlands: Addam Marbrand, a couple of Banefort, Clegane, maybe even a Swyft. Some of the kingsguards will also be competing too, of course. Maybe I’ll even be able to convince your father to join in.”

“I doubt that, Your Grace,” Jon chuckled, smiling into the drink he had been given. That was good news indeed. “He isn’t much for the pageantry of tourneys, prefers to keep his skills private until he must reveal them. But I do know that Jory Cassel is hoping to try his skills against knights of the south.”

“What about you?” Ser Jaime cut in.

“Me?”

“Will you be participating in the tourney?”

Jon felt his eyebrows shoot up at the question, “It honestly hadn’t crossed my mind, Ser.”

King Robert laughed, “That may just be the first smart thing you’ve ever suggested, Lannister. You should go for it, Boy; it would make some pretty lass’ day when you crown her Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“But I don’t know much about jousting and I’m definitely not a knight.” Now that it was mentioned, participating in the tourney could certainly work in his favor. If he could get in.

Ser Jaime shrugged, “Being a knight isn’t always required to participant in all events, but if needed then you could always get someone to vouch for you. I’d be willing or you could probably get the king here to do it. As for jousting, it's mostly horsemanship and, from what I’ve seen, you’re quite a good rider. But there is always the melee if nothing else; you’d excel there.”

The compliment was surprisingly kind and made Jon smile as the wheels turned in his mind, planning. “I’ll consider it.”

Jon couldn’t say what it was exactly that woke him up. He laid still on his cot, letting his vision adjust to the darkness of the late night -or extremely early more, he couldn’t say- and scanning the interior of the tent. It was not a large tent, nothing like the opulent temporary dwellings used by the royal family, and there was no place an intruder could hide. Enzo was snoring away on his own, larger cot a few feet away, Specter curled up asleep on the giant’s chest. Sweet Roll had commandeered a wicker basket and turned it into a makeshift nest. On the ground at the foot of his cot was Ghost, guarding the entrance of the tent even in his sleep.

‘If Ghost is still peaceful than all should be well, and yet…’ The young Dragonborn swung his legs out of under his blankets, disturbing Phantasm who’d been snuggled up with him in bed. She raised her head, blinking up at him in confusion and letting out a tiny mewl. Jon resisted the urge to coo and instead gave the kitten -now about the size a small housecat- a scratch behind the ears.

“Jon, is something wrong?” Enzo had woken and propped himself up on his elbows in order to better survey the tent for any potential threats, somehow managing to sound perfectly awake.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. No, nothing is wrong. I just… have a strange feeling; I’m going for a walk, clear my head.” Jon mumbled, pulling on his boots and grabbing Frostbite, ‘You can never be too careful’. Ghost’s crimson eyes flickered open and tail thumped against the ground once, signifying that the two men now had his attention.

“Hmmm, do not stay out too long. We have a long day of dealing with imbeciles tomorrow, you will need your rest. Oh, and refill the water jug if you do not mind. We can purify it in the morning. ”

With an amused huff, Jon ducked out of the tent with the water jug tucked under his arm and Ghost padding silently by his side, an ever loyal and lethal shadow. The night air was cool enough that Jon could almost see his breath and, seeing as he’d neglected to grab a cloak of any kind, Jon shuffled briskly towards the lights of the main camp flickering downstream in an attempt to warm up.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?”

Jon bristled in surprise when the Hound’s massive figure emerged from the shadows that surrounded the camp, his scarred face twisted into the seemingly permanent scowl he always wore. He was surprising stealthy for a man that size.

“You startled me, Ser. Why aren’t you carrying a torch?”

“None of your fucking business, Brat, and I’m not a fucking knight. Now, answer the damn question.”

‘I wonder if he’s always been so joyous,’ Jon thought wryly. “Woke up, decided to do a perimeter check. Has everything been quiet tonight?

“Unless you count the king’s fucking snoring than yes. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, go back to sleep. I’m sure lying through your teeth earlier tuckered you out.”

Jon felt himself stiffen, “I don’t know what-”

“Cut the crap. I’ve been the Crown Cunt’s personal guard for most of his life, I know what he’s like,” Clegane grunted, taking a long drink from a hip flask and plopping down to sit on a crate.

“Why didn’t you speak up?”

The man shrugged, “As I said, I know what he’s like and that, whatever happened, he deserved it.”

“Aren’t you supposed to protect him?”

Another shrug, “I didn’t see anything and besides, it looks like the only thing bruised was the little cunt’s ego -which desperately needed a good hit anyway- so I figure it isn’t my place to say anything.”

“Well, Ser, you have my thanks then.”

“Just be careful, the Queen is just as bad as her spawn and sneakier to boot and I told you before, I’m not a fucking knight. Now, get!”

Jon bit back a chuckle at the older man’s tone, Skyrim had made him extremely used to grouchy older men. He gave a wave of departure but instead of heading back to his own tent went to the riverside to fill up the water jug. He dipped the mouth into the flow, letting the cold liquid run over his fingers; it was shallower at this particularly bend, only up to level with a man’s mid-calf, not as swift-moving which allowed the half-moon and stars to reflect brilliantly on the water’s surface. It was beautiful and yet Jon could only observe it with a sense of melancholy.

His father had died in this river.

Not here exactly, of course, but all the same Jon couldn’t help wonder if Rhaegar Targaryen’s blood had once flowed through this exact spot twenty years ago.

‘No use dwelling on it,’ Jon reassured himself before a familiar sensation -the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up and his teeth went edge. A quick glance to his side showed Ghost crouching down, ears back and teeth bared in a silent growl with his attention focused on the treeline across the river. Jon squinted -he always had better than average night vision, something that only improved after his brief stint as a werewolf- and fixed his suspicions on a bush that seemed...odd. It kept shifting and something in it would, every other moment or so, catch the moonlight.

His eyes went wide and flicker to where Clegane was still sitting on the crate drinking with his back to Jon. In one smooth, practiced motion the young Dragonborn threw himself at the older man, grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate and flinging them both to the ground.

“WHAT THE-”

Whatever indignation Clegane was about to express was silenced when an arrow impaled itself on a tree branch above them. Their eyes met in a moment of shocked silence before the Hound’s face twisted and he growled out, “Get that fucker!”

Jon nodded and rolled to his feet, bolting in direction of the shooter with Ghost rushing ahead of him through the water. Clegane pushed himself up, sprinting into the main camp, “GET UP YOU LAZY FUCKS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

With his words, the camp came alive with the shouting of guards and the snarls of angry direwolves. Jon took this as his chance to do a bit of much-needed stretching.

“WULD NAH KEST!”

The power of Jon’s Thu’um propelled him forward through the water, allowing him to pass Ghost and close the distance between himself and the archer in the blink of an eye. The man -dressed in ragged clothes but clean with neatly trimmed hair- fell back, pale with fright, allowing Jon to seize him by the arm and shove Frostbite through his chest before letting him fall to the ground in a puddle of his blood. A twig snapping behind him had Jon twisting to the side to avoid the sword of another, larger man; a slash across the belly doomed his attacker and the following swing that took the man’s head clean off was a mercy. Ghost lept at another archer, catching him by the wrist with a muzzle full of dagger-sharp teeth and retching with all his might; if the gut-curling scream was anything to go by, the man was an archer no longer.

The darkness made fighting more difficult, even with his exceptional eyesight; It made it harder to how many enemies there were and where they hid. Ducking behind a tree to avoid a trio of incoming arrows, Jon whispered out a detect life spell and counted as dozen figures scattered amongst the trees lite-up bright red. More than he wanted to deal with right now, not while his family was so close and potentially in harm's way

“I really don’t have time to deal with you all individually,” he growled. “KRII LUN AUS!”

The effect was instantaneous; men fell to their knees, gasping as the life was drained from their very souls by Jon’s voice. It was not a pleasant sight, nor it one he took any pleasure in, but given the circumstances, Jon couldn’t allow himself to care for these men. They were a threat, nothing more and nothing less, and time was of the essence; the effect of his shout would not last long and, though it was usually deadly, if any lasted through it they could possibly run and join their comrades in attacking the main.

So Jon rushed from dying man to dying man, stabbing down through the neck for a quick, easy kill with Ghost occasionally leaping in to finish one off before he got there. The thick, heavy stench of blood sunk into the air, radiating off the fresh corpses; Jon fought the urge to gag, even after all this time he still hadn’t gotten used to that smell and he doubted that he ever would.

TWACK!

Jon threw himself to the side, Ghost darting into some undergrowth that swallowed him whole, just barely avoiding the crossbow bolt that flew by him. Eyes narrowed, he tracked mentally tracked the bolt back from its point of origin. ‘I missed one.’

Silhouetted against the little natural light there was stood a large man -not as big as the Hound or Enzo, but certainly impressive- clad in bulky armor, moonlight catching dully on the metal, unlike the others who wore boiled leathers. The man reloaded and aimed for Jon’s head; he missed yet again though when the young Dragonborn ducked behind a nearby tree. Heart pounding in his ears, the dark-haired youth’s mind raced as he considered his options; there were about 25 yards between him and his attacker, should he try to close that distance while the man was reloading? Gods, Jon wished he had his bow.

He could try using another shout, but burning in his throat told him the two he’d already used in such a short about of time had taxed it and one more would likely causing injury. Jon had the misfortune of learning that throat injuries caused by overuse of Shouts could not be healed by spells or potions, damage caused by the magic of the Thu’um too powerful to undone. The only thing to do in such situations was to wait for the body to heal itself. The other option was a magical attack but-

“ZUN HAAL VIIK!”

A wall of blue aura hit the man, ripping the crossbow from his hands and sending stumbling backward. Jon took advantage of the moment, sprinting forward and thrusting his blade into the narrow, vulnerable space between armor and helmet. With a gurgle, the life left the man’s dull brown eyes; an arch of blood spurted when Jon withdrew his blade, slattering across his face, hot and wet. He attempted to wipe it away, only to smear it further; a hand seized his arm and forced his attention.

“Jon!” Enzo’s shout had given him the chance he needed and now the man -his ever-present guardian- pulled him closer, dark eyes checking him for injuries. The giant Redguard was clan only in sleeping pants and boots, ebony sword ready in his hand with blood dripping down over Enzo’s fingers. “Are you alright?”

Jon nodded and tried to pull away, “I’ve got to go protect my family!”

The hand on his arm tightened and Enzo shook his head, “No, they are fine. They are safe; fighting is over.”

Relief, even if his mind was still racing a bit too fast for him to understand, flooded his body and Jon allowed himself to breathe. “What happened? Is…is anyone hurt?”

“I do not believe so; I saw no bodies wearing King Sload’s colors. The camp was attacked for both side; you took care of the attackers from this side and the guards we able to fend off the attackers from the other. Your words kept me from falling back to sleep and when you did not return I attempted to find you, only to stumble upon some of the enemies. I killed as many as possible and then assisted the guards.”

“My family?”

“Safe; I saw your uncle and the older girl before I came to find you.”

“What about-”

“JON!”

Arya shrieked his name as she crashed through the brush towards him, terror written all over her small face. His beloved little sister’s hair was loose and wild, wearing a pair of boots too large for her under a pale nightgown soaking wet to the knees and strained dark around the chest. For a brief but horrific moment, Jon worried she was injured, especially once he noticed the ebony dagger, Candle, gripped tightly in her small hand.

“ARYA!” He ran for her, Enzo at his heel, desperate to know if she was hurt. She was so close and yet it seemed to take forever to reach her. Time seemed to slow even more when another figure came up behind her; a man, fat with a sword in one hand and the other pressed into his gut.

“I’m going to get you, you little bitch!” The man swung his blade widely, missing his little sister by what seemed like a mile. A mile that quickly closed when Arya fell -tripped over a branch or root or something- down on to her hand and knees. With a twisted grin, the man closed in, sword raised over his head and ready to cleave the littlest she-wolf’s head from her body.

Fury filled every fiber of Jon’s being and he didn't think, just shot a bolt of light straight into the chest of the man who dared threaten the life of his little sister. It arced over Arya’s head and blew a hole clean through her attacker’s chest, crackling for a moment before it eventually dissipated and dropping the twitching corpse to the ground.

Then there was only quite; silence aside from the distance shouting of the main champ and the heavy breathing of the trio. Arya stayed crouched on the ground, gasping for breath; she looked at the corpse behind her and then to Jon, who stopped in his tracks at her pale-faced, wide-eyed expression of shock.

“Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Was that magic?”

It was hard to tell if his mind or heart was racing faster and he certainly couldn’t form a coherent thought to save his life, but Jon managed to give a shaky nod. He swallowed hard against a dry throat, “Aye.”

Tyrion Lannister I

‘I wonder if it’ll freeze before it hits the ground?’ Tyrion idly wondered, relacing his trousers. The Wall was all he’d ever dreamed of; a beautiful, wondrous, terrifying thing that towered taller than anything he’d ever seen, ever imagined. It stretched as far as the eye could see like so some giant, winding ice serpent, strength coiled in ever chip of ice and speck of stone. and standing atop it Tyrion felt as if he was the most powerful man in the world. Far below him, on one side, Night’s Watchmen scurried about like black rats -violent, ill-tempered rats Tyrion had found- and, on the other side, was an endless sea of snow-covered forest that seemed to stretch until the end of the world.

It was also, however, horrifically cold and windy enough that Tyrion feared both for the safety of his manhood and that he may be blown straight off if the wind picked up anymore. So he made his way to a much more preferable environment, the library.

The library was located underground, within the vaults; it wasn’t a large room and no warmer than anywhere else in the castle with the few rows of bookshelves stocked with old, worn tombs. Tyrion pulled on from it’s home and let it fall open in his hand, The Edge of the World by Maester Balder; he ran his finger over the inked words, if nothing else, the cold helped to preserve the books.

“It’s not often I have a visitor to my library.” The voice of Castle Black’s maester was soft but carried the kind of strength that made those around him immediately fall silent so as to listen. Tyrion was not unused to this ability, he had seen used by his own father; in one of his rare moments of generosity, the Old Lion man advised his youngest son that a man who needed to yell to be heard rarely had anything worth say and rarer still were people likely to listen to him.

It was, incidentally, excellent advice...not that Tyrion had managed to master it yet, of course. People only ever seemed to listen to him when they wanted something -be that favors or to reticule him- or because he was paying them to. He was working on it.

“I hope I didn't disturb you, Maester. I was unaware anyone else was in here.”

“There are few other places I can go, My Lord, for I am quite old; stairs are the most daunting of enemies.”

The maester was old, perhaps the oldest person Tyrion had ever seen. His body, which at one time must have been healthy and fit, was now a feeble sack of bones and skin -bald, wrinkled, shrunken, and, judging by the pale blue film that clouded his eyes, blind.

“Excuse me, but how-”

“I may be blind, but that does mean I cannot hear.”

The quick response flustered Tyrion, it was evident that, despite his age, the maester’s mind was sharp as ever. “I simply meant to ask how you knew of my identity.”

A chuckle told him that his excuse wasn’t believed. “Well, I heard of your arrival, of course; it’s not often we get a visit from someone as esteemed as the Heir of Casterly Rock but even here we know of your reputation as a lover of books, wine, and women. We have not of the latter and the wine here is all bitter, watered-down swill, so it only made sense that you would seek out what remains. I knew it would only be a matter of before you made your way down here.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not, as long as you’re careful, books are made to be read but some of these are quite old and need to be handled carefully. I was also hoping for your help; my library isn’t popular with the Black Brothers and I find myself in desperate need of an assistant.” The maester pulled a small piece of parchment out of the pocket of his robe and held it out, “Bring these books to me and I’ll grant you complete us of the archives here.”

Tyrion took the parchment, it was only about half a dozen titles including- “You have a copy of Dragonkin by Maester Thomax?”

“Hmmm, oh, yes; it’s been here for many years. Since I first arrived at Castle Black, in fact.” The old man slowly made through the shelves, running his long, knotted fingers along the warped wood, “Ah ha, I believe it is somewhere on this shelf here.”

Giddy as child promised sweets, Tyrion riffled through the books until he found the one he wanted. It was heavy and made from thick parchment with beautifully inked illustrations that still maintain their vibrancy despite its age, including a particularly nice one of Balerion the Black Dread. “I’ve only ever seen copies at the Citadel and the Red Keep, never expected to find one here. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to part with it for a tidy sum?”

The old man chuckled, “A great thirst for knowledge for someone so small. I wonder… has a giant come among us?”
.
.
.
Tyrion, who’d spend most of his life subjected to mockery and was now able to spot it a mile off, could only sputter, “I wonder if my father would view that as an improvement?”

The maester’s face split into a wide, mostly-toothless girl, wrinkles bunching at the corners of his mouth and sightless eyes. “I met a real giant when I was younger, you know; he was a good man, kind and practical in many things. Practicality is a trait so rarely found in me, even in those with great intelligence.”

Ignoring the fact his family was most known for their gold, a pretty but largely useless metal that only had value because men deemed it so, Tyrion let out a hum of agreement as he delicately turned the pages.

“Lannister, Lord Commander Mormont needs to speak with you.”

Tyrion looked up from his book into the cold, black eyes of Alliser Thorne and fought the knee-jerk urge to scowl at the clear disdain that radiated in the dark pools. Since arriving at Castle Black the Lannister heir had the pleasure of encountering several run-ins with the former Targaryen loyalist and the mean-spirited older man had made it clear that he wouldn’t piss on Tyrion to save his life.

“Oh, whatever about?”

Thorne sneered down at him, “Don’t know, don’t care. Just do as you’re told, Dwarf.”

“I was unaware that was how we spoke to visitors, Ser Alliser, especially those who have personality brought us supplies and new members for our ranks.”

At the soft-spoken chiding of the elderly maester Thorne’s face did soften slightly, even if only for a moment. He bowed his head -not that the old man could see it- and addressed Tyrion again, this time through gritted teeth. “Lord Tyrion, if you’d please allow me to escort you to the Lord Commander’s solar, he has something he wishes to discuss with you.”

Tyrion considered drawing out the man’s displeasure but felt the maester’s unseeing eyes focus on the back of his head so instead just smiled as brightly as possible, “I would be delighted; just allow me to put away a few things.”

Thorne grunted in gruff agreement but left the room.

“Be careful around him, Ser Alliser absolutely despises your family,” the old maester warned.

“Oh really? I would have never been able to guess," Tyrion mumbled as he re-shelved several books before picking up Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons and letting his fingers skim over the cover -it was such a rare book- and he glanced up at blind maester, wondering if maybe-

“I think it would be best if you left that here, Lord Tyrion; it’s lasted so long, it’d be a shame if travel you be the end of it.”

Feeling very much like a child caught attempting to sneak sweets from the kitchens, Tyrion quickly put the book down and skittered out of the room.

“I’ve heard you’ve been butting heads with Thorne; not the easiest to get along with, is he?”

“Honestly? I’d be amazed to hear he gets along with anyone.”

Lord Commander Mormont let out a low, dry chuckle. In spite of his age, the Old Bear still cut quite the imposing figure, broad-shoulder, and straight-backed with a stern gaze. From appearance alone, it was easy to see why he was held in such high regard by most members of the Black Brothers. “No, he is not an easy man...but he is loyal and at least half-competent-”

“Corn!”

“-which that is more than I can say for some of my men.”

“You seem to be holding things together fairly well.”

“Aye, but I am old. Who knows how much longer I’ll last before the cold or the pox or the food or the wildlings get to me. After that my successor, whoever he is,-”

“Corn!”

“-will be stuck with the task of holding this madhouse together; far from an envious task. But what can be expected, when the majority of recruits are criminals with no real motivation-”

“Corn!”

“-to dedicate themselves to the Watch or-”

“Corn!”

“Be silent, you bloody beast!” Mormont growled, swatting at the raven that perched on his shoulder. The bird hopped down to the desk, cackling loudly, and fixed its beady black eyes onto Tyrion. “Beast,” it cawed, beating its big dark wings. “Beast!”

‘Would it be inconsiderate to pluck you?’ It probably would, so Tyrion turned his attention from the bird to its master, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Your sister is the queen, correct?”

“Yes, unless you know something I don’t.”

The older man scowled, “Jap all you want, Lannister, but this is no laughing matter. You need to get your sister to have the king start enforcing Night’s Watch taxes once again; the last king to do it was Aegon V and now only the North constantly sends us supplies. What you came with was good, but can only be stretched for a few months.”

Tyrion tried not to wince, most of the supplies that he had come up with had been donated by the Starks and yet the Crown took credit for it. “I’ll see what I can do when I get back to King’s Landing, have some of the cells cleaned out and sent up at the very least.”

The Old Bear shook his head, “We need more than that; oh, prisoners will do in a pinch, but I need real soldiers, trained soldiers. At least enough of them to keep the unruly ones inline.”

“Why are you so concerned about such a thing? Surely they’d be grateful not to be locked away anymore.”

“The men who escape the hangman’s nose or the dark confines of a cell by running here are still prisoners, Lord Tyrion, only this is their prison. Do you wonder what if would look like if one day they decided they’d like to run it?”

“Bloody! Bloody!”

A shiver ran down Tyrion’s spine as the raven spoke up again, cackling as stared at him with eyes that seemed too wise for a mere bird.

“Manpower is only part of it, too: food, equipment, supplies, we don’t have nearly enough for what is coming.”

A chill seemed to settled heavily in the air but the Dwarf of Casterly Rock eyed the Lord Commander suspiciously, “What, pray tell, is coming?”

Shaking his head, the older man looked towards the window, “I don’t have a name for it, but I know something is coming. I feel it in my bones and my night patrols see things in the trees; its out there, beyond the wall, waiting for its chance.”

“I’m going to need something more than a few ominous words if I’m too convince the king to send aid.”

Mormont fell silent for a long moment before sighing and pulling out a cloth bundle. Tyrion fought the urge to gag as the wrappings were pulled away to reveal a dismembered, partially decayed hand. “One of my men found this over a moon ago; it was still moving.”

Arya Stark I

A sharp pressure on her hand woke Arya up; she blinked sleep from her eyes until they could focus on the glowing gold pair owned by Nymeria. The giant, gray-furred direwolf had Arya’s left hand gripped her teeth, biting down lightly and tugging it.

“Whad’ ‘er you doin’ girl?” Arya mumbled, sitting up on her elbows and squinting at her direwolf. Nymeria had never done anything like this before; she’d seen Ghost do something similar, tugging Jon's hand back and forth as a kind of game -had done seen him do it even as a pup- but it was a habit never shared by any of the other litter. She glanced around the tent; it was still dark and through the gloom she could see Sansa cuddled up on her cot, auburn hair sprayed across the pillows and snoring softly.

But something -or rather, someone- was missing. Lady was nowhere to be seen.

This was strange; the smallest direwolf of the bunch as never far from Sansa and only ever left her side when Sansa herself commanded it, then only reluctantly. Nights usually found her sleeping by the foot of the older sister's bed, but no that spot was empty.

Of course, there were many perfectly normal reasons while Lady would have left the tent. But considering how strange Nymeria was acting…

“Did something happen to Lady?”

Nymeria dropped her hand, teeth leaving twin rows of indentations in Arya’s skin, and gave a singular long, slow blink. It was enough to compel the youngest she-wolf out of bed, pulling on a pair of worn boots that she had nicked from Jon's room a year back -they were a bit too big for her, but were better than slippers for walking at night- and reaching under her pillow to grab Candle. She’d been keeping it there while she slept at Jon’s suggestion; “Best you always keep it close, Little Sister, so that if you ever need it -even if it is only once in your lifetime- you’ll have it,” he had said, and she had listened.

Clutching the dagger tightly in one hand, Arya followed Nymeria to the tent’s entrance and peaked through the flaps. There were usually two guards stations outside the Stark sisters quarters, but now she could only see one, who was sitting on a crate with his eyes closed and posture lax. Even if he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t paying attention so, after a deep breath -she’d been given strict instructions to only ever leave her tent at night if there was an emergency and would surely be sent back to her mother if caught-, Arya slipped out of the tent and around the corner, ducking out of sight.

Creeping through the narrow alleyways created by the tents, Arya trailed after Nymeria, sticking to through the shadows to avoid being seen. ‘I am Arya Underfoot,’ she thought to herself. ‘Sneaky as a cat and just as likely to trip a man.’

All was going well until they reached the outskirts of the camp; a call rang out through the air, “GET UP YOU LAZY FUCKS! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!”

The shout sent the camp behind her into what seemed to be an instantaneous frenzy; there were men shouting and then what sounded like steel striking steel. Nymeria shot off into the darkness, snarls echoing through camp. For Arya it seemed as if her mind was ablaze; she couldn’t think and even though the smart thing to do would have been to turn around and run back to the tent, Arya took out after her direwolf, her instincts spurring her onward along the riverside.

She didn’t know where they were going, just...away from the camp. ‘Get to safety,’ was her only thought. But that was easier said than done because a man she didn’t recognize, not wearing Stark, Baratheon, or Lannister colors, lept from the treeline into her path, hand going for a sword on his hip. Arya shrieked but it was drowned out by the man’s own cries when Nymeria lept on him, teeth going for his throat.

Not letting herself think about the sounds of screaming or tearing or gurgling, Ayra ran faster; nearly stumbling when she had to skitter to a stop when another man came at her. In what had to have been flash of genius, a memory from her lesson on footwork shot through her mind and she managed to dodge the man’s attempt to grab her. He was a fat man and not particularly fast, but also tall and when he lunged again Arya acted purely on impulse. She stabbed him in the gut.

‘It felt a little like pushing a needle through a thick piece of cloth.’ The morbid thought emerged in the back of Arya’s mind as she stared wide-eyed at the handle of the dagger -which her hand was still wrapped around- that stuck out of her attacker’s extended gut. The man seemed equally surprised, gasping as he gawked down at his stomach. Their eyes briefly met and that was enough to jar Arya from her shocked state; she kicked him hard as he could in the shin and wrenched Candle from where it was stuck. Blood spurted out, splashing across the chest of her nightgown.

He doubled over, grasping his side, and she took that as her chance to run. But where too? Arya didn’t want to get too far from camp but when she glanced over her shoulder she saw what looked like more attackers. They could have been the king’s or her father’s men, but Arya wasn’t going to risk it. So that left only one direction.

This section of the river was shallow and slow-moving, but that didn’t make running through it any easier. Water filled her boots and dragged at the bottom of her nightgown, soaking it and making it heavy. She stumbled but forced herself to remain upright, ‘If I fall then I am dead.’

The splashing behind her mixed with sounds of grunts and a man cursing told her she was being pursued. ‘Just run; don’t think, just run.’

Her feet finally hit the solid ground of the opposite bank -knees almost giving out with how bad they were shaking- but it allowed her to run now, really run. Water sloshing in her boots, Arya rushed through the trees, branches catching in her hair and scratching at her face. But eventually her legs needed a rest, so she came to a stop against a tree; chest heaving heavily as she gasped for breath. Though she still felt nearly paralyzing fear, it was nearly all swept away when she heard a familiar voice.

Despite the situation, a wide grin split across her face when, through the dim light, she could just barely make out her beloved older brother’s figure. This joy was brief, however, as the breaking of leaves and sticks told her that her pursuer had found her.

“JON!” She called at the top of her lungs, crashing through the brush towards Jon. He’d protect her; he always had. She saw his head turn towards her -she was so close- and he shouted out to her, rushing forward.

“I’m going to get you, you little bitch!” Close as Jon was, the man chasing her was closer. Death was closer than safety and it got even closer when her foot to catch on something and send her sprawling onto the ground. She landed on her hands and knees, the wind knocked from her lungs.

CRACK!

The sound of lighting strike was loud enough to stun the littlest she-wolf long enough for the sound to dissipate into a low humming before disappearing complete, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting a ground. Everything seemed to go completely still until...Arya peeked behind her and saw the corpse of her attack lying on the ground, a hole blown clean in his chest. She looked back to Jon and he froze, “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“Was that magic?”

Jon was quiet for a long moment, as was Mister Enzo, before he finally swallowed and nodded his head shakily, “Aye.”

“Oh.” Arya felt numb. She had grown up on stories of magic and Old Nan always insisted it was real, but… “Can you turn into an animal?”

“Can I...turn into an animal?” Jon asked, brow furrowed but with a hint of a smile on his blood-smeared face. He pulled Arya to her shaky feet, “Are you hurt?”

She realized what he was looking at, “Not my blood, h-his.” Pointing at the dead body of her attacker, she continued, “He tried to grab me and I sta- I stabbed h-h-him-”

Arya bent over and threw up, narrowing missing Jon and Mister Enzo’s boots, “O-oh m-my-”

“Listen to me, listen to me!” Jon grabbed her by the upper arms, “He would have hurt you. You did what you had to in order to survive. That is all you can allow yourself to think about! Do you understand? Do you understand?”

Falling into Jon’s chest, Arya nodded, blinking away tears, “I understand.”

“Good,” the deep voice of Jon’s friend said. “Then we should join up with the others at the main camp, your...father and sister will certainly be worried about you.”

“Aye, let's go.” Tucking Arya under his arm and tight to his side, he led her through the trees and back through the river.

“So, can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Use magic to turn into an animal?”

“No, I don’t believe so. Not exactly, at least.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

Jon chuckled softly, dropping a kiss on the top of her head, but Mister Enzo frowned, “You can not tell anyone about this, Little One. Not even your father or sister.”

Arya felt her brow furrow, “Why not?”

“It would be dangerous for Father to know,” Jon explained. “I might tell him in time, but it will be on my own terms. Promise me, Arya.”

Arya loved Jon but she also loved her father, “I won’t tell him. But if he asks then I’m not going to lie either.”

Mister Enzo nodded, “That is agreeable, Little One.”

The finished the walk into the main camp in silence; guards milling about, not seeming to notice them, and Arya tried hard not to look at the various dead bodies that littered the ground.

“Arya!”

“Father!” Arya shot forward and flung herself into her father’s strong arms, pressing her face into his shirt.

“I was so worried, where were you?” The Lord of Winter pulled away to look her over completely, check her for any injuries. Arya saw the fear in his eyes and felt guilt flood her.

“I… got scared and just… ran until Jon and Mister Enzo found me. I don’t know why, I just did. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Don’t do it again,” her father growled, pulling her into another hug. Then his eyes flickered up to Jon and the blood drying on his face, “Are you-”

“Not a scratch on me,” Jon reassured with a brief smile before he looked around and frowned again.

“Well, that is good to here.” Arya turned to see the king lumbering towards them flanked by Ser Barristan and the Hound.

“How many casualties, Robert?”

“Four guards, two with their throats cut and two taken out at a distance by arrows. They had all been patrolling the outskirts of the camp; Lord Stark, one of them was from your household.” Ser Barristan answered before the king could speak.

Her father let out a deep, heavy sigh, “I’ll see that his remains are sent to his family.”

“I’m sorry about your man, Ned. But it could have been a lot worse, remember that.”

The king’s words seemed to do little to comfort her father, but he still nodded and turned to the Hound, “I heard you were the one who sounded the alarm, I thank you for that. It allowed us to mount enough of a defense to keep too many from being hurt.”

The big scarred man grunted and jabbed a thumb in Jon’s direction, “Don’t thank me, he was the one who made sure I could get the guards of their lazy asses.

Jon seemed to flush, “It was blind luck that I spotted that archer, thank you though.”

King Robert laughed and slapped Jon’s back, “So modest, just like you, Ned.”

Father eyed Jon briefly before turning back to the king, “What do you want to do about this attack, Your Grace?”

“Not much to do, is there? All the bandits are dead.”

“Bandits?” Jon asked, “Are you sure?”

“Your Grace, may I suggest that we leave at first light? It is too dark to safety travel but too early to settle back in for much longer.”

King Robert nodded, “Good, get that started Barristan. Clegane, make sure my wife and her-”

A scream rang out the air, pained and desperate. “Sansa,” Father whispered before rushing toward the origin of the scream with Arya and Jon following close behind.

Down in a ditch at the outskirts of camp Sansa was wailing and crouched over something that, after a moment, Arya realized was Lady, dead with a crossbow bolt buried in her neck. The crack of a trig caught her attention; she lookup and saw Nymeria and Ghost -both with drying blood matted in their first- staring down at their dead littermate. In perfect sync, they threw back their heads in twin howls, one echoing across the sky and one silent as the grave.

“Sansa, Sansa! You must let go,” Father pleaded, trying to pull his eldest daughter of her dead direwolf.

“No!” Sansa threw her back on top of Lady, blood staining her nightgown, “Get up, Lady! Get up! I know you can do it!”

“She’s gone, Sansa,” Father said softly, finally managing to pull her up. He turned to the crowd of onlookers, “Did anyone see how this happened?”

“It was the bandits, Lord Stark,” Prince Joffrey answered, stepping forward. The sight of him made Arya’s jaw clench; she hated the very sight of him -had since the first him she laid eyes on the prince- and even now, with his gentle tone, she wanted to stab Candle into his eye. “I saw one do it and I killed him myself in retaliation. Your pet has been avenged, Sansa; you can rest easy.”

“T-thank you, Joff,” Sansa whispered through her tears.

“It’ll be alright in the end, my dear,” the king said, attempting to comfort her sister. “We can have it made into a nice cloak-”

“Septa Mordane, could you please take Sansa to get cleaned up and settled down?” Father cut in when Sansa whimpered in horror at King Robert’s suggestion. The Septa nodded and the Hound held out a hand to help Sansa out of the ditch, “Easy does it, Little Bird.”

“Come along, Arya,” Septa Mordane called.

“No, I want to stay with Jon!” she snapped, pressing back into her brother’s side.

“That is far from appropriate. Lord Stark-”

“My daughter has been through a traumatic experience tonight. If being near her brother make her feel better than I see no reason to deny it. Besides, it was Sansa I asked you to attend to, not Arya.”

Arya fought the urge the snicker at the septa discomfort at Father’s curt response, only managing to bite it back when Jon pinched her side. She glanced up at him and he winked before turning to Mister Enzo, “Can you gather up our thing from our tent, check on the animals?”

The giant nodded, “Of course.” His eyes shifted to Arya, “Try to get some rest, Little One; the first battle is always a trying ordeal.”

“Will Sansa be alright?”

Jon sighed, wringing a washcloth out as he set to work trying to clean the blood from Ghost fur, “I cannot say, but I think, with time, she’ll be able to move forward. It will take time though; she’ll be very vulnerable these next few days, be gentle with her.”

Arya spat a mouthful of salty water out onto the ground, trying to clean her mouth of the taste of bile; whipping her mouth on the back of her hand, she nodded, “I’ll try, but I’m not going to hang all over the prince just because she does.”

Jon went still, “You don’t like him, do you?”

“You do?” she sneered.

Her brother snorted, “Of course not, but you need to be careful how you speak about him.”

“I could beat that prat with one hand tied behind my back.”

That got her a laugh, “I’m sure you could, but that is not how things with royalty work, Arya; especially once we get to the capital.”

“Why?”

Jon shook his head, “It hard to explain but know that King’s Landing is going to be dangerous, possibly more dangerous than I originally thought. You, we, are going to need to be careful.”

Her brother was so different now, cryptic and secretive; he spoke in riddles and always seemed to be holding something back. But he was still Jon and, therefore, would likely be unable to deny her much, “Than maybe you should teach me some magic.”

An eyebrow shot up into his hairline and Jon looked at her surprised, “What do you mean?”

“If there is going to be danger than I need a way to defend myself and, let's face it, Jon, all the lessons in the world won’t change the fact that I’m small; I need a way to fight people bigger than me!”

Jon went quiet for what felt like a long while before closing his eyes and sighing, “Alright, I’ll teach you the basics. We’ll start with a simple healing spell.”

Next Chapter: The gang arrives in King’s Landing. Jon meets quite a few people -some of them very interested in meeting him- and does some exploring. Ned chats with Jon about two important people. Bran has a dream and talks with his brother.

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal part
5. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.
6. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. 

Jon XII

In Jon’s humble opinion, King’s Landing seemed to be the kind of place that was best admired at a distance.

As they approached the King’s Gate at the southern corner of the southwest wall, he could see the marble-walled Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers rising above Visenya's Hill to the west. In the north of the city, the Hill of Rhaenys was capped by the collapsed ruins of the Dragonpit dome, which had not been in use since the last dragon died a century-and-a-half ago. Jon tried very hard to think about the three eggs hidden away in one of his trunks. Most importantly, of course, in the south-eastern part of the city was Aegon's High Hill, where the pale red bricks of the Red Keep gleamed in the afternoon sunlight from where it loomed over both the city and Blackwater Rush. Surrounded by high, thick walls, it looked both beautiful and secure.

It also stank to the high heavens.

“What is that smell?” Arya gagged; she’d finally talked Uncle Ned into allowing her to ride alongside Jon for the last few days of their journey, even purchasing a lovely dun rounsey -Joffrey had sneered that it was fitting that a girl like her road a horse of no particular breeding; he’d been forced to shut his mouth when the king pointed out that Arya was a far better rider than him despite her age and inferior horse- which Arya had swiftly latched onto, dubbing the mare, Cider, in reference to her color.

“Half-a-million people living on top of each other without a properly maintained sewage system,” Ser Barristan commented; the old knight had been seemingly going out of his way to chat with Jon at least once a day, usually about mundane things like swordplay or the pros and cons of different styles of armor, but sometimes he asked about Jon’s travels. In all honesty, it had taken a while for the young Dragonborn to stop being awestruck and stumbling over his own tongue whenever the legendary knight addressed him.

“Half-a-million, really?” Jon asked, surprised.

“Yes, I know, I’m sure it seems a bit small to hold that many people. Lannisport and Old Town are both larger in size and Lannisport nearly equals it in population; though, if you ask me, both are far lovelier.”

Arya cocked her head to the side, “Why doesn’t the smell bother you then?”

The knight chucked, “I’ve been in this city for a long time, Lady Arya, since I was just a little older than you are now. I suppose that, given enough time, you can get used to anything.”

‘True enough, but does that mean you should?’ Jon pondered before speaking up, “It’s quite astonishing; that is more than double populous of Skyrim’s capital city. Solitude only has a little over 200,000 citizens living with its walls.”

“Truly? Is this land of your’s quite small?”

Jon shook his head as Arya urged Cider closer so she could listen better, “No, not exactly. But it's quite like the North, large enough but rather sparsely populated; add to that two wars in the past 50 years and it's far from a crowded land. That’s not true of all of Tamriel, however; the Imperial City has a population of about a million, despite nearly being destroyed not too long ago. Needless to say, I was quite overwhelmed when I visited. The city of Jehanna is one of the eight major cities in the country of High Rock and, while it is relatively young, boasts quite the hardy population due to its plentiful trade routes.”

Ser Barristan nodded and began to say something else when the King’s booming voice cut him off.

“I had the party come this way so I could show you where the tourney will be taking place in a few days,” King Robert waved his meaty arms to gesture to where rows of brightly colored tents and stands where being set up. “Going this way means we can also avoid all those shanty towns around most of the other gates, not to mention Flea Bottom.”

“What’s Flea Bottom?” Arya asked.

“The slums of the city, where the absolute poorest citizens live in horrid conditions,” Ser Barristan explain, a gravely serious expression on his face. “It is an extremely dangerous place and I advise that neither of you strays near it. But, if you must, don’t eat anything there.”

Jon decided not to think too hard about what that warning meant.

“On that note, Arya, it's time for you to get back in the wheelhouse,” Uncle Ned instructed.

“But Father-”

“No, do not argue with me, Arya; remember our deal. We’re about to enter the city and you’ll be safer in the wheelhouse.” The stern look on the Lord of Winterfell’s face mention there would be no changing his mind, so instead Arya just rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated groan, before finally complying.

Jon gave a chuckle at his youngest sister’s antics, as did Ser Barristan before turning back to Jon, “There will certainly be a crowd as we make our way to the Red Keep, will your wolves be alright?”

Ghost shot a crimson-eyed look at the elderly warrior, seemingly offended but the insinuation that he couldn’t handle himself around a few people. Jon smiled, “Ghost spends plenty of time in cities, he is always with me whenever I need to stay in one. He’ll be fine as long as he gets a chance to stretch his legs every day; in fact, I prefer to keep him close by.”

“I don’t blame you after what happened, but what about the other one?”

That was a good question; Nymeria wasn’t as wild as Shaggydog and, as far as he knew, had never attacked someone without just cause, but Jon still couldn’t sure how’d she react. Arya had wanted to take her direwolf into the wheelhouse with her but the Queen had forbidden it; she’d also try to banish the direwolves to the Kingswood, along with Jon’s other animals, but Uncle Ned had put his foot down and adamantly refused, stating that after the death of Lady he wanted to keep a close eye on Nymeria and Ghost. King Robert agreed, with the stipulation that the animals be kept under control. This wasn’t too hard, Spector and Phantasm were still small enough to be comfortably tucked into baskets and Jon always trusted Ghost’s instincts but Sweet Roll definitely wasn’t enjoying his cage, biting at anyone who came close enough.

He looked down at the two direwolves, pondering what to do about Nymeria when Ghost caught his eyes; they shared a moment of silent understanding that ended with Ghost crossed his neck over his smaller littermate’s, signally that he would ensure she stayed inline.

Jon turned back to Ser Barristan and grinned, “They’ll both be fine.”

Predictably, a crowd had form almost immediately after they entered the city. Children -and hopeful young men who dreamed of being soldiers- watched with rapid fascination, wide-eyes taking in the gleaming armor of the Kingsguard members or pointed excitedly at Ghost and Nymeia. Mothers pulled their children back, startled by the enormous size of the direwolves. Pretty young maids called flirtatiously to the young men in the party who caught their fancy, which apparently included Jon much to his discomfort. Grown men were the quietest in their attention, but still watched them all with careful, calculating eyes.

The King absolutely basked in the seeming adoration of his people, waving wildly and tossing handfuls of coins into the crowd which sent them all scrambling to grab as many as they could. He stopped to do this every few yards and the congestion in the streets grew so bad that it took an hour to get from the King’s Gate to the fish market. Once there, things came to a stand-still as the merchants swarmed to peddle their wares, each shouting out how fresh their fish was and how reasonable their prices were. Coarse-looking fishwives with their giant, sharp-toothed knives sent their children, who were small and nimble enough to slip around the guards, with samples of their products to offer up.

A fair-haired boy sold Enzo a thick paper cone full of fried fish chunks and potato disks drizzled in vinegar while a small, mousy girl with messy dark hair that matched her canvas dress and the dirt smudged on her chin scampered up to Jon with a grilled fish skewer in each hand. She held them up to him wordlessly, shyly peeking through her bangs. He smiled gently and took the skewers from her hands, replacing them with a handful of silver stags without even bothering to ask the price. The girl gasped at the money before rushing away, presumably to go show her parents.

Jon smiled at the girl’s joy and began pulling chunks of the grilled fish off to drop into the waiting gullets of Ghost and Nymeria when a yelp of fright drew his attention. One of the Kingsguard -the ugly, mediocre one- had seized the little fish girl by the arm, “Who’d you steal that money from you little street rat? Confess now and I just take a finger instead of your whole hand!”

Anger washed through his veins, hot and humming, “Take your hands off her this instant, Blount! I gave her that coin and any injury you leave on that girl I’ll pay double onto you.”

The man’s eyes snapped to Jon; to say he was an unimpressive sight would be an understatement, especially for a member of the kingsguard. Boros Blount was an ugly man with a broad chest with a stomach that was beginning to border on fat and short, bandy legs. He had eyes that were small and mean, a flat nose, jowls, and a head that was nearly bald aside from sparse patches of brittle, gray hair on either side. In their time traveling together, Jon had observed him to be a man of bad temperament, meager constitution, and no real martial skill; a dangerous combination. His face flushed red but his grip on the girl loosened just enough that she was able to slide out of his grasp and runoff, coins still clasped tight in her fists.

“How dare you speak to me like that, Bastard, I am a member of the kingsguard!”

Jon scoffed, the man’s flushed face looked like a half-rotten tomato, “And from what I’ve seen of you, I genuinely wonder how you managed to achieve such a thing. Tell me, was there literally no other options available?”

“I’ll have you whipped for that tongue of yours, Bastard!”

The threat actually made Jon openly laugh, “Are you too much of a coward to try to do it yourself, Blount? I can’t say that I’m surprised, you only seem to be brave when facing the small and the weak. Well, I am neither so if you have a problem with my tongue than I invite you to come and take it.”

Then he smiled, wild and wolfish, which was mirrored by the bared teeth that Ghost and Nymeria gave Blount. The man -and Jon used that term loosely- glared daggers at Jon, but fear was outweighing his anger; he was brave enough threatening a little girl, but a young man skilled enough to cross swords with Jaime Lannister and a pair of direwolves?

“Oh, that would certainly be interesting to see,” Enzo hummed, a small smirk tugging the corner of his mouth as he stared the other man down with unblinking eyes.

At the approach of Enzo, Blount actually pulled his horse back and Jon only just managed to resist the urge to laugh; despite knowing how deadly the giant Redguard could be in a fight, it amused Jon to end how much fear his friend -who he’d witnessed cooing at his shadowkitten, sniffling over romantic Breton poetry, and once getting so drunk that he hurled a very annoyed badger through the window of Nazeem’s bedroom- could strike in others. If Enzo’s presence wasn’t enough of an extra deterrent for Blount, then the addition of Ser Jaime certainly was; the golden knight came up beside Jon, a disgusted look on his face, “What mess are you causing now, Blount?”

“I was simply doing my duty, Kingslayer. Not that you’d know anything about that.”

“I wasn’t aware harassing small children or the King’s personal guests was part of the duty of the Kingsguard,” Ser Barristan cut in with a cold look, another recent arrival to the little scene.

“Lord Commander, I-”

“Get to the back of the party, Ser Blount.”

It took a moment but after an impressive series of grumbled expletives, the man did as ordered with Ser Barristan following close behind to ensure he went. Jon watched him go, “Was there really no other options?”

“He’s actually a halfway decent jouster. Not sure if that makes up for everything else, though,” commented Ser Jaime with a half-shrug. “The Kingsguard certainly isn’t what it use to be, you should have seen it when I was younger; Gerald Hightower, Lewyn Martell, Oswell Whent, Jonothor Darry, and Arthur Dayne, the best of them all, they were nothing like this lot.”

He paused, a dark look crossing his face, “Though even they had their failures.”

Jon cocked his head to the side, “What man doesn’t?”

Ser Jaime gave a dry huff of laughter, “True, but some have ones that are greater than others.” Then he gave Jon a friendly slap on the back, “You’d make a good kingsguard, I think.”

Jon couldn’t help but glance back to where the Crown Prince was complaining to his father -who was busy still basking in the attention of the crowd- about being tired of dealing with the ‘common rabble.’ He looked back to Ser Jaime, “Sadly, such a thing is nowhere in my future prospects.”

Before the older man could reply, Ser Barristan returned, “I believe you were assigned to ride alongside the royal wheelhouse, Lannister, care to explain why you left your post?”

There was a twitched in annoyance in Ser Jaime’s jaw, “The Queen requests that we move along more quickly, the children are becoming unhappy and fitful due to the wait.”

That didn’t sound much like Myrcella and Tommen; they were just about the calmest children he’d ever known, but, to be fair, he’d only known them for short time and their mother did probably understand them better. The Lord Commander gave a slow nodded, eyeing the sun that was being to set, “I suppose it is getting rather late. Alright, forward men! Onward to the Red Keep!”

The royal party began to move once more, the outer ring of guards pushing through the crowds of civilians and through the streets. Jon’s frowned, dark eyes scanned the masses; specifically, those huddled in the nooks and crannies of the buildings, dirty and thin with scared, hungry eyes.

“This is quite tasty. You should have gotten one for yourself, Jon. Jon?”

“Huh?”

Enzo gave him a questioning look, “What is going on in that head of yours, Jonny?”

Jon shook his head, “Nothing.”

Despite his dismissal, the giant Redguard traced Jon’s line of sight to a thin woman in ragged clothing who was clutching a small babe to her chest. He sighed, “You have more power and wealth than most men could ever dream of, Jon, but even you cannot save everyone.”

Every land, every city, every town, every village Jon had ever been too had their poor and homeless; some more than others, of course, but there was nowhere they didn’t exist. In Solitude, the luckiest of the unfortunate could afford their own decent enough dwellings in the cheapest, most cramped areas of the city. Those who didn’t have families they wanted to stay with -or couldn’t stay with- would sometimes find employment in the homes of those wealthier than themselves, getting a room, board, and a -often meager- salary in exchange for cooking, cleaning, and caring for the young or elderly. If they couldn’t reach find such an arrangement than poorest citizens of the city could be found spending their days begging outside of inns and shops or perusing the shops and docks in the hopes they could trade a day of labor for a handful of coins.

When night fell, some would head for temples as many would offer a small meal and use of their pews for the night; it was perhaps not the most comfortable, but it was safe from the cold and the potential violence of the late-night streets. But the temples only had so much space to available and those who didn’t make it in time to claim a spot would, if they had the money, buy a night at a cothouse. Cothouses were similar to inns, but instead of whole rooms, rented single beds -sometimes actual beds, sometimes simple cots, and sometimes just piles of hay on the floor covered with thin fur- for a couple of copper coins. The nicer ones -which wasn’t saying much, in Jon’s experience- would offer a simple supper -usually a bowl of questionable stew, bread roll, and a bottle of ale- and light breakfast -sometimes a bit of porridge and an apple with some milk to drink- for about the cost of a silver septim. They were far from luxurious or even particularly safe, but, at the very least, they were better than the alternative.

If they couldn’t even afford that, then the only option was to find a place -often a discrete alleyway, hidden among the taller plantlife of some family's garden, or a nook of the city’s walls- hidden away from the worst of the elements and Jon hated that. He’d seen poor families turn their children over the to temples in hopes of giving them a better life or sell just about everything they had to afford an apprenticeship and he hated it. There were places and people that tried to help; his fellow thane, Merdekla Childsfend, ran a home for widows and orphans -both of which were in abundance after the war. But those were few and far between and Jon always tried to do what he could but...

“I know,” Jon mumbled. “I know.”

The fact that he granted a high suite in the royal apartments of Maegor’s Holdfast honestly surprised Jon; yes, he was here by the King’s personal invitation and was the son of a man who was both the Warden of the North and the King’s oldest friend, but -at least officially- he was still just a bastard and there was certainly more important guests visiting King’s Landing than him. While his temporary quarters were still a bit away from his father and sisters rooms, he expected to be put in, at most, one of the lower rooms usually used lesser nobles or the high ranking servants that traveled with their lords. Enzo had originally been assigned one of those rooms due to an apparent ‘misunderstanding’ about the nature of his relationship with Jon -not the first time such a thing had occurred and yet it continued to both irritate the young Dragonborn and amuse the Ebony Warrior- that had sent the castle servants scrambling to arrange the Redguard a room closer to Jon’s.

His belongings had already been brought up by attendants while the new arrived royal party had gone through the usual greeting ceremony, a custom apparently kept even when the King was returning to his own home, that had seemed to drag on forever. The attendants had, however, refused to move or even touch any of Jon and Enzo’s animals, not after one nearly lost his finger to Sweet Roll’s beak. Enzo found this comical and tucked Spector into the hood of his cloak as he went to investigate his own chambers, leaving Jon alone in the hall with Sweetie’s giant brass birdcage tucked under one arm, Phantasm’s wicker basket under the other, and Ghost -who refused to leave Jon alone and snarled at the very mention of the kennels- by his side.

Sweetie let out an angry swack.

“Oh, be quiet.” The Bone Bird gave him a rueful glare, so Jon rolled his eyes, “This is your own fault, you know? If you were a bit more well-behaved than you wouldn’t have to be locked up. Just be patient for a few more moments and I’ll let you out.”

He set the cage on the floor and went to unlock the door with the key he’d been given only for Ghost to catch him by the sleeve with a careful bite, tugging him back a step before pawing at the door. Jon met the direwolf’s crimson eyes, “Is there someone in there?”

Ghost cocked his head to the side and deliberately pawed at the door again, ‘Yes.’

He set the wicker basket down next Sweetie’s cage. “Wait here and watch them,” he instructed Ghost, who gave a huff of what was likely agreement, and slowly unlocked the door with a hand on his dagger. It probably would have been smarter to use a detect life spell or Aura Whisper before entering, but it was Jon’s experience that the walls of castles often had eyes of their own and Jon had absolutely no interesting in having his more extraordinary talents being discovered. So now, at least, he’d be relying on his more mundane talents to survive King’s Landing.

He opened the door just enough to slide through and shut it silently behind him. He scanned the room carefully, with the eyes of both a trained soldier and an expert thief. As far as temporary lodgings went, Jon couldn’t ask for much better than this; it was not an overly large room, but it was incredibly well-furnished, decorated in themes of rose red and pale green with rich, flowing fabrics and handsome, carved wooden furniture. The apartment was roughly divided into two areas and a thick green curtain that hung from the ceiling that could be let loose as a makeshift wall to separate them. The first of the two sections -the front of the room- served as the chamber’s common area with a cushioned couch in front of the fireplace, a small table with two matching chairs, and a writing desk. The second was where the bed -a big, round, plush looking nest of blankets and pillows that Jon couldn’t wait to sink into- and wardrobe were located, along with the bathtub.

It was also where Jon spotted the apparent intruders.

“I’m sorry, I was told the servants had already finished preparing this room. Should I leave and come back later?” Jon asked, knowing damn well these weren’t servants.

The young lady lounging across his bed rose to her feet; she was lovely, perhaps a year or so older than him with tan skin, blue eyes, loose chestnut brown hair that flowed in waves down her back, and a knowing grin. She was also severely underdressed, clad in a simple bright yellow shift that exposed her bare arms and a large amount of her bosom. She dropped into a smooth curtsy, “Not at all, m’lord. Daisy and I were just finishing up preparing your bath.”

She gestured to another girl who was crouched down next to the tub, an elegant hand skimming the surface of the steaming water scattered with lavender petals. This girl, Daisy, was younger with a rounder face, light brown eyes, fair skin, and reddish-blonde hair that was pulled a simple braid. She was also dressed more conservative white dress with long sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a modest neckline. All these things should have made her appear more innocent but as she pulled her hand from the water, it splashed across her front, soaking the white fabric and causing it to go translucent, allowing her pert breasts to show through.

She came to stand by the side of the older girl with the same knowing smile on her face, “You’ve been on such a long journey, m’lord, we were sent help you relax before supper. Is there anything you’d like Marigold and I to do for you?”

‘Oh gods, this is already happening,’ Jon grumbled in his mind. Pointedly not looking at either girls’ breasts, he shook his head, “No, I’m quite alright. Thank you for the bath though, I am rather ragged from the road.”

Marigold gave a pout, reaching out to stroke a hand down his arm, “Are you sure, m’lord? Daisy and I are skilled in many manners of assistance?”

He stepped out of their reach. “Quite sure, thank you. Here, for your troubles,” he tossed both girls a gold dragon, much to their surprise, and ushered them out of the room. He watched them until they turned a corner, whispering rapidly to one another, and left his line of sight before turning to Ghost, “I haven’t even been in this city for a day and someone’s already up to something.”

The direwolf have him a look that could be summed up, ‘Are you surprised?’ then bolted into the room, leaping onto bed and making himself comfortable.

“I hope you know you’re not sleeping in the bed with me, you hog all the blankets,” Jon informed his direwolf as he finished lugging his other animals into the room, locking the door behind him and placing a ward on it; he knew better than to believe he had the only key. Phantasm popped out from her basket and made straight for the couch, plopping herself down on one of the cushions and stretching out; one day she’d be a vicious predator and likely longer than the couch she rested on but, for now, she was only viciously adorable.

“Calm down, calm down. I’m opening it.” Sweet Roll beat his wings against the sides, making the whole contraption rattle, impatiently as Jon undid the lock on the cage door. As soon as it was open the giant bird burst out, knocking the cage to the floor and proceeding to attack it with unrivaled ferocity. Jon let the punishment go on for sometime before catching the bird in a firm but careful hold. With a chuckle he opened the large window that overlooked the keep’s courtyard, “Don’t you go scaring anyone now, you may be trouble but I’d still prefer you not be shot down.”

The giant bird gave a squawked and flew off, leaving Jon to look over the city of King’s Landing as it stretched out under him. To the east, he saw the Dragonpit and to the south, he saw the Great Sept of Baelor with streets and building forming districts that fit together like the jagged pieces of a large, interact puzzle. It would have been quite picturesque if not for the cloud of stink that hung over the buildings and the filth cluttering the streets that he could make out even from his vantage point.

As he took the city in Jon couldn’t help but compare it to the cities of Skyrim, especially Solitude. The capital of Skyrim was divided into eight official districts, each serving a different element of life in Solitude. There was Blue District, where the Blue Palace and related grounds, guard barracks, private dwellings for visiting dignitaries, washhouses, storage buildings were located. The Red District was mostly comprised of the sprawling Castle Dour, in addition to the prison, but also the surrounding homes where the soldiers that were either native to Skyrim or had been stationed there long enough to put down roots lived with their families as well as retired veterans with no other home to return to.

The Green District was the merchant district and the first most people saw upon visiting Solitude, as the main gates of the city opened into it; the district was full of every type of shop -tailors, cobblers, candlemakers, blacksmiths, and more- and was home to most of the cities craftspeople who usually above their shops with their families. On the easternmost side of the city was the Orange District, inhabited mostly by sailors, those employed by the East Empire Company, and related businesses. The Yellow District held most of the public works buildings, including the bathhouses, the Bank of Solitude, the Temple of the Divines as well as other smaller temples, several different schoolhouses that families with enough means could send their children, and the Bard’s College.

In terms of residential districts, there were three major ones: the Indigo, Violet, and Brown districts. The Indigo District back right up to the Yellow District -Proudspire Manor itself stood side by side with the Bard’s College- and was were the wealthiest members of the city lived -Jon included- in tall, lavish manors with sprawling grounds and private courtyards, some even had personal stables as opposed to the stables outside of the city where most families kept their horses when not in use. The families who lived there could afford to hire private tutors for their children -plenty of whom went on to marry into noble families- and most kept live-in servants, cooks, and nannies; it wasn’t unusual to see a household of fifteen people, even if the actual family who lived there only consisted of five or six people. Most of Jon’s neighbors had actually commented in the past that they were surprised he was able to manage the upkeep of the very large Proudspire Manor with no full-time help. He would always shrug and say he preferred to do things by himself.

The Violet District was probably the most diverse of the residential districts as it contained all the people who weren’t exactly poor but also weren't exactly quite rich either. Some citizens lived in houses that were quite nice if a bit closer together than those in the Indigo; usually two stories, most with a small enclosed courtyard that could support a little garden and a chicken or two. Full staffs were rare but a single live-in servant wasn’t uncommon and parents could always afford to send their children to one of the schoolhouses or a profitable apprenticeship. Other citizens lived in apartment buildings; buildings usually three or four stories tall that were owned by a third property were separated families would each rent a different floor. Jon had been in a few over the years, usually visiting friends, and they were all perfectly quaint, spacious, and serviceable with all the necessities of life; he’d actually considered investing in a few himself but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

Unfortunately, the Brown District was not nearly as pretty or calm as the Violet or Indigo Districts. It did have its nicer areas, areas were the people living there banned together and worked hard to make sure they stayed clean and relatively crime-free as they attempted to carve out as peaceful and prosperous lives for themselves as possible. But most areas of the Brown District were just that, brown; brown and crowded and dirty and often disease ridden. People lived in packed together, side-by-side in small hovels that were often overrun with pests and vermin. Apartment buildings were common in the Brown District, though they were far less quaint and spacious than those in the Violet District; rather than one family to a floor, most apartment buildings had two, three or even four families stuffed into each floor with each only having access to a few cramped rooms. There was few any sanitary facilities and measures to speak of; it was no wonder that disease ran rampant. All in all, it was not a pleasant place to visit, let alone live.

There was also the two ‘unofficial’ districts of Solitude, the White and Black Districts. The White District was full of the seedier establishments in the city: brothels, cothouses, gambling parlors, skooma dens, - Jon destroyed those wherever and whenever he found them, but they kept popping up the deadly and very annoying moles- and the like. Jon never went there unless he had too, usually for Guild business but occasionally to buy some more...elusive products that he was fond of. He may not exactly like it, but he’d begrudgingly admit that there was much of value to be found there. The Black District was somewhat of a playground for those with the coin to spare; it was luxurious inns for wealthy travelers, expensive restaurants that served exotic foods, theater houses, posh boarding houses, and stores that sold rare goods. That wasn’t to say that many of the establishments in this district were any more legitimate than those in the White District, but rather that they were simply prettier.

So, needless to say, the capital city of Skyrim was far from perfect but that didn’t mean Jon didn’t miss it. He did, desperately, and more importantly, he missed the people there. Especially…

He pulled away from the window and checked that his trunks were still locked; they were, of course, Jon had placed locking wards on all of them but -as he expected- they were signs of tampering to the physical locks. It was all so expected that Jon felt an urge to laugh, but instead be just popped them open, “Let’s get started.”

Half-an-hour Jon had, with the help of Ghost and the many lessons Delvin passed on to him, found to three listening pipes in the wall -now stuffed with rags and melted candle wax-, two peepholes -now blocked with repositioned furniture- and a secret doorway that was disguised as a panel in the back of wardrobe, which itself seemed to bolted against the wall. With no small amount of glee, he placed a locking ward on the panel; anyone who tried to get in through there would be in for a big shock.

That finished, it was time to actually unpack a bit; Jon had no intention of settling into King’s Landing for an extended period of time, but living out of trunks was annoying. He didn’t unpack everything, of course, anything too unusual stayed locked away tight, but clothing, linens, toiletries, and books could be put away. He spotted Serana’s enchanted bowl while he was sifting through some stuff and internally winced, he’d been putting off writing to her. With a sigh, he settled at the desk and started to write.

Serana,

I’m guessing you’re pretty angry with me, I’d certainly be upset if our situations were reversed. I know that me extending my stay here in Westeros will have made plenty of people angry and that anger will have fallen on you.

I’m sorry.

Gods, it so simple to write but so hard to convey.

I am so sorry about this Serana, but I had to come to the capital. There is something that needs to be done and I have to be the one to do it. I’d give you more details, but you’d probably just call me an idiot and maybe I am. But if you’ve ever trusted me on anything, trust me on this.

On a slightly happier note, my uncle and I have buried the hatchet. Things aren’t perfect and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to truly call him Father ever again, but I feel better now than I have in a while. There was anger inside me that had been simmering for years and I was finally able to let it all out. If nothing else, that makes the trip worth. Though, I fear his relationship with Lady Stark has suffered greatly during my time at Winterfell; now, as I probably will never see her again, I don’t particularly care about her happiness but I do worry about how it will affect Uncle Ned and my cousins.

We also finally arrived at King’s Landing. It skinks. Seriously, there is filth everywhere. But it's still better than being on the road. I guess I haven’t told you that we got attacked once; don’t worry, there isn’t a scratch on me!

Well, I could write to you forever but instead...try and bear my absence just a little longer so I can tell you everything in person.

If you’ll still have me, that is.

Missing you with all my heart,

Jon

 

With the flicker of a flame, the letter disappeared and Jon could only hope he’d get a response that wasn’t just a variety of four-letter words; Serana could be quite vindictive when angered and he knew she wasn’t the happiest with him right now. With another sigh -he’d been doing that a lot lately- he glanced out the window; the sun was setting but it wasn’t yet time for supper. So -after reheating and ensuring the bath wasn’t somehow poisoned -such a thing may sound preposterous, but stranger things had happened- Jon scrubbed himself clean from the grim of weeks on the road before settling in for a nice soak, relaxing in the near-boiling water and letting his thoughts to a certain scarlet-eyed vampiress with her sleek, form-fitting leather armor…

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Jon groaned, ‘Somedays I swear that I’ll be dead before I get a moment of peace. No, no, no, even after that I’m sure there will be some god or other who's going to still make me run errands for him.’ Jon rolled his head back, eyes still squeezed shut, “What is it?”

“Supper will be starting within the hour, m’lord. I am to lead you to the dining hall, ” a voice, probably a servant's, called from the other side of the door.

“Alright, give me a moment.” Jon dried himself with a mumbled spell, neatened his hair, and pulled on a storm blue tunic under a black jerkin with matching trousers. Pulling on polished leather boots, he glanced around to make sure nothing suspicious had been left lying out; he was positive someone would be investigating his personal effects while he was gone. After one final check of the room and leaving the window open for Sweet Rolls, he turned to Ghost, “Watch the others and do your best to scare off any snoopers who come around without biting anyone.”

The servant, an older fellow who stood so stiffly that Jon suspected he may actually sleep standing up, was silent as he led Jon through the twisting maze of corridors of the keep. The young Dragonborn let his eyes explore openly; there was so much history in these stones, some good, some bad, some bloody, but it was his family’s history. It was his history. “Is it difficult to navigate this castle without getting lost?”

The older man’s lips pursed, seemingly displeased by Jon’s attempt at conversation, “I have served at this keep for many years, m’lord, and I make it a point of pride to know it even better than the royal family does.”

“That is admirable. I’m no lord though, there is no need to call me such.”

A thin, unpleasant smile crossed the servant's face, “Oh, that is quite obvious. But the address is a matter of courtesy, so it stands. Now, please wait in here until supper is started, the other attendees will be here soon.”

The man left Jon in a small antechamber with another snide look. ‘Dick,' he thought, plopping down on one of the cushioned benches and fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he settled down to wait as his stomach began to grumble. Maybe he should have eaten some of that grilled fish earlier…

“Ah, you must be Jon Snow.” Jon perked up to see an unfamiliar figure approaching him. It was a man who appeared to be in his thirties, though at first glance he appeared as if he could be younger due to his short height and slender build; however, threads of grey running through it his dark hair and the lines at the corners of his eyes marked his true age. Despite that, he was not an unattractive man by any means; sharp features, a small pointed beard, and dressed in rich looking silks in shades of rose and plum with a silver mockingbird stitched in silver thread on the breast of his doublet, gave him the appearance of wealth and fine-grooming.

He smiled at Jon with laughing cat-like gray-green eyes that studied the young Dragonborn, taking in the quality of his clothes, the glistening rings on his hands, and apparent Stark coloring of his features. Jon studied him back, taking note of the knot of discomfort that twisted in his gut at the sight of the man; he’d long since learned to trust such feelings. Still, he took the man’s hand with a smile of his own, “It’s Jon Whitewolf, actually.”

The man gave a chuckle, “But you are Eddard Stark’s bastard, are you not?”

Jon refused to twitch, “That’s what they say. You are whom, exactly?”

“Oh, yes; where are my manners?” The man gave a theatrical bow, “ Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, at your service. Forgive me for not introducing myself soon but I assumed you’d have heard of me. I had the great pleasure of being fostered at Riverrun growing up and am a close friend of Catelyn Tully.”

Jon certainly had never heard him mentioned, but that didn’t mean much, “Lady Stark and I never conversed much about her childhood, I’m afraid.”

Another chuckled, “No, I imagine not. It's a shame she wasn’t able to join you all for a visit to this lovely city, I was quite looking forward to seeing her again. Perhaps it is for the best though, I heard you encountered some troubles during your journey.”

‘News travels fast in cities; that, at least, isn’t different from Solitude.’ Jon gave a nod, “Aye, we ran afoul some bandits.”

“No doubt looking for an easy payout, the greed vultures,” Baelish sneered. “Where there any casualty?”

“A few, but not as bad as it could have been. It was also the only trouble we ran into on the road, thankfully.”

“Splendid. I know how arguest long trips can be, especially on young people. You should take the opportunity to relax before the tourney; I happen to own several fine establishments that can assist you in such matters,” the Master of Coin cocked his eyebrow at Jon with a knowing look on his face.

‘So you’re the one responsible for the ‘visitors’ to my room, that’s good to know.’ Jon faked a cough into his fist, “No thank you, Lord Baelish, I have no interest in such things.”

The older man looked surprised by his refusal, “A young man not interested in...company after such a long journey? That is quite unusual. If you are worried about diseased than I promise you that I keep my workers in top condition and if young ladies don’t please you then I assure you my establishments cater to a wide variety of tastes and preferences of all types; I’m sure you could find something to your liking.”

And with that one comment, Jon officially felt like he needed another bath. Still, he kept his face carefully blank and maintained eye contact just long enough for it to become uncomfortable before speaking up again. “Whores,” he clarified. “I have no interest in whores. I have nothing against them, of course; everyone must make their living somehow. But I have no interest bedding any of them; when I want...company, I have no need to pay for it.”

A tense silence filled the air as the two men sized one another up. After a long moment, Baelish gave a -very convincing- cheerful laugh and clasped Jon on the shoulder, “I suppose that comes with the territory when you’re a handsome young man.”

Jon was thankfully spared having to reply to such a remark by Uncle Ned and Enzo rounding a corner. He was surprised to see them together, as the time on the road had not done anything to warm the relationship between the pair. The Lord of Winterfell was dressed in smart blue-gray tunic with thin, pale vertical stripes running the length of the cloth, a direwolf’s head brooch pinned to his breast, and brown trousers; more elaborate than what he usually saw his uncle wear but still relatively simple in comparison to the more elaborate dress that seemed to be the standard in the capital.

Enzo, of course, just wore black.

“Jon, where have you been?” Enzo’s deep voice boomed as his dark eyes narrowed in on Baelish, who took a half-step back at the sight of the giant Redguard.

“Yes, we’ve been looking for you; It's time for supper and you weren’t anywhere to be found,” Uncle Ned added.

Jon felt his brow furrow, “I was told to wait here by a servant.” From the corner of his eye, he studied Baelish and his carefully blank for any sort of reaction as he watched the exchange, “Perhaps he was mistaken about where everyone was meeting.”

Enzo looked suspicious but Uncle Ned simply nodded, “Alright, well, come on then, its time to eat. The food here should be good, at least.

Dinner was a smaller event than Jon had anticipated, with not even a total of twenty people -not including the numerous guards, including Ser Barristan, that stood around and the court musicians that played a merry tune from the balcony overhead- gathered around one long table covered in a black and yellow tablecloth and glistening silver tableware. At the head of the table sat the king and opposite him, at the end of the table, sat the Queen who took the warmer weather of the capital as an excuse to drape herself in elaborate crimson silks and what must have been a true fortune in gold and gems.

His uncle sat the right of King Robert -a true place of honor- and across from a very old, mostly bald man with an aquiline nose and a mouth with very few teeth that were stretched into a wide, joyous smile. Still, despite his obvious age, the man’s shoulders were broad and his blue eyes were sharp. Even without the golden emblem pin to his doublet, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that this man was Jon Arryn; The Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, Warden of the East, Hand of the King, and the beloved foster father of both King Robert and his uncle.

“It’s so good to see you, Ned. But I hoped you didn’t put yourself and your family through any hardship coming here just for me,” Lord Arryn smiled bright, eyes carefully taking in Uncle Ned’s face.

“The road was a little bumpy, aye, but it was worth it; not just to see you but to also get the chance to talk to the heads of the realm about preparing for the upcoming winter. I was actually hoping to begin the discussion tonight but it doesn’t seem like they’ve arrived yet,” Uncle Ned admitted, scanning the occupancy of the table. It was true, Jon noticed; while he was far from being the most well-versed in who the most important players of the realm were, they didn’t seem to be there.

In addition himself, Enzo, the Starks, Baelish, Lord Arryn, and the royal family there was a handsome, dark-haired man who looked like a...younger version of the king, a strange man who smelt sweetly of perfume and looked like a boiled egg wrapped in layers of silk and velvet, and a unfamiliar woman with a young girl. The woman tall, thin, and none too attractive with pale eyes, a sharp nose, too large ears, a stern mouth with a truly unfortunate amount of hair growth on her upper lip, and an overall unhappy look on her face. But perhaps he was judging her far too harshly based on appearance; after all, she was dressed as a widow in mourning, completely in black with her graying brown hair cut short.

As for the girl? Her appearance wasn’t much more fortunate. She looked small -perhaps not so much in actual size but rather in the way she seemed to pull herself inward- and close in age with Arya. The girl had a pair of striking bold blue eyes but no one would ever call her pretty; she had a noticeably broad, jutting jaw -especially for someone who seemed so tiny- and thick, black hair that was left down to presumably hide her most notable feature, a patch of cracked and flaking, gray and black skin that stretched over the left half of her left cheek and most of her neck. It looked hideous and uncomfortable and disfiguring and Jon could only imagine what it was like to have to live with such a thing; people were cruel, especially to those who looked different.

“No, they've all arrived,” the king said as he took a break from inhaling the leek and onion soup that was served as the appetizer -it was delicious; if nothing else, Jon wasn’t going to starve while in the capital- and nodded. “I just sent word ahead that this dinner would just be for family, friends, and certain trusted members of the council like Baelish and the Spider here.”

“Oh, that was thoughtful of you, Your Grace,” Uncle Ned said uneasily. “But I will need to speak with as many lords as possible before the tourney is over.”

King took a deep swing from his goblet and gave a hearty laugh, “There will be plenty of time spent with the other overstuffed bootlickers of court later, Ned; just relax for tonight.”

The Lord of Winterfell gave his own slight laugh, “Alright, I’ll try. Still, I’m surprised Lord Tywin isn’t here to join us, Your Majesty.”

Queen Cersei looked up from watching Sansa and Joffrey -seated at her right and left sides respectively- converse, a frown replacing her sly grin; the look of displeasure only lasted a moment though, quickly being replaced by a lovely smile. “Oh, my father is in the capital as well, but I’m afraid the travel from Casterly Rock has exhausted him; he’s not as young as he used to be and needs his rest before the tourney begins.”

“I spoke to him earlier today and must say, we should all be thankful that, despite his age, Lord Tywin is still as strong and sharp as ever; the realm will certainly be in trouble once his time comes,” Baelish commented pleasantly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “What about you, Lady Selyse, how have you and the new Lady Baratheon been holding up? How long has it been since Lord Stannis’ untimely death?”

The black-clad woman -Lord Stannis’ widow, apparently- frowned even more deeply, if such a thing was possible, “It’s been close to seven months since illness took my husband, Lord Baelish, but my faith provides me with the strength I need to carry on and support my daughter through this trying time.”

Lady Selyse voice was sharp as a whip and simply dripping with disdain but Baelish just continued to smile pleasantly and now addressed the girl, who seemed to retreat even further into himself under his gaze, “What about you, Lady Shireen, have you been enjoying your new position as the Lady of Dragonstone?”

The girl didn’t say anything, just looked at the Master of Coin with wide, fearful eyes. Jon frowned and decided to cut in, “This hardly feels like a proper conversation for a supper, Lord Baelish.”

The smile never fell from the man’s face, but the look he shot Jon was far from friendly even as he laughed, “Quite right, my manners have been atrocious today. Perhaps I’ve just been so excited to meet Catelyn’s beautiful daughters that I’ve forgotten myself?”

Despite his words, Baelish didn’t spare the slightest glance at Arya -who was seated in between her father and Jon so as to best keep her out of trouble, Uncle Ned had whispered to Jon- and instead turning his full attention to Sansa, “I know you probably hear this all the time, Lady Sansa, but you look exactly like your mother did when she was your age. We grew up together, you know, and are the dearest of friends to this day.”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of you?” Arya mumbled under her breathe, causing Jon to snicker. But as amusing as they were, the words tickled his brain; it certainly wasn’t strange that Lady Stark never mentioned Baelish to Jon, but to never mention this ‘dearest friend’ to her own children? That was odd.

The first of the main courses, small individual hens stuffed with spinach and herbs with sides of fresh fruits, was brought out to the King’s delight. He cut into the poultry with the ferocity of a man starved, but that didn’t stop him from addressing Jon.

“So, m’boy,” he spoke around a mouthful of chicken, “have you given any thought about joining in the tourney like we talked about? I heard that you went toe-to-toe with Lannister and am excited to see how you do against some of the other so-called knights this kingdom has to offer; don’t make me order you to compete now.”

Jon fought the urge to cringe at the man’s lack of table manner and instead forced a pleasant guffaw, “There is no need to do that, Your Grace; I’ve already decided to participate in the melee. If you'll vouch for me, that is.”

“Why, of course, I will; I'll even put it on paper too, so you won't be argued with. But you're not going to try out the joust too?”

He shook his head, “I know Ser Jaime suggested that I try it, but I’m not nearly confident enough to try such a thing; I’ll stick with swordsmanship, it's what I know best. Besides, I’m interested in seeing how my skills compare to other skilled fighters.”

A flash of concern crossed Princess Myrcella’s lovely young face at the news, “I know you’ll do wonderfully, Ser Jon, but please be safe; it would be just horrible if you got hurt.”

The entire table let out a soft chortle at her statement, causing Myrcella to blush, “I-I just mean-”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, Sweetling,” King Robert chuckled, “Any competitor who kills or seriously injures their opinion will automatically lose any claim to the prize money so you can guarantee that everyone will be on their best behavior, especially given how much they’d potentially lose.”

The man who looked like a...younger version of the king hummed, “The promise of forty thousand gold dragons for the winner of the joust, twenty thousand for the runner-up of the joust, twenty thousand dragons to the winner of the melee, and ten thousand dragons to the winner of the archery contest is certainly motivation to keep just about everyone in line.”

Jon very nearly choked on a bite of his chicken at that and, judging by the sound he made, his uncle was similarly aghast.

“Ten thousand gold dragons for the winner of the archery contest? Your Grace, Robert, that seems extremely-”

“Generous? Well of course! With Jon as my Hand of the King, the realm has enjoyed a time of peace and prosperity; I can’t have a tourney in his honor reflect anything less. Besides, if your boy wins the melee like I think he will then he’s going to be quite the rich young man; you’re not going to say its a bad thing that he has such an opportunity, are you?”

Uncle Ned shifted unconformably in his seat for a moment, “No, but-”

“Thane Whitewolf is already has accumulated more wealth than one man would ever need, more would likely be more of a hassle than a luxury.” Even seated, Enzo towered over everyone else at the table and his low, booming voice draw everyone’s eyes.

“Ah, yes,” Baelish spoke up again, “I’d heard that you’d done quite well for yourself; I would love to talk to you about some wonderful investment opportunities at some point.”

“Thank you for the offer, Lord Baelish, but I already have investments in and own several businesses in Skyrim and prefer not to have my attention stretched too far by getting involved in any here in Westeros,” Jon waved the Master of Coin off, silently adding, ‘I also have no interest in becoming involved with whatever prostitution racket you’re running.’

To avoid being pulled into a longer conversation, he turned to Enzo, “That reminds me, I still a have a few people I need to buy gifts for; we should go out into the markets one day to do some shopping.”

Enzo nodded, “I would also like to pick up a few things for my family members as well, including something for my nephew’s upcoming wedding.”

Arya perked up, “You have a family, Mister Enzo?”

The corner of his lips twitching, Enzo cocked an eyebrow at her, “I would certainly hope so, most people do. I do not have a wife or children of my own if that is what you are referring to, but I do have a brother and sister. They are both married with children of their own; my older sister even has a pair of twin grandchildren.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were so old.”

“Arya!”

But even as Uncle Ned chided his daughter, Enzo smiled more openly, “I am forty years of age; so, no, I am not a particularly young man. Though you would be hard pressed to find a man fitter than I at any age.”

The group conversation lulled after that, everyone splitting into smaller groups as they ate their way through the fourth and fifth courses -saffron seasoned veal and poached fish pie respectively- to talk amongst themselves about different topics; he overheard Sansa asking the queen about the fashions of the capital and Prince Tommen telling the man who resembled the king -apparently his Uncle Renly- about a new litter of kittens he was caring for. But there was one person who wasn’t actively engaging anyone; the bald, perfume man only spoke when spoken too, instead choosing to observe silently while taking small, delicate bites of his food. His eyes never lingered on any one person for more than a few moments, but Jon was fairly certain he wasn’t his imagination that the man seemed to be looking at him more than anyone else.

Time passed and a pile of delectable fruit tarts was brought out and subsequently devoured when Sansa decided to pipe up, addressing the king with excitement painted on her face.

“Is there going to be any dancing tonight, Your Grace?”

King Robert wiped his mount on his sleeve, “Not tonight, I’m too fucking tired.”

Sansa’s face fell and Baelish reached over to pat her hand, “It’s alright, Sweetling, there will be plenty of dancing over the next few days, you’ll have plenty of chances.”

A small smile returned and the king gave a grunt of agreement, gesturing his thumb in the directions of the musicians, “And by then we’ll have some people who can actually carry a tune!”

“Jon can sing really well,” Prince Tommen chirped. “You should get him to do it.”

‘Oh gods, no,’ Jon felt his gut sink. He hated giving spur of the moment performances.

The King looked amused, “And how do you know that?”

“Myrcella told me so; she heard him sing something and said he sound really good!”

The princess nodded excitedly, “He did! The song was really pretty too, even if it was a bit sad.”

Arya then decided that she really needed to add her thoughts on the subject, “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard him but always I use to make him sing me something when I was little before I’d go to bed.”

“I remember that,” Uncle Ned said softly. “I was the only way we could get you to go to sleep most nights.”

“I don’t recall Jon ever singing anything when we were young,” Sansa commented with a frown, her brow furrowed.

“Well, it isn’t surprising; I stopped singing for you when you were quite little but I did it for Arya until much older,” Jon reassured with a shrug.

“Oh...I guess that makes sense.”

Then, for the first time, the bald man spoke, “I’d certainly like to hear the young man sing us something.”

“As would I,” the queen added, emerald eyes seeming to glow in the candlelight.

Jon wasn’t exactly fond of being put on the spot, but he wasn’t completely against the idea; he knew he had a singing voice no one complain about so he just shrugged, “I'm not much of a performer but if I would please everyone, I’d be happy to do so; I’d need a lute though.”

“Now there’s an idea, Spider!” The king pointed to one of the unhappy looking musicians, “You! Let the boy borrow your instrument!”

For his nameday last year, Brynjolf gave him an absolutely beautiful lute; crafted from willow wood and stained a deep cherry color with golden painted flowers. It fit him perfectly and produced the most heavenly sound; he treasured it deeply and Enzo often joked that he treated it like a mother would her first babe. Jon felt no shame over this.

This lute wasn’t anywhere close to the quality that one was but as he plucked the strings experimentally, Jon decided he could work with it at least for one song and with a deep breath, he began to play.

There's a port on a northern bay,
And it serves a dozen ships a day.
Lonely sailors pass the time away,
As they all long for their homes.

And there's a lass in this harbor town,
Where she works layin' whiskey down.
They say, “Brundi, fetch another round,”
So she serves them whiskey and wine.

And all the sailors sing: "Oh, Brundi, you're a fine girl,”
"What a good wife you would be."
"Oh, your eyes?"
"Now they could steal a sailor from the sea."

Brundi has a braided chain,
It's the finest silver from the northern plains.
With a locket that bears the name,
Of the only man that Brundi has ever loved.

He came on a summer's day,
With gifts from far away.
But he made it clear he’d never stay,
As no harbor could ever be his home.

But Brundi used to watch his eyes,
As he told his sailor stories.
She'd feel the ocean fall and rise,
And felt its ragin' glory.

But, though his words were honey smooth,
He had always told the truth.
Yes, he was an honest man,
So, Brundi does her best to understand.

And at night when the pubs close down,
Brundi strolls through a silent town.
She still loves a man who will never be around,
And she still can hear him say.

"Oh, Brundi, you're a fine girl,”
"What a good wife you would be."
"Oh, your eyes?"
"Now they could steal a sailor from the sea."

It's what he always said,
"Oh, Brundi, you're a fine girl.”
"What a good wife you would be, "
"But my life, my love, and my lady will always be the sea."

Jon let the final line carry until the final note dissipated in the air and dipped into a joking half-bow when the table, aside from Joffrey, gave applause -some far more enthusiastically than others- and pretended he didn’t notice both Ser Barristan Selmy and the bald man, the Spider, studying his face intensely.

Ned V

“I really should get around to asking Robert to move me to quarters to a lower floor, it'd be easier on everyone.”

Ned laughed, shifting his supportive grip on his foster father’s arm as he helped him up the stairs of the Tower of the Hand to the man’s private chambers, “This is no burden at all, I promise you. In fact, you can consider it repayment for all those times you helped me to bed when I was young and too sore to move after a long day of training.”

Jon gave his own bark of laughter as Ned helped him settle into an armchair before relaxing back into another. The pair sat in comfortable silence for a while, just watching the fire crackle away, before Ned spoke again, “How have you been, Jon? Robert mentioned you’ve been feeling ill recently.”

Jon waved his concerns away, “Robert worries too much; I feel no worse than any other old man. If anyone ever tells you that life is short, know that they are wrong! Life is long, annoyingly soon; at least in my case, it is.”

The old Lord’s face fell into a frown, “And yet, despite all my years, I still don’t have all the time I need.”

Ned shifted uncomfortably, “How is your family? I expect them to be here with you.”

A sigh, “Robin is ill and Lysa is even more so; she smothers the boy so badly that I’m surprised he can even walk on his own. I blame myself, honestly; my duties to Robert kept me from being a proper father to my son and by the time I realized my error, it was too late. I'm trying my best now, even if it may be too late; I was arranging to foster him at Dragonstone in hopes that the sea air would do him some good but Lord Stannis took ill before the final details could be hammered out. I’ve been meaning to find another foster placement for him, perhaps at High Garden, but haven’t gotten around to it yet. Lysa knows my intentions though, I’m sure that she fled back to the Eyrie under the excuse of a fever in fear that I’d hand him over to someone after the tourney.”

The Lord of Winterfell had nothing to say to that, so he just waited. He poured himself and Jon a glass of wine, turning his attention back to the fireplace. It had been an enjoyable night, the food was delicious and the company pleasant enough; seeing Jon again had been like a dream, even if it had been a shock to realize just how old the man truly was.

He just wished his son hadn’t been pressed into performing for them all; oh, Jon’s singing and skill with the lute was fantastic, but it had sent Ned straight back to that damned tourney where it all started. After dinner, Jon offered to escort Arya and Sansa back to the rooms he and his daughters where staying in, mentioning his and Enzo’s plan to do a bit of exploring before turning in for the night. It was hard to let him go, the image of both Lord Varys and Ser Barristan examining Jon like he was some strange, exotic beast burning in his mind.

“I’m going to die soon.”

His head jerked up, “What?”

Jon shrugged, “Oh, don’t give me that look. I’m old, Ned; even if I’m wrong… well, my days are number and pretty soon I’ll need to return to the Eyrie to get my affairs in order. I hate myself for saying these words but, in all likelihood, Robin will not live long enough to produce any heirs of his own, so I need to write out the paperwork to make my line of inheritance clear. I’ll have to do it in secret though, or else Lysa will have my head.

The clearest choice would be one of my great-nephews, Harrold Hardyng; he’s a decent enough lad -handsome, charming, a skilled fighter- and would likely make a decent enough lord but I still have my doubts. To be completely frank, there isn’t much sense in that boy’s head; he’s already fathered two bastards and may have cost Gulltown one if it's wealthiest merchants. But sadly he may still be the best of a bad lot.”

Ned stared down into his wine, “If it makes you feel any better, my marriage isn’t exactly the happiest right now either.”

“No, surprisingly, that doesn’t make me feel any better, Ned; I spend enough time listening to Robert grip about his wife as it is. What is the problem?”

A grimace, “What isn’t the problem? I’ve let nearly twenty years of issues fester only for them to become infected and I don’t know how to fix things, or even if they can be fixed.”

There was a long pause before Jon asked slowly, “Are you considering petitioning Robert to have her set aside?”

“What? No! I’m not sure that would even be possible, Cat certainly isn’t infertile; we’ve got plenty proof of that!” Ned was horrified his foster father would ever suggest such a thing, so it was a comfort when the man let out a relieved breath.

“By the gods, that is good to hear! The Tullys are too important for such a slight; it caused far too much drama to deal with right now.”

Ned shook his head, “No, no, I love Cat and I always will. But...I think it might be a good idea for the two of us to spend some time apart. After I get back to Winterfell and my eldest, Robb, weds Alys Karstark, I’m planning to send Bran down to Riverrun so he can squire under the Blackfish. I think I’m going to...strongly suggest she go with him and spend some time with her father.”

“A fair idea,” Jon nodded, “though she may not like it; Catelyn may see it as you banishing her from her home in favor of another.”

“In favor of Jon.” There was no need to clarify whom his father foster was speaking of but he did it anyway, “My son won’t be returning to Winterfell; he and his companion are planning on departing from this city after the tourney.”

“Ah, but you wish he wasn’t.”

Damn, Jon really did know him all too well even after years apart. “I will not apologize for wanting to keep my son close to me. Aye, I did -I do- want Jon to stay, but disrespecting his wishes almost cost me our relationship so -though it breaks my heart- I’m not going to stop him.”

“Perhaps that is the hardest thing one can do as a parent, to let our children go?” Jon mused wistfully, eyes seeming to go unfocus of a moment. “Your boy, Jon, he looks good; he looks strong. He doesn’t look all that much like you though.”

Ned froze, the feeling of ice shooting through his veins; he set his jaw and stared the Hand of the King dead in the eye, “I don’t know what you’re talking about; he is the spitting image of me at that age, perhaps a bit shorter, yes, but everyone says so, including Robert.”

The Warden of the East stared right back at him with an expressionless face for what felt like years before giving himself a little shake. “Ah, yes, Robert, he is what I asked you here to talk about. Now, when I retire from my position as the Hand of the King -which I will do sooner rather than later- it will need to be filled again. Robert will ask you to do it.”

This didn’t truly surprise Ned, “It would be a great honor to-”

“Don’t accept.”

Ned’s eyebrows shot up, “What? Why?”

Jon reached out and took him by the forearm, pulling him close, “I love you and Robert as if you were my own blood, Ned, and there is little in this world I wouldn’t do for the both of you. But, that being said, I’d never want you to be forced to do the things this job requires; you are a wonderful man and I am fiercely proud of you, but you’d be ill-suited for this position. So, swear to me that when Robert asks, you will refuse him.”

Ned couldn’t say anything for a long while; to deny such a request from Robert, his brother in all but blood, someone he’d swore to support as much as possible was almost unthinkable. But it was true there was little in the world he wants less than to have to deal with the venomous pit of vipers that was King’s Landing on a daily basis and it would certainly kill him to be apart from his children for so long so… “I swear it.”

“Good. Don’t you worry about Robert being angry with you either; you know him, his anger comes hard and fast but it fades just as quickly,” Jon settled back into his armchair. He closed his eyes and repeated, “Good.”

“I’ll be stopping by the capital often enough all the same, though,” Ned commented. “It looks like Sansa will marrying Prince Joffrey and-”

Jon’s eyes snapped back open, “What did you say?”

“Sansa,” the Lord of Winterfell answered slowly, now confused. “Robert proposed a match between her and the Crown Prince. I gave my conditional acceptance on the grounds that they get along and while I had my initial doubts, they do seem to be-”

“Don’t! Marry that girl to one of the Tyrells or the son of one of your bannermen or a sellsword or a hedge knight but do not marry her to Joffrey; give her to the Silent Sisters if you must but do not give her to that boy! He’s...wrong, Ned, wrong in so many ways.”

“Jon, is there something I should know?” Ned asked, the air seeming to grow thick and tense around them.

The old man shook his head, “Nothing I can tell you right now, but...know that I still have one piece of work I need to finish before I retire and that I intended to see it through to the end.”

Bran Stark I

“Jump.”

Bran looked down from his perch high in the branches of an ancient weirwood tree so tall the tips of its limbs disappeared into the clouds to see nothing but cold and ice and silence and death. There was an endless stretch of frozen wasteland where jagged towers of ice rose from the ground like the fangs of some great, horrible beast of night names and speared on them he saw the remains of a thousand different dreamers.

“No,” he said. “If I jump than I will die like all those others.”

“Perhaps,” the crow that sat beside him admitted. “But perhaps you will fly instead.”

Bran shot the strange, three-eyed bird an annoyed look, “Don’t be stupid, boys can’t fly.”

The crow let out a cackle, “And birds don’t speak, yet here I am.”

“Aye, but this is a dream. I once had a dream where it rained honey cakes but that doesn’t mean it would ever happen, though I wish it would.”

The bird seemed to sigh -could birds sigh? Bran didn’t know- and shook its head, “Things were supposed to go differently. He changed the course of events when he prevented you for falling; it's going to be more difficult to teach you now. Yet you still have a role to play in events to come; you and your family need to be ready. The dead are coming and you must learn to fly and I have no time to waste on your opinion of the matter.”

“What do you-AHHH!”

Something seized Bran by the legs and pulled so hard he felt they’d shatter; he was wrenched from the tree branch and was sent spiraling through the air down towards the spires of ice below.

‘I’m going to die.’ The horrifying thought was the only thing in his mind as he desperately beat his arms like the wings of a bird -trying to fly just like the crow wanted- but it did nothing and as the bones of those that came before him came closer, all Bran could do was scream. “HELP!”

“Bran? Bran? Wake up, Little Wolf.”

A hand shook his shoulder gently, rousing Bran from his uneasy sleep. He blinked his eyes, “Lord Reed?”

The hand left his shoulder and settled on his head, smoothing back his messy hair, “Aye, it's me. Is everything alright? It seemed you were having quite the bad dream.”

Bran starred up into the intense green eyes of his father’s dear friend; he’d grown to like the Lord of Greywater Watch of the past few weeks, he was a little strange, yes, but also jovial, and a good story-teller. Lord Reed also made sure to spend a lot of time with him and Rickon, helping them with their archery and taking them ice fishing, which was definitely nice; he hadn’t had the chance to spent much time with either Robb and Mother lately, Robb because he was busy with his duties as acting lord of Winterfell and trying to get to know his soon-to-be wife while Mother was supposedly busy planning Robb’s wedding, though she’d been acting weird recently so Bran wasn’t sure if she was actually doing it. Plus, his daughter, Meera, was neat and had really pretty green eyes. Not that he’d been staring at them or anything.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “There was this big tree and a field of ice and this bird who talk-”

“A talking bird?” Lord Reed interrupted. “What kind of bird?”

“A crow; it was really weird, it had three eyes and said some stuff about learning to fly and- and- and I need to talk to Robb.” He slid from with window seat he’d been curled up in and past the crannogmen, leaving him behind with strange, unreadable expression on his face. Bran wound his way through the halls of Winterfell with practiced ease and soon found himself at his father’s -currently his older brother’s- solar.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he said, not even bothering to knock before entering.

Robb sat at their father’s desk, dark bags under his eyes and a few days worth of stubble on his face, paperwork strewn about before him, “I don’t have time to play with you, Bran; I’ve got to take stock of the grain storage reports at Torrhen's Square and Hornwood, not to mention Lady Barbrey Dustin had yet to respond to inquiries about the steps they are taking to prepare for winter. Go bother Rickon, I hear he’s terrorizing his nanny again.”

Bran rolled his eyes, “I don’t want you to play with me, Robb. I want you to listen to something important I have to say.”

Robb sighed but looked up, “Alright, let’s hear it.”

“Okay, I had a dream-”

“A dream? That’s why you're bothering me!” Robb rubbed his face, looking exhausted, “ Bran, is this about what happened Lady and the guard?”

“No!” When the remains of Sansa’s beloved direwolf and the guard, Carton, who had been at Winterfell for as long as Bran could remember had arrived at Winterfell, a shockwave had been sent through the castle and its inhabitants. After Robb ensured Carton was probably laid to rest and his widow -a maid who also worked in the castle- received insurance that she and her two young children would be cared for, all the Starks came together to bury Lady in the Godswood, being sure to save a lock of her fur for Sansa. But ever since then Rickon hadn’t stopped shouting that he wanted their father and siblings back home now; Bran couldn’t help but agree, but that didn’t mean he appreciated being dismissed. “Listen, in my dream, there was this talking bird-”

“A talking bird?”

“Shut up!” Bran was getting annoyed now, “And he told me that some big was going to happen soon, that the dead were coming and that we all needed to be ready.”

Robb only stared at him once he finished his declaration, eventually letting out a long groan and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Bran, listen, I think you may just be-”

BLAM!

The door to the solar had been thrown open by one of the head guards who looked pale as a ghost but completely stone-faced. “Lord Robb,” he said in a careful, deliberate voice, “there is a situation.”

Next Chapter: The tourney begins! Jon meets an interesting group of fighters and decided to stop by the library. Arya struggles to keep herself under control in King’s Landing and so makes a deal. Jon’s reason for coming to the Capital is revealed!

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 

1. Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal part
5. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.
6. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. 
7. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.

Jon XIII

“I can’t wait until I’m old enough to compete,” Arya sighed as she stared enviously at the women lined up to participate in the archery portion of the tourney. There weren’t all that many overall, only about a dozen, but it was enough to catch Arya’s interest.

Jon chuckled even as Sansa paused her attempts to speak with Myrcella to look at her sister incredulously, “Why would you want to do that?”

Arya’s eyebrows shot up, “Why wouldn’t you? You get to test your skills against others and just think about the prize money! The things you could do with ten thousand gold dragons…”

Sansa gave a quite unladylike snort, “What? Get a suit of armor made?”

The younger Stark daughter rolled her eyes, “No, armor would be far too heavy for me to use.” She then paused for a moment, cocking her head to the side, “I’d use it to explore the world, maybe travel to Skyrim just like Jon.”

“But-”

“I wouldn’t mind trying my hand with a bow,” Myrcella cut in, causing Sansa to fall into an awkward silence that Jon felt the need to break.

“The bow is perhaps not the best weapon for a lady, though it does allow for one to attack from a distance rather than up close, but I can say that the two best archers I know are women,” he offered, leading to both Arya and Myrcella beaming at him.

King Robert also gave a laugh, turning to Arya, “Your aunt also fancied herself the archer, would have probably competed in the Tourney of Harrenhal if she’d been a bit older. Maybe in a few years, you can follow in her footsteps and give it a go? What do you think, Ned?”

Jon’s uncle didn’t answer immediately, taking his time to think but eventually giving a slow nod, “I suppose it is possible.”

“My sister, Margaery, also enjoy archery; while I wouldn’t describe her as being particularly avid at the craft, she does know her way around the butts,” one of the newcomers, a young and extremely handsome knight, supplied with what seemed to be an odd amount of enthusiasm.

“Oh, is that right?” King Robert asked with no true interested. That didn’t deter the knight though and he continued to attempt to pull the king into a conversation. Jon tuned the chatter out and instead choosing to survey the tourney grounds from his high vantage point in the King’s box.

The King's box was a large, made from sturdy, polished wood, and covered in his crowned stag banners; erected in the best position to see the competitors clash, it stood taller than anything else on the tourney grounds. The inside of the box was designed with the utmost comfort of the users in mind with many comfortably padded armchairs arranged in such a way that the occupancy could see each other while speaking without losing visual of the field and tables stocked with refreshments by scampering servants.

The other noble houses had their own boxes too, of course, that surrounded the tourney ring, each with grandeur in accordance with the houses they represented. In between the noble house box were the open stands filled to the brim with smallfolk, all of whom seemed to be brimming with excitement. The enthusiasm held true with the inn owners, entertainers, and the merchants who ran the many stalls that dotted the tourney grounds, each selling food, drinks, and little trinkets to travels, spectators, and competitors.

It was probably a good thing the King’s box was so large because it was packed full with the royal family, the Starks, Renly Baratheon, Lady Shireen, her mother, Jon Arryn, Baelish, and Jon himself in addition to a few of the kingsguard members that were always nearby. That was to say nothing of the many visitors that stopped by to pay their respects to the king, some stayed only for a few moments while others stayed for a while; the latest of these visitors was Ser Loras Tyrell, whom Jon gathered was the youngest of Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden three sons and the former squire of Lord Renly.

The young knight arrived at the box to offer his family’s proper greetings to King Robert and stayed to chat with the Lord of Storm’s End, planting himself firmly in the seat beside the young lord and stealing Sansa’s attention, for once, away from Prince Joffrey. The auburn-haired girl kept stealing glances his way but would snap her head back towards Myrcella if he so much as looked her way. Honestly, Jon didn’t blame his cousin in the slightest; Ser Loras was stunningly attractive with a mass of lazy brown curls that tumbled over his eyes and flowed down his shoulders. His eyes, a lovely liquid bronze, shown with intelligence and his perfectly white smile gleamed in the morning sun.

“So how are you finding the capital, Jon? Is it everything you’d imagined it would be?” Baelish asked, clapping him on the shoulder with what Jon thought to be an inappropriate amount of familiarity given their short acquaintanceship.

He fought the urge to squirm out from under the man’s grip; he didn’t like the Master of Coin -it was petty, but the man reminded him way too much of Erikur- but his gut told him that making an enemy of the man was unwise. So he just smiled and kept his voice light, “It is certainly interesting, Lord Baelish. I’ve only ever seen depictions of King’s Landing in books so I didn’t know what to expect; it is nothing like any other of the cities I’ve been to, I will admit. I won’t be here much longer, but I hope to be able to explore it a bit.”

“As well you should,” Baelish replied. “You must be careful though; glorious as this city is, even it has an underbelly of pickpockets and ruffians. A wealthy young man like yourself would be an ideal target; perhaps you should leave some of your in the Red Keep or maybe even set up your own account at the royal bank.”

“Ha, this boy is in no danger from some common thug,” the king exclaimed. “I saw him cross swords with Lannister, gave the Kingslayer a right run for his money.”

“Truly?” Ser Loras asked, peering at Jon curiously now. “Perhaps you and I should have ourselves a little match then. Are you going to be participating in the tourney?”

Jon nodded, “Aye, I’ll be competing tomorrow in the melee. I already put my name in.”

“That’s too bad then, I’m just here for the joust.”

“You could join the melee as well, Loras,” Lord Renly interject, giving his former squire a soft smiled.

“Oh, but that would be unfair. I’ve got to give others a chance at glory,” Ser Loras replied, send a joking grin in Jon’s direction.

The young Dragonborn returned the smile, “Well, I thank you for the opportunity.” Then he turned back to Baelish, “I appreciate your concern, my lord, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself. I’ll also have Enzo by my side and he is usually quite the deterrent for troublemakers.”

“I believe that,” the Master of Coin muttered under his breath before continuing more clearly. “But your companion seems to have abandoned you today, I do hope that doesn’t become a habit.”

“Where is that giant of yours, Boy?” The king questioned, looking around the box as if to assure himself that Enzo wasn’t hiding anywhere.

“Oh, off somewhere; he’s not much for watching archery and decided to go wander the city. If I had to guess where I’d probably say the Street of Steel, he’s very interested in the arms and armor of Westeros,” Jon answered, hoping that was, in fact, what Enzo was doing because gods knew what the man could get up to if he got bored.

The conversation quieted down, though it didn’t die completely, after that as the archery tournament officially started with the first round of shooting at 20 paces. It wasn’t exactly a fast-paced show, but Jon could admire good technique where he saw it and, when his attention began to stray, he still could enjoy watching the many people in the crowd or speaking quietly with those around him.

Myrcella was telling Arya about the birds kept in the royal aviary, including the new pair of falcons that Lord Renly gifted Tommen for his last name day; Sansa kept trying to cut in to pull the princess’ attention to herself but stopped once the girls’ conversation turned to sailing and the tale of Elissa Farman with her legendary ship, the Sun Chaser. Sansa returned her attention to the very bored looking Prince Joffrey who just grunted every once in a while as a response. The look on the prat’s face was actually quite amusing because it was nearly identical to the look of utter apathy that the queen wore as Tommen chattered at her about his kittens. ‘Like mother, like son, I suppose.’

In the center of the box, it appeared that Uncle Ned and Lord Arryn were attempting to talk King Robert, who was already fairly intoxicated despite the relatively early hour, out of participating in the melee alongside Jon. The winner of that debate had yet to be determined. Furthest away from Jon was Lord Renly and Ser Loras, who were talking quietly with their heads bent towards one another; he watched as the dark-haired lord reached out to adjust the collar of the younger man’s cloak, to which the blond knight responded by running his thumb over the back of man’s hand. Jon felt his eyebrow quirk up at the interaction, ‘More than just friends perhaps?’

He also noticed that Lord Baelish was talking quietly with Lady Selyse about something that Jon couldn’t hear, though it appeared to be a somewhat unwilling discussion on the widow’s side, judging by the look on her face. Her daughter, the new Lady of Dragonstone, Shireen, seemed to be uninterested in the tourney as she had her scarred little face buried in a book. She must have sensed him watching her though, as her striking blue eyes flicked up to meet his, startled. Hoping to assuage her discomfort, he gave her his most calming smile, “May I inquire as to what are you reading, Lady Shireen?”

The girl shifted in her chair nervously, gripping her book with white knuckles, but was still able to force her shoulders back and reply, “A book about mermaid sightings, Ser Jon.”

“Mermaids?”

The girl gave a quick nod, “Patches often sings about them, Ser; I find the topic fascinating so my father was able to find this book for me before...before he passed.”

“Patches is what she calls Patchface, the fool of Dragonstone. He is always filling her head with nonsense; in my husband’s dying days he even indulged some of it. Shireen, I’ve told you that if you have time for such rubbish then you should be more focused on your studies and prayers,” Lady Selyse scowled, her voice so sharp that it caused her daughter to shrink back into her seat as Prince Prat snorted with laughter.

Jon frowned, “Mermaids are nonsense? Oh, I’m not so sure about that.”

Shireen perked up at his words but her mother just frowned deeper, “Are you in the habit of listening to fools, Ser Jon?”

He gave a shrug, “I don’t have much experience with fools, to be honest; I did meet one in High Rock that I considered hiring, but I ultimately found him to be too unnerving and he stank like a sewer. I have also never seen a mermaid in person, but tales of them are told even in Tamriel. If tales of such creatures exist in lands so far apart, isn’t it possible that there is some truth to them?”

Lady Selyse wasn’t happy with his back talk but did at least seem to give Jon’s words some thought, “Possible? Perhaps, but you yourself admitted that you’ve never seen such things.”

“No, but all over Tamriel, there are these large creatures known as lamias who are quite similar to mermaids. They are beasts with a serpentine appearance, having the torso of a woman and the tail of a snake. The creatures even spend most of their time in the water, like mermaids supposedly do, making their homes among the ruins of destroyed structs as they do not erect permanent structures or cities of their own,” Jon explained as both Arya and Lady Shireen’s eyes went wide.

“I want to meet one!” bellowed his beloved younger sister, to which the young Lady Baratheon nodded.

Jon laughed, “Pray you don’t, Little Sister, for lamias are dangerously vicious beasts and would sooner drown you to feast on your flesh than sit to have a chat. They’re supposedly quite intelligent though, I’d love a chance to study them.”

He said that last part mostly to himself, trailing off in his thoughts as Arya, Shireen, and even the princess attacked him with wave after wave of questions as the morning ticked on.

The sun was beaming high in the sky, covered only by the occasional brief appearance of fluffy white clouds when the time for luncheon came around. Only six of the original thirty-five competitors were left in the archery tournament, most having been eliminated before the recently finished fifty paces challenge, and Jon was ready to stretch his legs.

“Where are you off to, Boy?” the King barked.

“In search of something tasty to eat,” he responded, rolling his shoulders to work the stiffness out of them.

King Robert chuckled, “There is no need for that! When you’re the guest of the king, people bring your food to you.”

A shrug, “Perhaps, but I’d rather go for a bit of a walk.”

Without waiting for a response or to be dismissed Jon left the box and disappeared into the sea of booths and tents, pausing only for a moment to give a wave of acknowledgment when his uncle called for him to be safe.

He wound his way between the other patrons of the tourney, enjoying the sights of dozens of different street performers -tight rope walkers, jugglers, minstrels, dancers, fire-breathers, men on stilts- entertaining the masses in exchange for the hope spectators would be generous to drop a coin or two. They were in luck too, because, as it turned out, Jon had a full purse of money dangling from his belt and a perhaps overly generous disposition. The smile and flirty wink the attractive redheaded scarf dancer sent his when he dropped four silver stags into the small box in front of her showed was returned with a smile of his own before he slipped back into the crowd.

Many of the stands and tents that dotted the fairgrounds were home to ventures selling every type of food under the Westerosi sun; bubbling pots of rich stew, monstrous turkey legs, sizzling skewers with fish and vegetables, slabs of steaming spiced meats, rolls of freshly baked bread, miniature pies of every type, baskets of brightly colored fruits, and a dizzying ara of cheeses filled the air with an interact tapestry of aromas strong enough to mask the stink of the unwashed masses and the general stench the seeped over the walls of King’s Landing. Alcohol was also flowing freely and for practically nothing; beer, wine, and mead were all sold by the mug full out of wooden barrels for anything ranging from a halfpenny to a halfgrount -Jon didn’t know what halfpenny alcohol tasted like, nor did he have any desire to- while flagons of hippocras, mulled spirits, and ciders were a bit more expensive and mostly sold out off green tents with painted golden roses.

After some time spent pursuing the different options, Jon eventually took a gamble on a stall that seemed fairly clean; from the Dornish woman running it he purchased a large sliced roll, the inside coated with a smooth layer of honey butter and stuffed with a juicy chunk of fiery, grilled chicken. The combination of sweet and spicy made his mouth water and burn in a delightful manner. He settled on to an empty bench to enjoy it and a flagon of drink made from a chilled, strong tea mixed with rum and lemon juice he bought from a different stand. Bite by bite, sip by sip, Jon studied the crowd for a moment before closing his eyes and letting the sounds of merriment fade.

It was almost time.

‘I have to plan this perfectly. I don’t know how many chances I’ll get to do this; hells, I’ll probably need to make my own luck this time. Lady Nocturne, if you can hear me and care to assist one of your humble Nightingales in the slightest, please send some luck my way. Everything must go down flawlessly; if I mess it up then I’ll never forgive myself. I also can’t do anything that might place fault on Uncle Ned and the rest of the Stark; if anything ever happened to him or Arya or Robb or Bran or little Rickon or Uncle Benjen… No, can’t think about that. This is the responsibility I’ve inherited and I intended to see it through to the end.’

A smile creeping onto his face, the Slayer of Alduin allowed himself to relax if only for this moment, content with the knowledge that the Soul Cairn might soon have itself a new resident.

“It’s good to see I made it back in time,” Jon commented as he awkwardly attempted to set the half-dozen small packages he had tucked under his left arm down next to his chair without losing his grip on the paper cone of candied almonds he had clutched in his right hand.

“Aye, the second half of the competition will begin momentarily.” Uncle Ned glanced his way, eyes flicking towards Jon’s purchases, “I see you did some shopping.”

“Oh, yes, so many different craftspeople in one place. I couldn’t help myself,” Jon chuckled, taking his seat and jokingly slapping Arya’s hand away when she went for his almonds before wiggling his eyebrows at her. “What do we say?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Oh please, big brother, can’t I have some almonds?”

Jon mockingly copied her eye roll but held out the paper cone, “Well, since you asked so sweetly.”

Over the top of his little sister’s head, he could see Uncle Ned grinning at their antics only for the smile to fall from the man’s face as his eyes caught a figure nearly the box.

There was a palpable shift in the air when the man approached. He was a tall, slender, broad-shouldered man in his fifties, maybe even approaching his sixties; on the top of his head was meticulously groomed white hair and walked with an elaborately carved wooden cane. With every step the man took, he leaned onto his walking stick...and yet not once did he every appear frail or even that old. No, every movement was deliberate, purposeful, and it put the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck on end, maybe even more so than the golden lion embroidered on the man’s doublet.

“Father, so good to see you,” the Queen rose to feet, taking the man’s hands in her and kissing the back of one.

“Cersei,” the man acknowledged with a nod before turning to the king and giving a bow that was just low enough to be appropriate. “Your Grace, this is a quite the tourney; I can think of nothing more appropriate to represent Lord Arryn’s many years of tireless service.”

That wasn’t exactly a compliment, Jon noted, but the king just nodded, “Lannister, good of you to make it. I hope you brought along some good fighters, no use in throwing a tourney if there isn’t going to be a good show.”

“Indeed, Your Grace; I’m sure you will undoubtedly be...entertained by the ensuing events, whatever they may be,” Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock, said in a voice that suggested he didn't find anything all that entertaining.

The expected greetings for one of the Great Lords of Westeros were offered by all those in the King’s box, Uncle Ned even rising from his seat to shake the man’s hand; however, Jon couldn’t help but note that his words, though technically polite, were as cold as the bitter winter wind. The Lord of Winterfell had never exactly spoken poorly of the Warden of the West -indeed, it was rare for him to outwardly speak poorly of anyone- but had certainly never spoken of him warmly either and if Jon had witnessed this exchanged at any point during the past, it would have alarmed him.

Now, though, knowing what he did, Jon understood.

It had been a long time since the young Dragonborn felt anything resembling true fear; oh, he knew concern for those unable the vulnerable masses unable to protect themselves and worry for the safety of those he loved. But fear for his own safety? It had been a lifetime since he felt that.

So why, when the Lion of Lannister’s piercing gaze settled on him for the briefest of moments as he scanned the occupancy of the box with gold-flecked green eyes that missed nothing, did a shiver run up Jon’s spine? Why did his fingers clench around the armrest of the chair? Why did he have to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat?

Was it anger? Was it fear? Was it some unholy mixture of both?

‘You could kill him, Little Brother. You could burn his skin or crush his bones or freeze the breath from his lungs, maybe all three. It would be easy, like snapping a twig; he’s just an old man, after all. You know you want to, so why don’t you do it? Is it because you worry what could befall the kin of your flesh? Or is it because you prefer to pretend you still possess some sort of morality even as you plot to-’

‘Be silent you loathsome ghost! You may haunt the shadows of my mind but you know nothing of who I am!’ Jon shut his eyes tight as the pressure in his head began to build and covered them with his hand, squeezing his temples as if he had a headache, praying no one noticed his discomfort.

The First Dragonborn chuckled, the dark sound echoing throughout Jon’s mind, ‘Oh, I know you better than anyone ever could, Little Brother, never forget that.’

Yet, despite his mocking, the presence faded, leaving only a sheen of cold sweat across Jon’s forehead and the now familiar feeling of blood dripping from his nose which he attempted to hurriedly wipe away with a handkerchief, wincing and hoping no one else would see it.

“Ser Jon? Ser Jon, are you hurt?” A soft voice calling his name jolted him to awareness. He looked to Myrcella whose lovely emerald eyes widened at the traces of blood that were still smeared around his mouth.

“Are you well, Boy?” The king barked, head tilted to the side as he looked towards Jon with what might have been confusion and what might have been concern.

Jon felt a flush with embarrassment when he realized that, despite his prayers, he’d drawn the attention of quite a few of those around him. Still, he forced a smile, “Aye, just a nosebleed; the change of climate has been harder on my body than I'd care to admit, I’m afraid.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Uncle Ned commented. “Gods know how anyone can stand this heat, it's given me plenty of headaches.”

It actually wasn’t all that hot, but Jon appreciated the words none-the-less, “Anyhow, was there something you needed, Your Grace?”

King Robert gave a brief chuckle, “You Northerners aren’t as hardy as you’d like the rest of us to believe, huh? I was just asking what tourneys were like in that strange land of yours.”

“Oh, well, there is no jousting in Skyrim but there are plenty of festivals and competitions; archery contests are very popular, as are melee tournaments. In the months leading up to the coldest part of the year most cities will have hunting festivals where competitors will have from sunup to sundown to hunt as much game as possible with the winner being whoever brings in the biggest haul; they get quite a prize but the condition of participating is that all kills must be turned over to be added to the cities winter stores. Overall, Nords just seem to love a good fight, even if it is just for fun, so they’ll make a competition out of just about everything: fishing, singing, axe throwing, bear wrestling-”

“Bear wrestling?” the king guffawed. “How does that usually end?”

“Entertainingly, Your Grace.”

The Stag King roared in laughter but Lord Tywin frowned thoughtfully, turning his penetrating gaze onto Jon, “Skyrim, you say? That is a country to the far west, I believe. I’ve heard of it, though I confess to knowing less of it than I’d like too. How’d you come to be familiar with such a place, young man?”

Jon kept his face carefully blank and his voice carefully calm, “I’ve been living there for the past few years, my Lord, it and its greater continent of Tamriel have many marvels that I’ve been privileged to enjoy. I originally only came back for a brief visit to celebrate my brother Robb’s nameday but then King Robert invited me to see the splendor of King’s Landing for myself and I could hardly refuse, so here I am; I will be leaving after the tourney, however.”

“Yes, it seems young Ser Snow here has done quite well for himself in that far off land of his. He has gotten himself a title and a fortune of his own in just five years, you must be quite proud of him, Lord Stark,” Baelish cut in, voice dripping in what Jon was sure was hollow chipperness.

“I have always been proud of Jon,” his uncle replied, long face characteristically stern, “but I doubt he appreciates being spoken of as if he wasn’t present; I also believe he prefers to be addressed as Jon Whitewolf now.”

Another bright smile, “Of course. I merely wished to say how impressed I am about his accomplishments, in addition to my own curiosity about how he achieved such a thing. Would you care to share the tale with us, Ser Whitewolf?”

‘Would you care to share why you make my skin crawl, Baelish?’ Jon growled inwardly. Outwardly though, he just shrugged, “The way most do, I suppose; to be completely honest, it was a bit of an accident really. Soon after I arrived in Skyrim I ended up doing a favor for a very important man; he was grateful, rewarding me, and then asked me to do another, which I did. After a while of doing this for various important men and women throughout the country, I found that I too had become an important man. As for the wealth? Well, the dangers of hard work often reaped great rewards.”

The king’s face split into a broad grin under his bushy beard, “A strong constitution on this one, eh-”

“What does it even matter?” Joffrey sneered, anger coloring his eyes and disdain twisting his face. “It’s not like he’s real nobility; he’s still just a bastard, even if he is a rich one.”

The Queen’s lips twitched upward and she reached out to stroke the back of her son’s neck as she began to say something before being cut off her Lord Tywin’s cold voice, “A self-made man is not something to sneer at, Joffrey. I find men who work to build their own legacy or improve on the ones their father’s leave behind are typically far more reliable than those who merely sit and profit from the work done by their forefathers.”

The Prat Prince eyes went wide and surprised shot across his face which quickly turned to anger. Jon was willing to bet he’d only rarely been spoken to in such a way only a few times in his life, if ever. Fury sparked in the crown prince’s eyes but it was nothing compared to the chilling emerald gaze of his grandfather, so the boy was forced to bite his tongue and slump down in his seat, defeated.

“The father builds, the son improves, and then grandson destroys,” Jon commented, being reminded of a saying he had come across in the past, and, to his surprise, the Old Lion nodded in agreement.

The queen, however, would not be silent on such a matter; her beautiful face twisting out of its usual perfect porcelain masked as she lowered her wine glass from painted red lips, “Father, surely-”

“There is a matter that must be discussed immediately, Cersei; come to my chambers after the feast tonight so that we may go over it,” the Lion of Lannister was curt and concise in his words, they left no room for an argument or refusal. He clearly thought nothing of commanding his daughter, even if she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

As for the queen? Well, it seemed that even the crown she wore upon her brow didn’t grant her the power to disobey her father because she did not attempt to speak again; instead draining her wine glass in one long swallow before waving for it to be refilled while her eyes remind coldly fixed on the archers as the sun inched across the sky.

The Lord of Casterly Rock went quiet as well, a silence of choice instead of deferment, and he did not speak to Jon again, didn’t even look at or acknowledge him for the rest of the day. It was appreciated really, and Jon could only hope it would continue for the rest of his time in King’s Landing. For now, though, he merely listened in as Baelish explained who the remaining contestants were.

In the end, it was a surprisingly young man -skinny with freckles and a messy thicket of red hair- from the Dornish Marches by the name of Anguy who won the day, outshooting both Ser Balon Swann, a big knight from House Swann and the second son of Lord Gulian Swann of Stonehelm, and Prince Jalabhar Xho, an exiled prince from the Summer Isles who had been residing in the Red Keep for the past few years, at a hundred paces.

A thunder of applause rang out from the stands and boxes when the arena judge officially declared the winner, raising the arm of the red-haired archer high above his head and allowing the young man to bask in the glory of the moment. The King rose to his feet and lumbered to the front of the box to bellow across, “Take pride in your victory and approach now so that I may grant you the prize you have earned!”

He then turned to Lord Arryn, “That is one of Dondarrion’s lot, isn’t he?”

The old man nodded, “Aye, he’s one of them. I still don’t know why you allowed them to enter the capital, let alone the tournament though.”

King Robert shrugged, “They’re good fighters and Thoros is always good for a laugh; I didn’t see any harm in it.”

The queen scoffed before mumbling under her breath, “Of course you didn’t.”

At the end of the tourney, there would be a small ceremony were the winners of the three events -the archery contest, the melee, and joust- will be presented with medals by the king, but for now, the victors were acknowledged to the crowds and the prize money was handed out. The young victorious archer was escorted into the royal box, flanked by two guards, and gave an awkward bow. With grandiosity befitting his large size, King Robert presented the man with an ornate cherry wood box filled with bags of coins, “That’s ten thousand gold dragons, young man; spend it wisely! Now, I hope to see many of you for the feast tonight and, of course, for the melee tomorrow!”

And, with that, a wave of applause and gleeful hoots filled the air, signaling the tourney had ended for the day.

Jon liked large parties.

He liked the way the bodies of faceless men and women seemed to flow from one into another, the fabric of their clothing melting together into a living quilt. He liked the way dozens, maybe even hundreds, of different conversations overlapped into until they sounded like the buzzing of a thousand bees. He liked watching the body language of the attendants; the women who would laugh a little to hard at something her male companion said whilst fiddling with a low hanging amulet in order to draw his attention to her bosom, the men who puffed out their chests and strut around like roosters in front of both their peers and pretty young maids, the old husbands with much younger wives whose eyes strayed to long on either the serving girls or young knights, and the little children, some of which took the opportunity to play amongst themselves, happy to meet new friends, and some of which had been trained to sit silently, like perfect little dolls whose only purpose was to be seen and never heard.

But most of all, Jon liked the namelessness of large parties; he liked that he could sit in the background, just watching.

That wasn’t to say he particularly enjoyed large parties exactly though, they certainly had their drawbacks; large groups of people made him uncomfortable as a general rule, as did the constant noise, and by this point in his life the possibility that he could be attacked at any moment always lurked at the back of his mind so being surrounded by so many was difficult because an attack could come from so many different directions.

Smaller social gatherings came with their own trades offs, of course. They were...intimate, for lack of a better word; people could watch you more closely -scrutinize you without the impairment of the crowd- and there tended to be a good deal more forced social interaction; you also couldn’t as easily slip away if need be.

That being said, it wasn’t as if Jon never enjoyed social gatherings; he just preferred them private and with people he actually likes being around. Suppers at Jorrvaskr with all the Companions eating, drinking, belting out bawdy tavern songs were wonderful, even if they often included at least one fistfight and almost inevitably resulting in no one actually getting to sleep until the early hours of the morning. He fondly remembered the long nights at the College of Winterhold when he, J'zargo, Brelyna, and Onmund would all crowd into one of their dormitory rooms, studying late into the night or -if an important test had recently been passed- celebrating by eating too many sweets and draining too many bottles of wine while using one of the empty ones to play childish kissing games.

Then there were the days in the Ragged Flagon were there was nothing to be done so the hours were whittled away playing cards. For a while he was content to just watch the antics of his fellow guild members but when Brynjolf had invited him to join the game, Jon was forced to admit he was unfamiliar with most of their games and the ones he did recognize, he was unskilled in; Ned Stark did not approve of gambling, so what little he knew came from Theon, who’d taught him and Robb a bit over the years. His lack of knowledge in such an apparently vital art had been horrifying to Vekel and Delvin who’d taken upon themselves to tutor him both in the rules and how to successfully break the rules.

Thieves guild members took their card games very serious, betting small mountains of coins, fist fulls of gemstones, and, most importantly, favors. Needless to say, Jon suffered quite a bit during those early lessons. It didn’t help that he wasn’t a good liar by nature and, therefore, was a poor bluffer; he did one advantage though, a face that gave away nothing, and, after several months of rigorous training, Jon’s skill grew and he began winning. It was fun.

“Be careful with that wine, you will want to be in top form tomorrow.” Enzo stood above him, dark eyes catching the light and a plate piled high with food balanced in hand.

“No need to worry, this is the stuff they reserved for young maids and old women; it's just enough to wet the throat. Now, you want to tell me where you’ve been?”

The giant Redguard shrugged, settling down on the bench beside Jon and offering him an apple pastry from his plate, “Oh, here and there; this is an interesting place. I will be there tomorrow though, I am looking forward to watching you win. Any plans on what you plan to do with the prize money?”

Jon chewed slowly, savoring the tart apple filling, “There is no point in dragging it all back to Skyrim; I’ve got a few ideas with what to do with the money when I win. If I win, that is.”

“You will, I have no doubt. Then we can prepare to leave this country behind, perhaps permanently, correct?” The eyebrow cocked in his direction spoke volumes to Jon.

“Aye, once I figure up the last of my business,” Jon answered smoothly.

A huff, half of amusement and half of exasperation, “Do you plan on informing what that business is?”

“I will, soon enough,” risking his friend’s ire with a cheeky grin.

This time he was met with a groan and a light-hearted swat to the back of the head, “You are insufferable at times, you know? Still, it is nice to see you in better spirits; you have been so pensive lately. Perhaps after tomorrow’s festivities, it is time for you to seek out some companionship for the evening?”

“Oh gods, you’re really doing this here? Now?” Jon groaned.

“All I am saying is that it has been a while for you, has it not? Three months, I believe. That last time with Gi-”

His head dropped into his hands, “Do you seriously keep track of when I have sex?”

Another shrug, “I swore to always look out for you, that includes your happiness and company always makes you happy. It is also an excellent stress reliever and you cannot deny the pressure you have been under.”

Jon couldn’t help but cringe, “You make it sound so...clinical; I have sex with people I find attractive because I like to have sex with people I’m attracted it to, it's not like I’m addicted to it or anything. Besides, things work differently here than they do back home; outside of Dorne, you can’t really have casual sexual encounters outside of brothels. I have no interest in risk ruining some poor girl’s reputation and future for a bit of fun and I’m not about to help anyone here cheat on their spouse.”

Enzo’s eyes twinkled with a bit of mirth, “Well you could always find a couple and make an arrangement to-”

“How goes things with Rayya, Enzo? Are you still convinced she is madly in love with you?”

*
*
*

“Excellent retort.”

“Jon, you look like you’ve been enjoying yourself. Have you have enough to eat?”

Lord Arryn hobbled over to him, leaning heavily on his cane but, despite his frail appearance, his handshake was strong and firm. “Lord Arryn, it's nice to officially meet you. Yes, the food was excellent, as are the festivities. But I’m trying to find my Father, have you seen him?”

The old man nodded, “Oh, he left to escort your sisters to their quarters for the night.”

“Yes, it is getting to be about that time,” Jon agreed. It wasn’t that it was particularly late, but the sun was all but set and the air had noticeably cooled; both a sure sign the winter was on the horizon.

“If you wish to speak to him than I believe he may be coming back afterward but I cannot be sure; Ned has never been one for parties.”

“Oh no, it's fine; I was actually thinking that it was about retiring myself, want to be well-rested for tomorrow,” Jon assured. Enzo had disappeared once again after Jon turned his back for a moment -it was unnerving how stealthy the giant Redguard could be at times- and there was really no reason to stick around for any longer.

“Excellent plan; from the behavior I’ve seen tonight, it looks like tomorrow’s melee seems like it will be composed mostly of ill, half-drunk warriors. It may be an easy victory for you if have of what I’ve heard about your skills with a blade is true,” the old Hand commented, looking around with a cocked eyebrow and an expression that showed he was deeply unimpressed by what he saw.

Jon gave a snort, “Not too easy, I hope; it wouldn’t be any fun without a challenge.”

The old man stared at him for a moment before laughing, “Oh, you are a young man no doubt!”

Jon cocked his head to the side, “What does that mean, Lord Hand?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Lord Arryn waved him off. “If you were planning on leave than would you mind helping an old man back to his room?”

“Certainly not, anything I can do to help,” Jon replied, already reaching for the Warden of the East’s elbow to steady him; he’d never really gotten over his desire to help anyone he could.

“There you go, my lord. Is there anything else I can help you with?” Jon asked as he helped his uncle’s foster father settle onto a plush sky-blue couch.

“A glass of water would be wonderful so long as it's not a bother.”

“No, of course not.” He went to retrieve the requested beverage for the old man, “Are you enjoying the tourney, Lord Arryn; the king must think quite highly of you to such a grand event in your honor.”

The old Hand gave a low chuckle, “Robert means well but, to tell you the truth, I am far past the age where I can enjoy tourney, they are a young people’s event. You and your sisters are enjoying it though, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” Jon hummed. “Sansa loves the romanticism of it all, Arya favors the adventure, and me? I like the challenge. Here is your water, my lord.”

“Thank you, dear boy. You’re such a good lad,” Lord Arryn said, taking the cup and giving Jon a brief pat on the cheek as if he were the man’s grandson. “You remind me so much of Ned.”

Jon smiled, “I’ve been told I resemble him.”

“You two are alike in spirit, at least,” the Hand muttered softly, mostly to himself. “I offered to foster you at the Eyrie, you know? I offered almost as soon as I found out about you, before you even left the cradle. I thought Ned would agree without question given how many fond memories he had of the place and how many opportunities you could have had there. But he refused, forcefully I might add. I offered a second time a few years later yet was once again refused; Ned was quite cross with me that time, told me to never bring up the subject again. So that was the end of it.”

Jon didn’t like where he suspected the older man was attempting to steer the conversation, so he decided to nip it in the bud; with a carefully blank face he merely gave a shrug, “That is the first I’ve ever heard of it, Lord Arryn, but I like to think its for the best that Father turned down the offer. I wouldn’t trade my childhood at Winterfell for anything; I love my siblings too much for such a thing.”

“I imagine,” the old man said, growing so quiet that his voice almost vanished into the crackling of the fire. Even then though, his stirring blue eyes locking Jon in place as he reached up and gripped the back of the young Dragonborn’s neck, “Ned loves you too, dearly, so, please, be careful.”

‘What do you know?’ Jon’s brow furrowed, “Of course, my lord, of course.”

Lord Arryn stared deep into his eyes for a long while, as if he was attempting to read Jon’s mind, before giving the back of his neck one last squeeze and sending him on his way with a soft, ‘goodnight.’

Jon left the Tower of the Hand shaking his head, trying to get rid of the creeping suspicion that his uncle’s former foster father knew things he shouldn’t. ‘Uncle Ned wouldn’t have told him, would he? No, of course not! Not after all the pain he went through trying to keep it a secret.’

He wound his way through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, heading towards his own assigned quarters while trying to decide which set of armor he should wear to the melee tomorrow. The steel-plated set he brought with him was sturdy, not overly heavy, and would provide good protection against injury while having the benefit of locking common enough that it wouldn’t draw unwanted attention. However, his black-and-red set of leather armor complimented his agility and speed, his greatest assets in battle, without sacrificing much durability; he’d personally made the armor out of dyed mammoth hide, rendering it far tougher than if it had been crafted out of cow or deer hide, with Elder Dragon scales sewn in both to provide extra protection to vital areas of the body and because Jon liked the way it looked.

He was turning a corner when something interesting caught his eye, a door opened slightly opened to reveal shelves of books. Ser Barristian had told Jon that the Red Keep was home to several libraries of various sizes, but had yet to have the chance to visit any of them. Putting aside his intention to get to bed, he ducked inside to find a small library of about ten semi-dusty shelves, several worn armchairs, and a table at the center of the room which was currently scattered with open books that were being pored over by a large figure.

He cleared his throat to make himself known, causing the unknown man to jump to his feet, almost falling over in the process. Jon raised his hands in a non-threatening gesture, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

The man was young, about Jon’s age or a little older, but much larger. He was very fat -not as fat as the king, but close to twenty stones certainly- with dark hair, pale eyes, a large moon-shaped face, and was dressed in fine green garments with red accents. “N-no, think n-nothing of it; I just wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be in here, thought you might be a servant telling me to leave.”

Jon chuckled, “Don’t need to worry about that, I’m just a visitor hoping to poke around too. Besides, from the looks of things, I don’t think this library seems all that many visitors.”

“Well someone was here recently,” the man commented. “I found a crate of empty wine bottles under the table.”

“Who’d store wine in a library?” Jon wondered aloud. “The name is Jon Whitewolf, by the way.”

The other man returned his handshake, doughy palm damp with perspiration, “Samwell Tarly.” After offering his name, Sam seemed to stiff as if he was expecting Jon to have some sort of outburst at his name. Instead, Jon just dug into his memory to try and figure out why that name sounded familiar.

“Tarly...Tarly...that is one of the houses in the Reach, correct?”

“Yes,” Sam nodded, his chins wobbling. “My father is Randall Tarly.”

That explained why the name was familiar, “Now that is a name I recognize.”

A weak laugh, “Most do, I suppose. My family is here for the tourney. Oh, I guess that is pretty obvious, huh? And because my father wants to see how my brother fairs against fighters from across the realm; he is going to be in the melee and then the joust after that.”

“Oh, is that so? We might be facing each other then; I’ll be competing tomorrow as well. I don’t suppose you could tell me if you’re brother any good?” Jon asked with a grin to show he was joking.

Sam shakily returned the smile, “Oh, yes, he’s quite good; my father is very proud.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Sam’s voice jumped a few octaves and his eyes went wide, “No, no, no, I’m no warrior; I prefer books to swords, if you get my meaning.”

He flushed red when he admitted this and averted his eyes, clearly embarrassed. Feeling a rush of fondness and sympathy, Jon just shrugged and replied in the most nonchalant voice possible, “A learned man isn’t necessarily a bad thing; the world has plenty of fighters and relatively few scholars. I try to keep one foot in each world; I find that keeping my mind strong also keeps my sword sharp and my bows quick. The idea that you can only be one or the other is shit.”

Sam looked at him as if he had been speaking complete gibberish, “It is kind of you to say such a thing, though my father would certainly disagree. He believes-”

“Have you found anything interesting?” Jon interrupted, gesturing to the books.

His interest and the change of subject causing Sam to perk up, “Oh, yes! This room seems to be where old journals from the Targaryen dynasty are kept; most of them seem to be official records -work orders, kitchen budgets, payroll, things of that nature- but I believe there may also be some private diaries buried somewhere in the shelves. Probably not all that many, but still... absolutely fascinating.”

“That is amazing,” Jon replied, flipping through the pages of a book Sam handed to him. Diaries from long-dead family members, you know what secrets they could hold? “I would have thought the king would have ordered those burned.”

“Does the king strike you as the kind of man who spends a lot of time in libraries?” Sam commented absent-mindedly as he examined a column of sums in a different book.

His words caused Jon’s head to snap up, astonished by the boldness of what he said before he couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.

The day of the tourney was as perfect as it could be, weather-wise; sunny with minimal wind but just a hint of a chill in the air to keep it for being too hot. Similarly, it also kept Jon from being overheated in his leather armor; he’d decided to go with his leather armor because of his comfort with it and, considering he couldn’t use one of his own swords and instead had to have Ser Jaime help him find a suitable blunted sword from the royal armory, that familiarity would be vital.

“Alright, everyone gather around so I can tell you what is going to be happening! Every one of you sorry lot better be paying attention, because I’m not going to repeat myself!” The head officiator bellowed to the crowd of sixty hopeful fighters gathered in the preparation tent.

The man continued, “There is going to be three rounds of this melee and the first two are going to be one-on-one battles while the last will be a royale of everyone left. As for the rules? It's all the basics: tourney weapons only and seriously injuring your opponent will result in your sorry ass being removed from the competition. If you decide at any point to drop out, just let me know so I can strike your name from the records. Got it? Good! Now, I’m going to read off the first ten matches of the day so listen for your name!”

Jon wasn’t part of the first batch of competitors so he merely settled back against a table and scanned the other competitors, taking in the amusing mishmash of men. Some were clearly just farmboys or the sons of city guards wearing armor belonging to their fathers or older brother with hopes of winning a little coin or catching the eye of a knight who could take them on. Some were squires, half-grown with faces still ridden with spots. Some were proper knights, or at least rich men, with carefully crafted, elaborate suits of armor that gleamed even in the dim light of the tent.

None of them looked like they’d be particularly difficult opponents, but experience had taught Jon better than to judge a man’s strength by his appearance

Time crawled by without Jon truly paying attention, it's passing only noting when sets of competitors would return to the tent to talk with the officiator. The winners strutted about like roosters and found their friends to crow about their victory while the losers either pitifully limped their way out of sight or angrily stomped away, likely in search of something to drink the memory of their defeat away with.

Eventually, all the matches of that set were complete and those who had yet to go gathered once again to find out who would go next. Jon perked up when his name was called; he was to face someone called Merkus of Duskhall. After the names of this set were announced, all the fighters were herded out into the ring to take their places. He glanced to the King’s Box to see Enzo sitting in the same seat Jon had been occupying yesterday and at his side was Arya, on her feet and waving her arms wildly as she tried to catch his attention; Jon grinned under his helmet as his heart flushed warm with affection and raised one hand in a short wave of acknowledgment. When he did so, his uncle, Tommen, Myrcella, and even Lady Shireen all waved back, though not nearly as...enthusiastically as Arya.

Jon gave a soft chuckle as he turned to face his opponent, Merkus; he was a ruddy-faced man dressed in mix-matched iron armor with dirty blond hair a large nose that looked like it had been broken more than once in the past and bow legs. Jon smiled in a friendly way at him only to get a scowl in return, which told him how this was likely to go.

When all the fighters were in place a horn was sounded to signal the beginning of the matches and Merkus immediately lunged forward, stabbed at him with his blunted sword. Jon dogged easily and smoothly moved until he was behind the man; he had a plan, end his battles quickly but not too much so, he would draw them out until at least one other match finished.

His opponent wasn’t that nimble of a man and it was no great challenge for Jon to lead him a dance, tiring him out and throwing his balance off, and trading sword strikes just enough for it to technically still count as a battle. A wave of groans came from the crowd and, out of the corner of his eye, Jon spotted a man flat on his back with his sword lying on the ground, defeated. ‘That’s my cue.’

Sidestepping yet another lunge, Jon used the opportunity to get in close and elbow the man swiftly in the chin. The impact causing Merkus to stumble and loosen his grip his weapon, making it all the more easy for Jon to knock it down with a quick slash of his own sword; it felt to the dirt and Jon quickly kicked it away, signaling his victory. Ignoring the dumbfounded look on his opponent -former opponent's- face, he looked to one of the men assigned to watch for cheating and decide if a victory was legitimate who gave him a nod and gestured in the direction of the main tent.

So off he went, waving at the crowd who applauded his victory and pulling off his helmet, thinking he’d try to get a bit of a rest in before his next fight. The light in the tent was dim and it smelled like hay mixed with sweat, but he’d slept in worst.

“Get back here you little bitch!” A hand seized his shoulder and spun him around; Merkus glared down at him with hate fuming in his eyes. “You made me look like a fool in front of everyone!”

“That was hardly a challenge,” Jon answered with infuriating calm. “You know, you should really work on your footwork.”

“WHY YOU-”

“Get the fuck off!” Seemingly out of nowhere stepped the Hound, huge and looming; he grabbed Merkus by the back of armor and violently yanked him away. “If you’re so fat and slow that a tiny little brat can best you than you deserve to be humiliated! Now get out of here!”

He shoved the man away, sending him stumbling, and when he steadied himself he must have decided that dealing with the Hound was more than cared to handle because he left without another word.

“Quite a charmer, that one,” Jon commented wryly, to which the Hound only grunted; Jon had come to the conclusion that grunts and growls were the scarred man’s primary means of communication. “In any case, thank you for your assistant, Ser.”

“Piss off.”

Jon’s second match of the day was a bit more difficult than the first; it was against a young Dornishman who fought with a spear, which allowed him a greater reach than a sword or mace would. Therefore, it was more difficult for Jon to get in close and disarm the man. He managed it, of course, but it was still more of a challenge than he’d been expecting. Surprisingly, the Dornishman had been a good sport about it and invited Jon to drink with him that night at his inn.

After the second round of matches there was an hour break for midday meals and to give competitors a chance to get any minor wounds they’d acquired tended to. Jon had no injuries aside from some minor bruises, so he went off to grab some tasty chicken, pepper, and onion kabobs with a miniature apple pie.

Once the break concluded the remaining competitors gathered back in the tent to await the final round of the melee. Jon glanced around at the men around him; including him, there were only a dozen left, there should have been fifteen but two men had been too hurt to continue and one was disqualified after it was discovered he hadn’t properly blunted his blade. So twelve were all that remained, tension radiating from their bodies and filling the air, tension, excitement, and exhilaration.

Cheers greeted them when they filed out into the right, the crowds eager to see who would be the winner. All the competitors scattered around the ring, each surely sizing up who would be the easiest target and who would be the hardest; Jon wondered what they thought of him, he was the youngest of those that remained and the smallest. Did they think he’d be easy prey? If so they’d be mistaken. The horn sounded yet again and it began.

Time faded away, turning into water that slipped through Jon’s fingers as he lost himself in the shouts, the clashing of weapons, the flashes of pain when one of his opinions landed a hit, the taste of dirt in his mouth, and the smell of sweat. There was a pureness to combat; no right or wrong, no complex variables to weigh, just survival. In combat Jon only had to think about survival and victory; he liked that, it was peaceful.

He was dealing with a knight for the Reach -a large slack-jawed man with a longsword and a truly impressive amount of body hair- who wasn’t a particularly savvy fighter but was big and sturdy enough to none were able to knock him down so far when he saw the Hound doing battle with a tall, older bald man whose heavy-set frame -Jon could not, in good faith, describe him as fat because that wouldn’t be exactly true; his new friend, Sam Tarly, was fat, but this man looked like the older Nord warriors he knew, legs and arms thick with muscles, backs strong and straight, but with a belly that grew heavy with mead in their later years- was covered not by armor but with flapping red robes. It was hard to pay attention to any of that though because most of Jon’s attention was locked on the man’s sword which was alight with flickering green flames.

The Hound, despite his superior height, strength, and younger age, was having a harder time with the red-clad man than Jon thought he should. He seemed deeply reluctant to get anywhere close to the man and though his dog-shaped helm covered his face, the young Dovahkiin was sure that it was twisted with a panic that the Hound would never want the world to see. The man’s strategy looked to be to drive the large man further and further backward until he was pressed against the edge of the ring. It was working. He slashed a hair’s width from the Hound’s face, causing him to stumble, the small of back pressed against the railing that encircled the ring. The flaming sword pointed at his face was the last straw for the Hound, he signaled at one of the officiators that he was out before hopping over the railing and slinking away.

Jon’s inattention almost cost him; he nearly missed the broadsword that was swung downward, aimed at his shoulder. He dodged it, twisting close enough to land a hit on the man’s inner left thigh that was hard enough to force his opponent to take a knee. Jon followed that up with a blow across the chest, knocking the man onto his back. Before he could enjoy his victory, movement at the corner of his eye caused him to jump back.

The red-clad man pointed his flaming sword in Jon’s direction and smiled amiably, “It looks like you and I are the only ones left, young man. I don’t suppose you’d like to surrender?”

“No,” the Legendary Dragonborn replied. “That isn’t in my nature.”

The man gave a hearty, full-bodied laugh before nodded and lunging forward. Their swords sang when they clashed, embers flying from the sword and blowing across Jon’s face. Back and forth they went, Jon’s greater speed and agility kept the man from pinning him down or boxing him in like he did the Hound but he couldn’t get too close, less the fire get him.

It felt like their dance went on forever before-

“Umphf!”

For just a moment, there was an opening. Jon took it and swung his sword upward, hitting the tender underside of the man’s upper arm. Perhaps more from shock than real pain, the man dropped his sword. Their eyes met and Jon smiled, he had won, but then the man’s eyes snapped to the side and, as Jon became aware of the screams coming from the stands, he followed his gaze down to his sleeve.

‘Fuck!’

Green flames flicker on his arm, the odd flames eating away at the thick scale-covered leather. Jon darted inside the tent towards a trough of water he’d seen earlier, plunging his whole arm inside when he found it. But the water barely caused the flames to dim, instead, it caused the water to begin to quiver. ‘Fuck,’ he thought again, the hand not underwater already beginning to case a frost spell when-

“Don’t move!”

It was the red-clad man, now carrying a large bucket. He knelt by Jon’s side and emptied the bucket into trough straight over Jon’s arm, dumping dirt and sand into the water which turned it into thick mud. Jon watched in relief as the flames finally died, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“There we go, it's over now,” the man said, his voice soft and gentle. “Now, let’s see the damage.”

He pulled Jon’s arm from the trough, wiping away the mud with a rag. The flames had burned away a section of the arm of his leather armor -which was disappointing, Jon really loved this set- but underneath, where one would expect to find black and dead skin, was...just a stretch of slightly reddened flesh with all the hair burnt off.

The man stared in...amazment? Confusion? He ran a thumb over the what should have been a horrible burn -ouch, that did actually hurt- before raising his eyes to slowly meet Jon’s. He attempted to pull away, but the man’s grip tightened and he began to speak.

“What-”

“Thoros, I ought to have your head for this!”

The head officiator bellowed, shoving his way between Jon and the man, Thoros. “You bloody lunatic, it was only a matter of time before your ruined so poor sod’s arm. If you’ve crippled the king’s personal guest on my watch than I’ll-”

“No, no, I-I’m fine,” Jon cut in, holding up his arm with a shaky smile. “My armor protected me; y-you can’t beat nice, thick leather, I guess.”

The officiator blinked wildly at him, as if he was surprised to see Jon on his feet. “Well, alright then. If you’re good to go then I guess I have a winner to announce. C’mon!”

Refusing to look back at the strange man, this...Thoros, he followed the officiator out of the tent into the right and the cheering adoration of the smallfolk and nobles alike.

The feast was even grander than the one last night; suckling pigs, fish pies the size of wagon wheels, and every type of poultry imaginable filled the tables of the ballroom in addition of at least a dozen more delicacies. The extra food was needed because even more people had crammed themselves into the castle so that they might catch the attention of those richer and more powerful than themselves.

Tonight was also different in that the partiers weren’t content to let Jon watch the goings-on quietly from the sidelines. Instead, he spent the night being pulling to conversation after conversation, debate after debate, and business proposition after business proposition with people he either vaguely knew, barely recognized, and had no idea existed before that very moment. He was polite during these discussions, but guarded, and escaped as soon as he was able.

He was also pulled into many dances: three with Arya, one with Lady Shireen, and even one with Myrcella. He was worried about the potential scandal that could be caused by such an act but the fact that King Robert himself encouraged him to do so calmed his concern. After that he was approached for dances by several young ladies or their male relatives on their behalf; he obliged, even if he sussed out what was going on almost immediately.

These girls were the daughters or sisters of either wealthy merchants or the heads of minor noble houses. Jon was, as far the majority of Westeros was concerned, the only bastard son of the Warden of the North but he was also an independently wealthy man, tonight twenty thousand gold dragons richer than he had been this morning, and that, along with the King’s obvious favor -seriously, the man actually hugged him when he went up to receive his prize money- was more important. His last name meant little to wealthy merchants and traders the occupied King’s Landing, they wanted his gold and his relationship with the King. As for the nobles? Well, even the stain of perceived illegitimacy could be ignored if he allowed for good enough opportunities.

He was able to pull himself out of a conversation with a trader from Lys when Prince Joffrey smack a tray out of a serving girl’s hands, sending glasses crashing to the ground and drawing everyone's attention. He made his way through the corridors, aimlessly exploring, until he eventually found himself in the dark cellar of the Red Keep and in the gloom he saw a most magnificent sight.

Dragon skulls, nearly twenty of them. Some no larger than the skull of a large hound and others were...simply massive. One bigger than all the rest, the skull of the legendary Balerion the Black Dread.

'Alduin was enormous, bigger and taller than a mammoth by thrice, and Balerion's head is bigger than his head was by more than half, if Alduin had been this big than...I don't even want to imagine it.'

The dim torchlight flicker and even though Jon knew the skull was just bone -felt it under his palm- for a moment it almost looked as if the dragon was smiling at him.

Meow

Jon spun around, heart nearly leaping out of his chest. A filthy old tomcat sat in front of him, matted black fur streaked with silver. He took in the scars that dotted its body and the mangled ear. He knelt down and held out a hand, “Life hasn’t been easy for you, has it? Come here, boy, let’s get you a bath and something to eat.”

The cat took a hesitant step forward before turning tail and disappearing into the gloom. After it vanished, another figure emerged. The man King Robert referred to as the Spider and others referred to as Lord Varys.

“I do hope you’re not lost down here, young man. It's so easy to get lost in these dark passages.” The man’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and yet the pleasant tone set the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck on end.

“I’m not lost,” he answered, eyeing the man suspiciously. “I just decided to do a bit of exploring and I happened to find these.”

“Aye, yes,” the Spider nodded, coming to stand by Jon in front of Balerion’s skull. “Glorious relics for an era now long past. Though, perhaps not as far in the past as some would like to believe.”

That last part was phrased like a question, a question Jon ignored. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. But I do have a question for you, Lord Varys-”

“Just Varys, please. I am no lord, just a man looking to serve the realm.”

Jon cocked an eyebrow, “Then why does everyone refer to you as such?”

A shrug, “Civility, I suppose.”

‘Civility? Why do I doubt that?’ Jon pondered. “Well, anyway, I was wondering if you could direct me to place I could purchase foodstuffs in bulk? I’m not interested in anything fancy, just the basics will do.”

Varys cocked his head to the side, “Don’t you think that is a question best directed to the Master of Coin?”

Jon snorted, “Baelish? No, I don’t trust him.”

“Oh? You trust me then?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Jon’s lips, “I’m not enough of a fool to trust the Master of Whisperers...but I trust you more than him in this matter. Baelish wants to know about my finances, how much I have and what I plan to do with it. But you? You know I have money, plenty of it, and I believe you’re smart enough to guess what I plan to do with it. So, to answer your question, it's not so much that I trust you it's just that the relevant information isn’t all that important to you.”

The Spider studied with the blankest expression Jon had ever seen before nodding, "I would recommend stopping the storehouse the Tyrell’s maintain in the city. I’ll send a servant to you will directions on how to get there tomorrow morning. Pleasant dreams.”

And, with that, he turned and was swallowed up by the darkness.

Arya II

‘If the gods existed, they must be very cruel,’ the littlest she-wolf though as she stared down at the handkerchief she was attempting to embroider with little red wolves. Instead, they looked like spots of blood on the white cloth. ‘I’d be watching the joust right now if not for this damn rain.’

She cast a glare out window of the lounge where the gray sky dripped fat raindrops onto the land. When King Landing had awoken that day to the dreary weather, it was decided that the joust would be postponed until it cleared up. Arya was worried that it would storm for days on end but Jon had assured her both that it would probably only last the day and that it wasn’t raining hard enough to ruin the tourney ground for the foreseeable future so chances are the joust would only be pushed back a day or two. That was good news but it didn’t change the fact the for today Arya was forced to ‘enjoy’ the honor of the queen’s company for the day.

“I heard you turned down Lancel’s invitation for a dance last night at the feast, Shireen. Would you care to explain why? He is my cousin, you know, and a very handsome young man; you should have been flattered by his offer.” The queen’s voice was that tone she usually used when pretending to be friendly, patient but filled with false cheer.

Lady Shireen was the queen’s niece by marriage but she looked at the older woman as if she was one of the terrible monster’s from Old Nan’s stories. She shifted awkwardly in her armchair, the scarf she’d been working on ringing in her hands, “I’m not much of a dancer, Your Majesty, and I was quite tired after yesterday’s festivities.”

The younger girl smiled meekly then, causing the scar that stretched across her face to pull at the healthy skin awkwardly. Arya knew she shouldn’t stare, but couldn’t help but find the cracked and flaking dark skin fascinating; she wanted to touch it, imagined it would feel like a warm, rough stone, but suspected it would be impolite to ask.

The queen’s lips pursed slightly but she simply continued, “I suppose it's been quite lonely for you and your mother since your father died. Dragonstone quite a bleak place, isn’t it? Granted, I only visited once when I was younger but I couldn’t imagine living in such a place. Perhaps you should come to stay at Casterly Rock for a while, wouldn’t that be nice?”

The girl looked around the room, trying to find a way to escape the conversation, “Oh...that is a lovely offer, Your Majesty, but I’ll have to talk to my mother and Ser Davos before I can promise anything.”

A sneer crossed Queen Cersei face for the briefest moment, “I can’t believe your father left you in the care of that man; he’s not even a proper noble.”

That actually made Lady Shireen sit up straighter, eyes harder than they’d been before, “My father trusted Ser Davos Seaworth with his life, that’s why he chose to appoint him to act as the guardian of my best interests until I come of age. I see no reason to believe this decision was incorrect.”

The room when silent and the air filled with a palpable tension; torchlight flickered in the cold green depths of the Queen’s eyes which were as hard as the emeralds they resembled. The only one who didn’t seem to notice an uncomfortable mood was Sansa, who was still happily working away at a pair of satin gloves.

“What do you think, Your Majesty?” she asked, holding out the gloves.

Queen Cersei’s eyes tore away from her niece and shifted to Sansa, morphing her expression into one of motherly warmth. “Oh, my! Those look lovely, Little Dove; I especially love the designs of the flowers around the cuffs. You have quite the eye for quality taste.”

Sansa nodded proudly, “Coming from the most beautiful and fashionable woman in Westeros, that is quite a compliment; thank you, Your Majesty.”

Arya gagged at the display, causing Myrcella to giggle; Sansa’s deep desire for the Queen approval confused her because it was so obviously a facade. But she hadn’t said anything last night though, when in the cover of darkness, Sansa gleeful stated her belief that Queen Cersei liked her because, while it was a little eye-rolling, Arya was happy that Sansa had finally begun cheering up a little after Lady’s death.

Yet, she couldn’t understand why her sister didn’t see that the Queen wasn’t her friend; that she didn’t like Sansa anymore than she liked Arya, or Father, or the King. Honestly, Arya doubted the Queen liked anyone except for her oldest son, the Prat Prince; him she seemed to like too much, always holding him close and stroking his hair. It was weird.

‘Well, if I’m stuck here than I might as well get some practice in.’ With a sigh, Arya crumpled the ruined handkerchief in a ball and tossed it aside before sliding her hands under the table to begin practicing the hand motions for the basic flame spell that Jon had shown her, careful mouthing the special words.

Magic was hard! You had to say the right things and make the right motions perfectly while focusing hard or else it either wouldn’t work or would backfire something awful. Not to mention that even if you did manage to properly cast a spell, you’d feel tired and sluggish afterward. Jon and Mister Enzo both assured her the more she practiced, the better she’d get, and eventually, the tiredness would fade. But that didn’t change the fact that in the three weeks since her lessons had started, Arya only had a comprehensive grasp of three spells.

It frustrated her to no end, especially since visions of herself shooting bolts of lightning from her fingertips just like Jon danced in her head. They were so prevalent that they almost kept Arya from noticing that she’d actually managed to conjure a small flame in her left palm. This would have filled her with joy and satisfaction if not for the fact that she’d unknowing managed to catch the lacy end of the tablecloth of fire.

Biting back a scream, Arya snatched up her cup of tea and dumped it one the flames, extinguishing them. The splashing caused Sansa, Mycella, Lady Shireen, and the Queen the look her way; they hadn’t noticed the flames, thankfully, so it must have looked as if she slept tea across the table and the lap of her dress. She forced a smile, “The cup slipped, excuse me.”

Before anyone could say anything she bolted from the room with a pace just shy of running, heading straight for Jon’s room. The castle was big, like Winterfell, but Arya knew that layout of her home like she did the back of her own hand whereas the hallways and staircases of the Red Keep were completely foreign. It took a long time before she recognized where she was and, in her hurry, turned a corner too fast and nearly crashed into someone, just barely able to twist out of the way and avoid hitting the other person.

“Watch where you’re going,” the man barked, shooting her a dirty look.

It was the big man who was always following Joffrey around, the one with the scarred, mean face. What was his name? The Dog or something like that? The tone of his voice and the dirty look made Arya want to stick her tongue out at him, “It’s not like I hit you or anything!”

The Dog froze mid-step, turning back to face her, “Be careful with that tone of yours, Girly. You shouldn’t sass people bigger than you.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to sass anyone.”

That actually got a chuckle out of the man, “No, probably not. That might be for the best though, you never know when someone will take what you say too personally and decides to take it out of your hide.”

Arya lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, “They’d have to catch me first.”

The Dog seemed to find her bravado funny; he shot an arm out to grab her but missed when she danced backward, out of his reach. He didn’t say anything after that, just cocked the eyebrow he still had and Arya met his stare with her own steely determination. “Alright,” he growled. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that. But one good hit and that’ll be the end of you, Girly.”

“Then I won’t get hit,” she sneered back, only to be met with an amused snort as the man turned around and walked off.

Jon wasn’t there when Arya knocked on the door to his room, instead, Mister Enzo opened the door. He blinked at her, quizzically, “Is something wrong, Little One?”

Her shoulders slumped, “I set a table on fire.”

The man just stared for a moment before silently waving her into the room. Arya plopped down heavily on the couch, reaching out to scratch Jon’s shadowcat under the chin, while Mister Enzo took a seat in the armchair across from her, “Tell me what happened.”

Embarrassment colored her cheeks as Arya retold her earlier mishap; the events of which caused Mister Enzo to devolve into a loud fit of laughter. “Oh, Little One, you are not the first to catch something one fire whilst trying to learn Destruction Magic; just be thankful no one saw or got hurt.”

“But I don’t understand why it's taking me so long to learn a few basic spells!” Frustration colored her voice, “Was it this hard for you when you started learning?”

“No,” Mister Enzo replied, his deep voice was soothing to her ears. “But Destruction Magic was something I had a natural predilection for and it is entirely possible you do not.”

That confused Arya, she tilted her head to the side, “What do you mean?”

“There are several different schools of magic -Alteration, Conjuration, Destruction, Illusion, and Restoration- and some people do not have to disposition needed for one or more of them. You may not be suited for Destruction Magic. I wonder… Watch my hands, Little One, and try to cast this spell.”

Arya did as he instructed and, while it took a few tries, eventually- “I got it!” she exclaimed, watching in amazement as webs of bluish-green light flowed across her skin.

SLAP

Arya’s head jerked to the side from the impact of Mister Enzo’s slap. When she got over her shock, she snapped back to look in his direction. “WHAT WAS THAT FOR?”

The man didn’t apologize or even change his calm expression, “Did it hurt?”

“OF COURSE IT-” Then she paused, raising a hand to brush her fingertips against her cheek. There was no pain, just a slight tingling.

“Oakflesh,” Mister Enzo informed. “The weakest of the Mage Armor spells and part of the Alteration school of magic. It turns your skin into armor for a period of time, good for emergencies.”

The door opened and Jon entered, “What is going on here?”

Mister Enzo smiled, “I think Little Arya here has a talent for Alteration magic.”

“Oh,” Jon raised an eyebrow, “And how did you figure this out?”

“She nearly burned down the castle.”

Arya gasped in indignation but Jon just shook his head and groaned, “Enzo, would you mind waiting outside while I talk to Arya for a minute?”

The man left with just a chuckle and Jon came to sit next to Arya; after a long moment of quiet he asked, “Please tell me you didn’t do that to get out of having to spend time with the Queen.”

“What? NO! Though that isn’t a bad idea...”

“Arya...”

“I know, I know. It was just a mistake, I promise,” she sighed, slumping against Jon’s side.

“You’ve got to be careful, Arya! Magic isn't a tool and it isn't a game to play with for your own amusement. ”

“I understand that! I was just trying to practice and… and… I don’t like it here. I mean, the tourney has been fun but the way everyone looks at you in this city… it's like you are food,” she admitted, snuggling deeper into her brother’s warm.

Jon let out a deep breath and wrapped an arm around her, hugging her closer. “You’re a smart girl, Arya. We’ve got to look after each other and not cause any trouble for everyone's safety, which means playing along with the royal family for now. Within reason, that is.”

“The Queen scares me,” she admitted softly. “I don’t like being around her.”

“You’re a smart girl, Arya,” Jon repeated. “I’ll tell you what, if you can manage to put up with being a proper lady for just a little bit longer than I buy you a present before I leave.”

That perked Arya up, “What will you get me?”

Jon chuckled, “Just about anything you want. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal!”

Enzo II

The giant Redguard was amused when he watched little Arya scamper away, a smile on her face. “You are too indulgent with her,” he told his companion who just shrugged.

“I won’t deny that, but don’t think I haven’t noticed you being a bit gentler with her during lessons either.”

Now it was Enzo’s turn to shrug, “What can I say? She is quite adorable; precocious too, something that is both a helpful and a dangerous trait. ”

Jon chuckled, “That she is. I worry about her, worry about how she’ll cope when she is older; she’s got the inner strength of a thousand men and that scares people.”

Enzo didn’t say anything to that, instead simply allowing a moment of silence before nodding to white bandage Jon had wrapped around his forearm, “How is your arm?”

He’d been horrified when he saw the flames clinging to Jon’s arm and nearly leapt from the King’s Box to chase him into the tournament tent; the only reason he didn’t was that his companion soon emerged looking none the worse for wear. Later that night, Jon had shown him how bizarrely little damage there actually was; the patch of skin that should have been black and dead instead just looked as if it was sunburnt.

“It’s fine,” he answered. “Still red and a little sore but…”

Jon trailed off and Enzo decided to divert the conversation, “So I suppose we will not be telling Lady Serana about this incident?”

His companion’s eyes went comically wide, “No. No! Not in a million years! She’d never let me live it down!”

The pair then shared a chuckle before Jon’s face went solemn again, “Follow me, there is something I need to show you.”

Enzo cocked an eyebrow, “Where are we going?”

A small, dark smile slid across Jon’s face, “Well, you want to know why we came to this city, don’t you?”

The city stank of filth, disease, and despair; it smelt like blood was soaked into every inch of it. Enzo hated it, hated every inch of it, and couldn’t help but wonder why the whole place hadn’t been burned to the ground yet. Mud splashed across his black leather boots and rain dripped down the back of his neck as he followed his companion through the city and to the now mostly abandoned tourney grounds, ‘I miss the desert.’

They stopped at the outskirts of one of the practice rings and Jon pointed to one of the few fighters. He was absolutely massive in a ridiculously heavy set of armor and was absolutely obliterating a set on wooden practice dummies, smashing them with one swing of a giant sword.

“Do you see him?”

‘It would be difficult to miss that man.’ He nodded, “Yes, he is a big one.”

Jon turned to face him then with a completely blank face; he was wearing a wine-colored tunic and between that and the dim light, his nearly black eyes could almost be dark violet. “Do you want to help me kill him?”

Next Chapter: The tourney continues, this time with the joust! Jon manages to endear himself to yet more people but unfortunately finds himself pulled into a meeting with the Lion of Lannister. Ned and Jon talk about issues on the horizon. 

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 
• Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

1. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.
5. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. 
6. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.

 Jon XIII

 
“You look like a child,” Enzo commented, half a statement of amusement and half a statement of exasperation. 
 
“That’s the point,” Jon replied as he whipped the last of the soap suds from his freshly shaven face. “People are more likely to trust, or at least be less suspicious of, those who are young and pretty.”
 
“You do realize that you just referred to yourself pretty, correct?”
 
“Well, I don’t exactly hear you denying it.”
 
Enzo chuckled, “I am not one to lie needlessly, you know this.”
 
Jon glanced over his shoulder to grin widely at his friend before turning back to the mirror and examining his own reflection. His lack of beard exposed a thin, silver scar that ran along the left line of his jaw he got from a near-miss with a war axe and still-pink mark on his under his right ear that was leftover from bar brawl that got out of hand. It also made him look younger by at least a year and highlighted the sharp, slenderness of his features.
 
The same features had garnered him much attention throughout his life, both positive and negative. Before he’d grown into the length of his features, Jon often thought he looked odd and misshapen, a belief that was not helped by Theon’s teasing. When he was young, the apparent ‘Stark-ness’ of his features were a near-constant source of amazement to visiting Northern lords and ladies, would comment on it loudly whenever they saw him. Jon liked this, it made him feel like he truly belonged at Winterfell; what he didn’t like was the displeasure it brought to Lady Stark and the scrutinization it then brought onto him by her. 
 
As he aged and grew to fit his face, his features garnered more and more positive attention, eventually even admiration, from those who’d met him. Sometimes this was flattering, sometimes this was embarrassing, and sometimes this was discomforting. There were still jokes about his ‘feminine’ features, of course, from the older, gruffer men he was friends with; these were often completely harmless jest without any maliciousness, something Jon knew and understood, even if he still didn’t enjoy them. Less harmless were the leering jeers from the many mean drunks he encountered -Rolff Stone-Fist being the worst of the lot by far- which made him feel young and small and vulnerable, especially when he’d first arrived in Skyrim. 
 
Growing a beard had been a way to appear older, to make him feel stronger and safer. 
 
But Jon no longer needed that illusion of strength, not since he’d learned who he was and the power that lurked in his very soul. So, while part of him would miss it, shaving his beard away caused no crisis of self. 
 
“So, tell me about the ‘business’ you have dragged us both to the City of Stink to deal with,” Enzo commanded, leading back into an armchair with Spector balanced on one knee and Phantasm on the other. 
 
“His name is Gregor Clegane, but from what little I’ve learned from other tourney goers he is more commonly as ‘the Mountain That Rides’ or simply ‘the Mountain’; he is the Knight of Clegane's Keep as well as the head of House Clegane, a landed knight and a bannerman to House Lannister. I want him dead.
 
Ideally, I want him dead in a bloody, drawn-out, painful, public way. I want him to suffer before he dies, wracked with agony and fear. But that is wishful thinking. 
 
More realistically, it should be done in such a way that no one will question it or look to deeply into the cause. Not that I think anyone will; I’ve asked around and it seems that the list of people who prefer the man living is far shorter than the list of those who’d prefer him dead and rotting. Lady Luck has cast some favor on me in that regard, I suppose.”
 
Enzo was quiet and Jon, perhaps afraid his dear friend was judging him, walked to the window to stare out at the city. Thin beams of sunlight were fighting through the clouds and the rain had stopped for now; in light of the weather, the joust had been rescheduled until tomorrow, provided the tourney fields had dried enough. Despite Arya’s displeasure, this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as it gave Jon time to go to the Tyrell warehouse the Spider had specified, as well do some general exploration of the city and shopping. He also really wanted to tour the Street of Steel.
 
Eventually, the Ebony Warrior spoke, “And what has this man done to earn your ire?”
 
Fire tickled Jon’s tongue and he clenched his jaw against the rush of anger, “It’s personal.”
 
There was another moment of silence before- “Ouch!”
 
Jon rubbed the back of his head, turning to stare at Enzo incredulously, the metal goblet the man had thrown at him now rolling on the floor, “What was that for?”
 
“You are a fool!” Enzo, despite his fearsome appearance, was rarely moved to anger. So it shook Jon deeply to see the cold fury burning in the man’s dark eyes, “Jon, you are the only son I have, so anything personal to you is personal to me. I have followed you all across Skyrim, from country to country in Tamriel, halfway across the world to this miserable kingdom, and then to this filthy city so you will tell me why you want to kill this man and you will tell me now!”
 
Jon couldn’t think of anything to say, instead only able to stare at the giant knight owlishly before his mouth fell open into a stupid grin, “Septa Mordane has nothing on you; have you ever considered being a nanny?”
 
The glare Enzo sent his way told Jon that he wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Jon sighed, collapsing down on the couch and rubbing a hand through his curls, “He murdered my older half-brother, Aegon, and my step-mother, Elia Martell. He killed her, but not before he… No, I’m not going to dignify what he did to her with words; there are not any monstrous enough. He killed them both and I want him dead for it.”
 
Enzo cocked his head to the side, fury gone from his body, “How do you know it was him?”
 
His jaw clenched again, “Elia and her children, my siblings, were all murdered during the Sack of King’s Landing. The killers’ identity was never publicly spoken off, not in Winterfell, at least; I’m sure in other parts of the Kingdom it is a public secret. Logic stands to reason that they were underlings of Lord Tywin, he led the sack after all. Dorne, where Princess Elia was from, demanded retribution and vowed to keep fighting until they got it, only agreeing to stop when Lord Arryn, in one of his first acts as Robert’s Hand, went to Sunspear and personally delivered the Princess’ and her children’s remains. But the murderers still went unpunished and their identities undeclared. 
 
That night after I read those letters from Elia and my parents, I dreamed of her and my siblings’ deaths. There were two killers, the Mountain killed my brother -just a babe in the cradle- by bashing his head against a wall before turning his… attentions to Elia while another man killed my sister, Rhaenys, stabbing her in the stomach just over and over again… 
 
...In my dream, I could hear their screams, Enzo! Their cries of pain and fear, I heard Elia begging for them to show mercy towards her children!” Jon raised a shaking hand to touch his own face, which had broken out in a cold sweat, “I felt their blood...splatter across my face! It was just a dream, I know, but I felt it all the same...”
 
Jon hugged his arms close and closed his eyes against the memories of viscera and gore that invaded his dreams more often than not these past weeks. “They wanted me, you know? Rhaegar and Lyanna...my parents...even Princess Elia; they wanted me and look at what it cost them! A brother and sister I never got to meet, a step-mother murdered by a man dripping with her son’s blood, a father killed before I drew my first breath, a mother dead from the strain of bringing me into this world, and the thousands of lives lost in the war that followed, all so I could be born. I’ve got to wonder if it was all that misery.”
 
“Yes.” Jon’s eyes snapped to Enzo, surprised both by the speed that he answered and the flat, definite tone of his voice. The man continued, “You defeated Alduin, save this world and all its inhabitants. So, yes, those few thousand deaths were worth it. It sounds dismissive and cold of me to say, I know but I never want you to think you are unworthy of the life you live. That guilt is not yours to bear and, though it hurts, I hope one day you will be able to move past it.”
 
Tears were welling in Jon’s eyes but he blinked them away before rubbing a hand over his face and ducking his head to hide a watery smile. “So, does that mean you’ll help me kill the Mountain?”
 
“Oh, of course,” Enzo shrugged, tossing Jon a flask of brandy before pulling out his own. “But it seems unfair to just go after Clegane. You said there was another man, the one who killed your sister, should we not be going after him as well? Lord Tywin too, if you wish.”
 
Jon shook his head, “Clegane is a minor lord and a hated one at that; no one will think too much of it when he dies. But Tywin Lannister? He’s the richest man in Westeros and the queen’s father; people will care if something happens to him, even if it's just an unfortunate trip down the stairs, they’ll look into it. If people start throwing around accusations, even false one, well... I can’t risk anything happening to the Starks. I swore that I’d get revenge for the family I lost but not at the cost of the family I have.” 
 
Enzo nodded, “The other man then, can we kill him?”
 
“I’d like to kill him,” Jon admitted, “but we’d need to find him first. Lorch is his name, or, at least, that is what Clegane called him. They referred to each other by their family names, actually joked around, while they were killing my family. I bet they never imagined it would come back to bite them in the ass. Anyway, after I had that dream for the first time, I looked up those families in the library back at Winterfell and they both serve the Lannisters.”
 
“Clegane...Clegane...why does that name ring a bell?” Enzo questioned, his brow furrowing.
 
“The Hound’s real name is Sandor Clegane, they’re brothers. In fact, I think they’re the only two members of their House, only living members anyway.”
 
Enzo’s eyebrows shot up, “Truly?”
 
“Aye, I was surprised too; it's hard to believe the Hound is the friendly one. Anyway, when I learned that the names matched but not the faces it was just some deductive reasoning. As for Lorch, his house is small and unimportant so I doubt there’d be much attention paid to his death; But while I know what his face looks like, without a given name it’ll be hard to hunt him down, especially in the short amount of time we have. I'll draw out his face for you though and if we happen to bump into him...well, feel free to get imaginative.” 
 
The Ebony Warrior gave a slow nod, “There is one man you have not mentioned yet.”
 
“Really?” Jon asked, surprised. “Who?”
 
“King Sload, of course.” Enzo’s face was blank but his eyes burned with a dark intensity as they seized Jon’s gaze and refused to let go, “He killed your father, do you not wish to kill him too?”
 
Jon bit the inside of his cheek, “That is more...complicated. He’s the king, like you said, and you can’t just kill a king without there being a fuss. Not to mention, he is my uncle’s oldest friend and, if nothing else, King Robert’s death would break Uncle Ned’s heart. But...I hate the man, don’t get me wrong, he caved my father’s chest in and all but laughed over the dead bodies of my siblings, but...my hatred for him is different than it is for the Mountain and for Lorch.”
 
He paused then, bringing his flask up for a shaky sip of deliciously burning brandy, and Enzo merely sat still, not interrupting despite Jon’s hope he would. So the young Dragonborn forced himself to continue, “King Robert...well, he wasn’t king yet, obviously...he killed father, aye, but he killed him in battle. Two grown men fought each other on the battlefield clad in armor and wielding weapons; they were both fine warriors and both had a chance to win. He didn’t kill a frail woman or a tiny babe or a little girl, none of whom with any way to defend themselves. Yes, maybe he approved of it and maybe he took some...glee in it, but he didn’t do it himself or even order it. So...while I’ll always hate him, I can’t...hate him as much. Does that make sense?”
 
His friend -who enjoyed being enematic- did not give him a straightforward answer on this matter, instead just rising to his feet and reaching for his light fur cloak. “I will go do some reconnaissance on our target, see what I can learn about him that might aid us in our endeavor. Perhaps I will try asking around for information on this Lorch fellow.”
 
“Alright,” Jon nodded. “I have a meeting at the Tyrell warehouse to purchase foodstuffs and then I’m going to see what I can learn about the city.”
 
“Be safe then, don’t you dare come back with a single new scratch or I will have your hide.”
 
“I will. Oh, and, before you go, one more thing.”
 
“What is-umphf!”
 
Jon popped up from his seat on the couch, throwing himself at his dear friend and wrapping his arms around the man’s torso in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” he said, voice muffled in the strong, warm muscles of Enzo’s chest.

 
‘How many roses can you put in one place?’ Jon wondered as he sipped his tea, eyes scanning the well-furnished interior of the Tyrell warehouse’s inner office. The building itself was located off the Street of Flour, where the majority of the city’s bakers set up shop to fill the air with the perfume of fresh bread and sweet treats. The warehouse was a large, rectangular, one-story building made from tan sandstone bricks and was patrolled by a platoon of over a dozen guards. The interior, however, was lined with polished wooden floors, ornate furniture, embroidered wall tapestries, deep green velvet drapes, and more gold roses than he could count. 
 
Well, that was actually a lie, Jon had been counting them since he got here; he found thirty-one so far. Clearly, the Tyrells’ didn’t want anyone to forget who owned the building. 
 
“Thank you for your patience, Ser Whitewolf; the tourney has kept us quite busy trying to keep up with all it demands, can’t afford to spare a single employee for even just one moment.” 
 
Jon rose to shake hands with the warehouse manager, an older, paunchy yet well-dressed gentleman with neatly combed brunet graying hair, matching mustache, and a golden rose stitched onto the breast of his doublet. “It was no trouble at all, thank you for making time to meet with me.”
 
The manager smiled, taking his own seat and gesturing for Jon to do the same. “Oh, it is no trouble at all. Lord Varys himself sent word that you’d be stopping by and we’re always happy to do business with people from the Red Keep. Now, how can we help you?”
 
‘I was right, The Spider isn’t content with just giving me directions. I wonder which of the workers here is also on his payroll? I suppose it doesn’t matter, he’ll still know all the details before I get back to the castle regardless,’ Jon noted. “Well, you see, I’ve recently come into quite a bit of money recently, money that I have no real use for and don’t want to drag back to the country where I live, so I was hoping to use some of it to purchase a supply of foodstuffs.”
 
The man’s pale brown eyes lit up with glee and Jon wondered if he got commissions from the business deals he made.“An excellent idea, Ser! It may be unseemly to brag, but my warehouse does boast the highest quality products around. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, how much coin are we talking about?”
 
“Twenty-thousand gold dragons.”
 
The manager choked on the tea he was sipping, spilling some over his hands and the desktop, “You clearly are quite the fortunate young man, Ser, but, while we’ll be more than happy to assist you in such a matter, it will take us some time to gather-”
 
“No, no, you misunderstand,” Jon interrupted. “I will only be purchasing ten thousand gold dragons worth of foodstuff and I don’t need it all at once but rather at monthly increments, if at all possible.”
 
“Oh, yes, that we can do quite easily,” the manager replied, relief evident in his voice. “What do you plan on doing with the rest then?” 
 
Jon cocked an eyebrow at the personal nature of the question, causing the man to backpedal, “Forgive me, Ser, that was incredibly inappropriate of me to ask. It was incredibly unprofessional of me to forget myself in such-” 
 
“I’m gifting the rest to my family in the North so they can use it to prepare for the coming winter. The supplies I’m buying from you I want to be distributed freely in Flea Bottom, as well as those who are just generally in need, with priority given to the young, elderly, sick, crippled, and single mothers.” Jon kept his voice calm but stern, leaving little room for argument even as confusion played across the man’s face. “I trust that will not be a problem?”
 
“No...no, of course not. It is a little unusual, I’ll admit… Typically, only the Faith engages in that kind of charity and never on such a grand or prolonged scale. But we’d be honored to perform this service on your behalf. What kind of foodstuffs were you looking to have delivered?”
 
Jon smiled brightly, “Nothing fancy; just the basics, as much non-perishables as possible: bread, dried fruits, salted meats, smoked fish, light beer, preserved vegetables...oh, and milk for the children.”
 
“That is easy enough to arrange, I suppose. If you’d like, we can even start working out the contract immediately.”
 
“Yes, that’d be ideal.”
 

 
It took nearly two hours to get the finer details of the contract hammered out but by midday Jon was satisfied that all the most exploitative loopholes had been written out -Tonilia, of all people, once spent an entire week teaching how to properly negotiate a contract and he refused to let her lessons go to waste- and, with a subtle warning that he’d have someone keeping an eye on the warehouse to ensure they didn’t skimp on their end of the deal, signed the paper with great flourish. 
 
“It will take us a few days to gather the first batch of supplies; we’ll send a message to you up at the Red Keep so you can come by and inspect it before we ship it out for delivery,” the manager explained as he saw Jon out.
 
“Excellent,” Jon replied, shaking the man’s hand once more. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” 
 
“And you as well, Ser.” The manager paused then, brow furrowing. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you doing this? Why concern yourself with those you’ve never met? Those so far beneath you?”
 
Jon gave the man a long, blank look, “Because I can.”
 

 
“Jon? Jon!”
 
The young Dragonborn blinked when a voice called his name, looking around the bustling street until he spotted a familiar strongly-built white-haired man. “Ser Barristan! I didn’t recognize you at first, not without your Kingsguard armor.”
 
The old warrior had traded in the white plated armor and enameled scales with silver chasings and clasps for simple tan trousers with sturdy leather boots and a brown jerkin under a wheat yellow tunic. He’d also forgone the longsword he usually carried, but there was a long dagger strapped to his belt -not all that dissimilar to the one at Jon’s own waist- and the slight bulging of the man’s jerkin made Jon suspect he was wearing a light armor underneath. The famed knight smiled warmly, “Nor did I you, young man; the lack of a beard threw me off at first.”
 
“Do I really look all that different with it?” Jon asked with a laugh. 
 
Ser Barristain gave his own chuckle, “No, not truly. It took me a moment to recognize you but your features shine through, with or without the beard. Anyhow, I stopped you because I was wondering what are doing out and about in the city, Jon? I assumed you’d still be resting after your impressive victory. How is the arm? That close call of yours scared us all, we feared you may have ended up losing your arm.”
 
Jon doubted very much that the Queen or the Crown Prince would have cared in the least if he perished in the depths of a smoldering volcano, let alone suffered a bad burn to the arm, but it warmed him deeply to know that one of the heroes of his childhood worried for his safety. “Still a bit sore, I’m afraid, but none the worse for wear overall. As for what I’m doing, I was hoping to tour the Street of Steel, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten turned around.”
 
“I suppose King’s Landing can be a bit complicated to navigate if you’re unfamiliar with it, but you’re in luck, young man, I was also looking to visit the Street of Steel today! Would you care to join me for a luncheon and then we can walk there together?” the old knight offered.
 
“I’d be honored, Ser.”
 

 
“You never told me what you were doing walking the city in plainclothes, Ser Barristan. Could it be that you did not want to be recognized?” Jon asked nonchalantly, cutting the honeyed mutton he’d been served by the pretty tavern girl along with roasted potatoes, boiled vegetables, and a light ale. 
 
The famed knight’s lined face pulled into a small smile, “I am allowed time to myself, you know? I could very well just be out on a pleasant stroll.”
 
Jon matched the man’s smile with one of his own, “Why do I find it hard to believe that you are a man who takes much personal time, Ser Barristan?” 
 
A huff of laughter escaped the man, “You are a sharp one, Jon. I don’t want to say much on the subject, but I will tell that I am investigating a particular matter that has been gnawing at the back of my mind for some time now. Perhaps it is nothing, but I cannot help-”
 
“The bandit attack right? You find the whole situation odd too?” Jon interrupted, causing Ser Barristan’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.
 
He eyed Jon carefully, “Odd? What do you mean by that?”
 
“I noticed something strange about the ones I fought and killed, they were too clean. I’ve dealt with many bandits, Ser Barristan, and personal grooming is rarely all that high on their lists of priorities. Yet, for the most part, these bandits looked healthy with freshly washed skin and hair that was neatly brushed. Yes, they were wearing ragged, dirty clothes and worn armor, but they looked like...dressings.” Jon explained, letting out all the thoughts that had been nagging him since the attacks. 
 
Barristan the Bold gave a small, slow nod, “I suppose you also must have thought how odd it was for a group of bandits, even a rather large one, to attack such a heavily guarded party instead of waiting for a more vulnerable target?”
 
“Yes! It's all too odd, too coincidental for my comfort… It was all like a-”
 
“Like a mummer’s play?”
 
“Exactly...like it was all staged, but why? The most obvious answer would be to remove a specific target, but...”
 
Ser Barristain let out a deep breathe, “But there were many possible targets within the royal party, so who was the mark?”
 
Jon sighed, “And that assumes that the ‘bandits’ goals really were to kill someone. So many questions... Where does that leave us?”
 
“In the dark, I’m afraid,” Selmy replied solemnly. “Still in the dark.”
 

 
 “You know, you could have just taken one of the carriages at the Red Keep that is reserved to ferrying guests around the city.”
 
“I did actually,” Jon said as he and the elderly knight hiked the hill that was the Street of Steel. “I just had the driver drop me off at the main Tyrell warehouse; I had business there.”
 
“Really, what kind of business?”
 
“I was arranging for regular shipments of foodstuffs delivered to Flea Bottom,” Jon explained; there was no need to lie to the famed knight, who would he tell? “The account I set up with part of the money I won will see to it that those most in need should at least have food in their bellies when they go to sleep at night; for about a year, that is. The rest is going to my family.”
 
Ser Barristan gave Jon a long, silent look before his face split into a wide, warm grin and reached out to give Jon’s hair a brief ruffle.
 

 
The Street of Steel began at the southwest corner of the Fishmonger's Square and climbed up Visenya's Hill until reaching the Great Sept of Baelor. The street housed most smiths of the city and was designed in such a way that the higher up one goes, the more expensive the shops. As they perused the various establishments, Ser Barristan gave him advice on which of the smiths could be trusted to sell quality goods and which peddled the prettiest of scrap metal as Valyrian steel. 
 
The knight stayed with him for a good long while as Jon wandered from vendor to vendor, buying different odds and ends that caught his eye. Some he bought for his own private collection and others he bought for friends or their children: a hand mirror for Lydia, a bookmark made of color-stained metal for Onmund, a corkscrew with the decorative topping of a naked woman for Sofia, who’d find it amusing. He explained all of this to Ser Barristan, who listened attentively and asked many questions about the life Jon lived in Skyrim; unlike most others, Jon felt no apprehension about telling the old knight his stories -the simplified versions anyway- and in general, felt quite relaxed in the man’s presence. 
 
Eventually, though, Ser Barristan needed to depart to complete his own business, leaving Jon with a pat on the shoulder and the urge to pay for cart ride back to the Red Keep. Jon just gave a nod and wave, a rush of loneliness coming over him as he watched the man’s back until it was swallowed up by the crowd. With a small sigh, Jon turned on his heel and continued up the hill, adjusting his knapsack full of purchases into a more comfortable position on his back. 
 
At the very top of the hill was a towering building made from timber and plaster that stood taller and more ornate than any of the others on the street. Fitting with the luxury of the building, there was a pair of stone knights armored in red suits of armor, one in the shape of a griffin and the other in the shape of a unicorn, that stood guard on either side of the double door entrance. The doors themselves made from solid ebony and pale weirwood that had the inlay carving of a hunting scene and when Jon knocked on the door, a slim serving girl answered, took one look at the subtle bits of finery that adorned his body, and ushered him inside. 
 
The owner of the shop was an older man who had the heavily muscled arms and torso of a lifelong blacksmith with the worn, leather skin to match. He wore a black velvet coat embroidered with silver hammers on the sleeves and a large sapphire hanging from a heavy silver chain around his neck. He squinted at Jon and snorted dismissively, “So, another young man with a bit of coin and too much confidence has come to the master armorer, Tobho Mott? Let me guess, you want some fancy, gleaming sword of gold and emeralds?”
 
Jon did not react to the scorn, he was used to people doubting and judging him on the most superficial of reasons, so instead he just shrugged, “Well, I was hoping to get a sword made, two actually; they’d be exotic swords, not standard Westerosi weaponry, but they don’t need them to be fancy, just sturdy and reliable. But if you are unable to fulfill such a request, I am happy to go elsewhere.”
 
He turned to leave, only for the man to, predictably, snort again and call him back, “If you want something sturdy and reliable, I’m the best there is; you’ll find no better than what is made at my shop and if you find somewhere that claims to than you’ve found yourself a den of liars and cheats.”
 
Mott then turned and called over his shoulder, “Gendry! Gendry, get out of here!”
 
A young man, Jon’s age or maybe a little younger, emerged from the depths of the shop, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
 
“Mind your mouth, Gendry, and take this customer’s order. I have more important matters to see too,” Mott huffed before disappearing through a doorway.
 
“Yes Ser,” the boy, Gendry, grumbled before turning to Jon. “What do you- Is everything alright, m’lord?”
 
Jon forced himself to unfreeze, blinking his eyes hard a few times and giving his head a quick shake. “Aye, I’m fine. Apologies, you look...similar someone I know; it caught me off guard.”
 
‘Similar’ was putting it mildly; the young smith looked exactly like Lord Renly. ‘No,’ Jon realized, allowing his dark eyes to scan the boy’s face, ‘not exactly alike. He has a stronger jaw and thicker eyebrows, he’s more muscular too.’ 
 
“You know? You’re actually the second person to say along those lines, m’lord. I suppose I just have one of those faces,” Gendry shrugged. “Now, what can I help you with?”
 
“Oh, yes,” Jon gave himself one final shake. “I was hoping to get two swords made in the same style; one for myself and one for someone else. I’ve never seen this style of blade in Westeros before; they’re lightweight with a slender blade and-”
 
He trailed off then as he watched Gendry grab a scrap of parchment and piece of charcoal, quickly sketching something. When he finished, the young smith pushed it towards Jon, “Is this what you're talking about?”
 
“Yes, you must have a good mind for details.”
 
“That is a Braavosi blade designed for waterdancing, m’lord; they don’t show up much in Westeros, you’re right about that, but some Dornish like them. We can make them, m’lord, and we can even start right away, just have to get your measurements,” Gendry explained, seeming proud of his own knowledge.
 
Jon smiled, “Wonderful, let’s get started.”
 
The young smith grabbed a measuring tape and had Jon stand still while he got to work. “You’ll have to bring the person the second sword is made for here so we can get their measurements too, don’t want to make it too small. Can you do that soon?”
 
“Aye, in a few days at the most,” Jon answered before an amusing thought caused a broad smile to stretch across his face. “Though you shouldn’t worry about making the sword too small, quite the opposite actually; she’s awfully short.”
 
Gendry paused to look up a Jon, brow furrowed, “She?”
 
“My sister, that is who the sword is for.” He carefully studied the young smith’s face, “Is that a problem?” 
 
For a moment, the apprentice seemed lost in deep thought, but eventually, he just shrugged, “It’s not to judge such things, m’lord; I’m just a smith after all.”
 
‘Oh, I like you,’ Jon grinned. “That is not a bad thing to be, and I’m not a lord. Just call me Jon, please.”
 
Surprise flickered across Gendry’s face; he scanned Jon’s face, probably looking for any traces or mockery and when he found none, he gave a smile of his own, a dimple on his cheek. “Well then, it's nice to meet you, Jon.”
 

His apartment showed signs of tampering: the furniture he’d move to hide the peepholes was returned to their original positions, the clothes in his dresser drawers had been gone through, as had his desk, and Jon was pretty sure his someone to read his journal. Or tried too, at least, he wasn’t stupid enough to write in Common Tounge.
 
That being said, the attempted spying was getting on his fucking nerves.
 
“I change my mind,” he told Ghost as he re-covered the peepholes, “next time someone comes in here and tries to mess with my things you can bite them, just so long as there is no blood.”
 
Ghost yawned as a response, flashing his rows of knife-like teeth to Jon. “Right, good to know we agree. Now, how do you feel about a walk in the Godswood?”
 

 
The godswood at the Red Keep was an acre of elm, alder, and black cottonwood that overlooked the Blackwater Rush and, like most, had its own heart tree. But, unlike the older godswoods, the Red Keep's heart tree was a great oak covered in smokeberry vines with a thick carpet of red dragon's breath growing around its base. The brush was inhabited by small game, mostly squirrels, rabbits, and both birds and various Galliformes that had apparently escaped the coops to make a home for themselves among the trees- which Ghost took great delight in tormenting. 
 
Jon chuckled from his position on a wooden bench as he watched the giant white-furred direwolf tear after a terrified pheasant, leaves, and twigs crunching under Ghost’s massive paws and catching in his coat as he chased the fowl through the bushes. 
 
“I suppose all that white fur proves to be a hindrance when hunting somewhere that isn’t covered in snow.”
 
He glanced up to see Ser Jaime approaching, armor gleaming in the afternoon light. Jon gave the older man a smile and slid over to make room on the bench, “It’s true, Ghost is built for a colder environment; on a snowy day, you’d never be able to see him coming. Don’t be fooled though, he just playing now; if he was actually hunting, you’d hear nothing.”
 
“He’s a magnificent beast,” the knight commented as he settled on the bench, “and fierce too, I imagine. A good thing to have by your side in battle.”
 
Jon nodded, “Aye, as good as any sword. Speaking of that, I wanted to thank you for lending me find that tourney sword for the melee.”
 
Ser Jaime waved him off, “Think nothing of it, watching your performance was thanks enough. You’re truly gifted with a sword, you know? Though I suppose it's no surprise, given who you’re uncle is.”
 
“Yes, I’ve heard that Uncle Brandon was quite the warrior.”
 
“Him? Oh, he was talented, certainly, but that was not who I was referring to.”
 
Jon’s brow furrowed, “Uncle Benjen?”
 
The golden knight shook his head, a small smirk playing on his lips, and Jon’s confusion only grew, ‘I know Rhaegar had, or perhaps still has a younger brother; I really should look into if he and his sister are still alive. But he was just a child when Ser Jaime knew him so why-’
 
His thoughts were interrupted when the older man laughed and slapped his shoulder, “Come now, there is no need to coy with me. I’m sure Stark told you to lie about it, but I’d know that skill anyway; your uncle is, or rather was, Arthur Dayne, the great Sword of the Morning, and the older brother of the lovely Lady Ashara Dayne.”
 
Relieved, if still somewhat confused, Jon gave a shaky smile, “I...can't speak much on the subject of the Daynes, Ser, as my father never wanted them spoken of at Winterfell, but I’ll take your word on the matter.”
 
Ser Jaime gave a snort, “Stark probably didn’t want to risk you running off to live with them in Dorne...though, you did still end up running off so, how’d that plan go? Still, you should go visit Starfall at some point.”
 
“It’d nice and warm, I imagine,” Jon hummed in agreement, tilting his head back to savor the warm rays of afternoon sunlight as a chill began to nip at his fingers and nose. “I doubt I’ll have the chance however, my companion and I will be heading out sooner rather than later. Thank you for the suggestion though.”
 
“Again with the gratitudes, you do that too much,” the knight mused. “If you really want to thank me then you’ll convince Tommen to take his marital training more seriously. The boy is timid and soft, he’s made almost no progress since he’s started and it doesn’t seem like he has any desire too. He admires you though and will probably listen to you if you talk to him about why his training is important.”
 
A stab of fondness for the younger prince hit square in the heart and spread warmth throughout his body. “A man’s worth shouldn’t be defined purely by how well he can swing a sword around...but you’re right, Tommen should know how to defend himself should the need ever arise, especially against… Wait, what about Prince Joffrey?”
 
The older man made a face like he was smelling something rancid, “I...wouldn’t worry much about him. We have a deal then?”
 
Ser Jaime gave him a smile again, that cocky, playful one, and held out a hand, which Jon took with a smile, “Deal.”
 
The older man stood then, “Well, I’ve got to be going then; my sister will be looking for me and I don’t want to keep her waiting. Oh, and, before you go anywhere, my father wants to speak with you.”
 
“What?” Jon all but yelped, eyes going wide, “Why?”

 
The Great Lion of Casterly Rock approached him slowly, undoubtedly confident Jon wasn’t going to go anywhere. He was right, of course, the young Dragonborn had full intention of remaining firmly in place until he learned what the Old Lion wanted, even as his fingers itched for the dagger on his belt. So, instead of unsheathing Frostbite and plunging it into the Lannister’s heart, Jon rose to his feet and gave a bow of the exactly appropriate depth, “Lord Tywin, you son said you wished to speak with me.”
 
The old lord was close enough now that Jon could see the green of his eyes; eyes which were fixed firmly to Jon’s left, where Ghost had silently emerged from the brush to stand beside him. The direwolf tilted his massive head to the side as he studied the old Lannister lord back with his blood-red gaze; Jon settled a hand on the back of Ghost’s neck, a smile tugging at his lips before turning back to the Old Lion and guesting to the bench, “Would you care to sit, my lord?”
 
The man adjusted his grip on his carved lion’s head walking stick and shook his head, “No, this shouldn’t take too long. I wanted to congratulate you on your victory at the melee, it was quite...impressive. As are your winnings, I do hope you’re a smart enough young man to handle that money wisely and not waste it like so many would-be tempted too.”
 
‘This again?’ Jon internally sighed. “I’ve made plans for it, yes; none of it will be coming with me back to Skyrim.”
 
Lord Tywin cocked an eyebrow, “Really, you won’t be keeping any of it for yourself?”
 
Jon shrugged, “No, I don’t need it, and besides, I didn’t enter the tournament because I wanted the money.”
 
The Warden of the West stepped closer, cutting a dark silhouette about the setting sun, “And what is it that you do want, Jon Whitewolf?”
 
Jon started to respond before… That question was more difficult to answer than it should be. What did he want? Well, right now he wanted out of his conversation but more predominantly he wanted revenge for the brutal murders of his older siblings and their mother but he also wanted to protect his family, the blood relatives he had here in Westeros and the family of his heart back in Skyrim. He wanted Serana to write back to him and say she wasn’t angry, that she understood. Part of him also wanted to eventually meet what remained of his Targaryen family, should any still live.
 
He wanted to go back to Skyrim, wanted it badly, and wanted to keep it safe for those who had already lost too much and those who were still so innocent. He wanted to rid the Tamriel of the Thalmor, for the good of all men, mir, and beastfolk. Then, once some level of peace had been achieved, Jon wanted to hone his legacy; he wanted his legacy to be remembered for generations to come and not just as the Legendary Dragonborn, Slayer of Alduin, or the Black Legate of the Imperial Army or the Harbinger of the Companions or a Nightingale or the Head of the Thieves Guild, but as Jon Whitewolf. He wanted to expand his businesses and set up new ones that he could pass down to his children.
 
Children.
 
Aye, he wanted children. He wanted sons and daughters to care for and love and pass on all he learned to. He wanted to marry a woman who was strong of mind and body and spirit. He wanted…
 
“A family,” Jon answered. “I suppose I want a family of my own.”
 
Lord Tywin gave a nodded, “A common enough desire. You want children then?”
 
Jon gave a huff of laughter, “Aye, I’d like a small army of children; three of each, preferably. Growing up with so many siblings, I can’t imagine it any other way.”
 
“Nor could I,” the Old Lion admitted. “Do you have any children yet?”
 
Anger rushed over Jon and he gritted his teeth against the urge to lash out at the very insinuation he’d ever father a bastard. He always swore that would never do such a thing! He and his partners were always careful to avoid such a situation. “No,” he growled out in as pleasant as a voice as possible. “I’m not married yet. However, I suppose you could say I’ve fostered the children of friends before. Skyrim was, until quite recently, a dangerous place to live, especially for those who didn’t live in one of the walled cities.”
 
So some of my friends would ask if their children could live in one of my homes for their own safety; I always agreed, of course, and, even if my duties kept me from actually being there to physically care for them, I always made sure they were safe and set them up with schooling or an apprenticeship or employment that would suit them.”
 
It was true, Jon had temporarily taken in the children and younger siblings of many of the friends he’d made in Skyrim, often for their own safety. After things had calmed down across the country most returned to their homes and families, but not all. He gave a warm smile when he thought of tough little Erith, whose mother, Daighre, had sent alongside the girl’s beloved dog, Torom, to live with Jon at Proudspire Manor after a close call with some Forsaken at Left Hand Mine. 
 
The perceived abandonment nearly wrecked the little girl, but Jon managed to get Erith to agree to attend lessons at the nicest schoolhouse in Solitude. There it was discovered that she had quite the head for sums and now, three years later, Erith was seven-and-ten and still living in the city with a nice ground-floor apartment of her own that had plenty of room Torom, a well-paying bookkeeping job at the East Empire Company, engaged to a wealthy banker, and only a few paydays away from being able to afford to bring Daighre up from the Reach.
 
Jon felt a little bit of pride in all that.
 
Then there was the four children of his friend, Ysabelle Lexal; a captivating Imperial trader in her thirties who operated under somewhat...flexible legality. They met through dealings with the Thieves Guild and grew close, not only as business partners but also as friends and occasional lovers. Ysabelle had once described herself as an ‘admirer of great beauty’ and took partners wherever she event and, while she always took preventative measures, the woman now how four children with the oldest, Odvane, being two-and-ten and the youngest, Netlie, being only two. For the past year, the four children had been staying at his house in Hjaalmarch, Windstad Manor, after their mother decided it was no longer safe for them to travel on her ship during her runs. Jon was rarely able to give them as much time as he’d like, but he made sure they were protected and hired a tutor for them as well as spoiling them with toys so that they could live in as much comfort as possible. 
 
“Well,” Lord Tywin interrupted Jon’s thoughts, “logic stands that if you want to start growing your family, you’ll need a wife. It is honestly quite surprising that a handsome, wealthy young man such as yourself doesn’t already have on. But perhaps it is for the best.”
 
Jon gave the older man an odd look, “And what do you mean by that, my lord?”
 
“My niece, Joy Hill, is on the cusp of turning five-and-ten and now of appropriate marrying age. Her father, my younger brother, Gerion, is dead, so it falls to me to find her an appropriate match. I’d planned on wedding her to a younger son of one of my minor lords or perhaps a high ranking guard at Casterly Rock, but I believe you’d be an suitable match.”
 
On the list of possible topics that crossed Jon’s mind when Ser Jaime had told him that Lord Tywin wished to speak with him, this was honestly not even on the list. “Oh...well, I’m flattered and...surprised by the offer, Lord Tywim, but I’m not sure the match would-”
 
“Is it her baseborn status that deters you?” There was, interestingly enough, not even a hint of mocking in Lord Tywin’s voice -though there was a touch of what Jon thought might be surprise- and instead, his voice was calm, business-like even. “I assure you that her dowry is generous. She is quite beautiful and would make a good wife; I’ve ensured that she has been well-educated and knows how to run a household.”
 
“No, no,” Jon shook his head. “That isn’t the issue, I swear. It is just that… well, she is still fairly young.”
 
“Not so much so,” the Warden of the West countered, “plenty of girls her age have already been married off. But, I suppose, a betrothal could be put in place now and the actual marriage can occur at a later date. A year or two would likely give her beauty a chance to ripen.”
 
Jon fought the urge to cringe at such a comment. “Actually, I am already engaged!”
 
A brief scowl flashed across Lord Tywin’s face, “To whom?”
 
‘Serana is going to kill me for this,’ Jon groaned internally. “Lady Serana of House Volkihar in Skyrim; we’ve been friends for quite some time now and recently decided to marry. My trip back to Westeros pushed back the wedding somewhat, but once I return it will become my great priority.”
 
There was then a short lapse of silence while the Lord of Casterly Rock study Jon carefully and with a clear measure of doubt. The man didn’t believe him. “Well, then it is a shame you didn’t bring your lovely lady with you.”
 
Jon forced a smile, “Aye, my father said the same thing.”
 
Lord Tywin gave a huff of what might have been amusement, if the man what capable of feeling such a thing. “Ah, the honorable Lord Stark. A man who manages to be loved by most and yet still manages to be an efficient leader… My own father could have done to be more like him.”
 
The words were said more to himself than Jon, but the young Dovahkiin couldn’t help but respond. “Your father, my lord?”
 
The corner of Lord Tywin’s mouth gave the slightest twitch, “Tytos Lannister. He was a kind man, loving and as good of a father as he could be, but a poor lord. He worried more about being liked by those around him than ensuring they respected him.”
 
“It is not a bad thing to be liked by your subjects,” Jon commented, only to be met with a sneer.
 
“The favor of others will only last until they get a chance to benefit from betraying you,’ the Old Lion retorted curtly. “It is always better for those under you to know what could befall them should they forget where their loyalties should lie.”
 
In a bid to keep the debate from getting too heated, Jon gave a shrug, “There should be a balance, I feel. After all, ruling through fear works well...up until one falters, even for the briefest moment. The enemies and rivals and those slighted will descend like sharks who smell blood in the water. But if you’ve made your subjects love you or, better yet, make them feel like they need you, than they’ll be more willing to stand with you in times of weakness.”
 
Lord Tywin gave Jon a long, calculating look, “I suppose that is one way to see things..”

 
“What has you so amused?”
 
Ned Stark was not a man prone to great bouts of joyous laughter, tending to keep most emotions close to the chest, so it was unusual to see him openly chuckling at something. The man gave a small, amused smile and leaned in closer, “Lord Renly, he just showed a locket with a painting of Lady Margaery Tyrell.”
 
“What is so comical about that?”
 
Another chuckle, “He asked me if she resembled Lyanna; apparently, others stated that there is a similarity between the two in appearance?”
 
“Is there?” If so than Jon would be interested in seeing the portrait as he’d never seen a painting of his mother and the only reference available was her statue in the crypts. 
 
But, alas, his uncle shook his head, “No, not truly; they both have dark hair, but that is where any similarities end. Still, I find it humorous that Renly is enamored with a girl he thinks looks like Lyanna when he could be a twin to Robert when he was younger.”
 
‘Huh, I guess Lord Renly likes both then too.’ Jon paused then, thinking back the blacksmith’s apprentice, Gendry, and how strongly he resembled the Lord of Storm’s End. Yet, he couldn’t possibly be the smith’s father as Jon and Gendry were close in age while Lord Renly wasn’t even a decade older. So that meant… “Do they really resemble each other that greatly? I mean, do they share dimples?”
 
Uncle Ned gave him an odd look, “That is an..oddly specific question, but yes, I suppose they do. Robert’s are hard to see because of his beard, but he does have them. Why?”
 
Jon forced a nonchalant shrug, “Just curious; I’ve noticed that such features tend to run in family and wanted to see if that held true among the Baratheons.”
 
His uncle didn’t seem entirely convinced but chose not to pursue the matter, instead just settling back into his armchair and returning to his attention to the joust. Jon mirrored the action but let his thoughts return to Gendry. It did not surprise him that King Robert had a bastard -most noblemen did, after all- and considering the...habits of the king that Jon had so far observed, it would be astonishing if the man only had one. 
 
Jon felt a flash of worry for these potential children creep over him; he allowed himself to hope they lived in relative safety and comfort, Gendry certainly seemed content and well-cared for so it was possible…
 
“It’s quite chilly today,” Sansa commented, tugging her shawl closer as she fought a shiver. 
 
“I told you to dress warmer,” Uncle Ned gently scowled, even as he beckoned for a servant to bring a blanket. 
 
The weather today was only just good enough for the joust to take place. Dark gray storm clouds hung low and heavy in the sky, threatening to burst at any moment. There was also a steady breeze of cold air across the tourney field, chilling bodies and spirits alike. The smallfolk’s stands were emptier today, but those who remained pressed closer together to fend off the chill. In the King’s Box, large stone braziers had been lite to provide some warmth and servants brought out hot drinks; if one took the precaution of wearing thick clothes, it was almost cozy. 
 
Needless to say, Sansa -who’d decided to ignore her father’s advice- and was quite miserable in her silk gown of lavender and gold with only a light shawl for warmth. This was in contrast to Arya, whose royal blue velvet dress and woolen rabbit’s fur-lined shawl left her warm enough to fixate her entire attention on the joust taking place. 
 
Jory had been doing quite well, only recently losing to Lorthor Brune after three consecutive tilts. Any members of the Kingsguard were also competing; Ser Meryn Trant -who Jon found to be deeply unpleasant if a decent fighter- and Ser Balon Swann -who’d Jon actually manage to get along quite well within the few conversations they’d shared- had managed to defeat Harwin, son of Winterfell’s stablemaster, and Alyn, one of Uncle Ned’s guardsmen respectively. There was Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan too, both of whom fell many riders. Thoros of Myr made a reappearance, even beating his friend, Lord Beric Dondarrion. Lord Renly even road...once. He was swiftly unseated by the Hound. His evident lack of skills made it even more surprising that his former squire, Ser Loras, was doing so well. 
 
The comely young knight defeated rider after rider, felling Robar Royce, Meryn Trant, and two more members of the Kingsguard after that. This was all to Sansa great delight because, after every win, Ser Loras presented her with a single white rose until a small pile had gathered in her lap. Jon watched as she ran her fingers over the delicate petals of her newest flower as she beamed at Ser Loras, thoughts of being crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty undoubtedly dancing in her head. She would not be a bad choice, the pretty young daughter of a High Lord who wasn’t betrothed -officially, at least- to anyone that might take offense. Still, Jon couldn’t help but feel a touch of bemusement over the whole situation; if the looks that the comely young knight kept sending Lord Renly’s way were any indication, it wasn’t Sansa who was on Ser Loras’ mind. 
 
Yes, they had finally made it to the semi-finals with the Hound unseating Ser Jaime for a spot in the finals. This left only two matches between Ser Loras and victory; the young knight had a good shot at winning, even if there was one final obstacle in his path; a very large, very vicious obstacle. 
 
Jon’s fingernails dug into his callous palm, deep enough to nearly draw blood, as his eyes fixed hard on the massive frame of Gregor Clegane. The Mountain That Rides’ pure strength allowed him to all but plow through his opponents; unhorsing not only Ser Balon but also nearly killing Lord Arryn’s former squire, Hugh of the Vale. The newly-knighted young man would survive the lance that sliced through the muscle of where his shoulder met his neck, but only just and he would likely he’d have mobility trouble with that arm for a long time to come. The sight of the blood that sprayed from Ser Hugh’s neck has sent both Myrcella and Tommen into near hysterics, causing them to be ushered away by their septa while Joffrey sneered at their tears. 
 
“Try to relax,” Enzo whispered, wrapping a large hand around on of Jon’s wrists and rubbing a thumb across the back of his hand so Jon would stop clenching his fist. “I know you hate that man, but take this opportunity to learn how he moves and how he fights.”
 
As he watched Ser Loras and the Mountain prepare to ride against one another and forced himself to release the breathe he’d been holding through gritted teeth. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work the tension built up there; unclenching his fists he gave Enzo a small smiled and lightly bumped his forehead against the man’s shoulder in thanks. 
 
“The Mountain’s horse is acting weird,” Arya commented, knocking Jon out of his headspace. He glanced to the horse and found his sister was right, the creature was fidgeting and seemed distracted by something. 
 
“One hundred gold dragons on the Mountain!” Littlefinger called, sounding as giddy as a child on his nameday. 
 
“I'll take that bet,” Lord Renly piped up, a bruise already forming on his left cheekbone from where he’d landed after being knocked off his horse earlier in the day. 
 
Baelish gave a snort, “Now what will I buy with one hundred gold dragons? Perhaps a dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or maybe a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?”
 
“Or you could even buy a friend, someone to spend time with you willing,” Lord Renly sneered.
 
The trumpet sounded and both men kicked their horses forward, thundering towards one another while the crowd watched with bated breath. Sansa grabbed her father's arm, “Don't let Ser Gregor hurt him, Father!”
 
“He’ll be alright, Sansa,” Uncle Ned patted her hand comfortingly, even if he didn’t sound all the sure himself. “Ser Loras rides very well.”
 
“This is going to be bloody,” Arya commented. 
 
Sansa whimpered, covering her face with her hands, “Oh, I can't watch this!"
 
Like thundering cracking across the sky, Ser Loras' lance met and then broke upon Claegane's shield, splintering into what could have been a thousand pieces. Time seemed to stand still, but with a massive roar, the Mountain That Rides was knocked down from his horse and to the ground, landing with a thud that Jon could have sworn echoed across the tourney field. 
 
There was a moment of collected stillness in the spectators before everyone burst into a fury of cheers and applause. Lord Renly jumped to his feet, laughing and clapping with joy written clear on his face. The Lord of Storm’s End didn’t even bother disguising his smugness when he turned the Master of Coin. “Such a shame, Littlefinger! It would have been so nice for you to have a friend!”
 
“And tell me, Lord Renly, when will you be having your friend?” Baelish replied with a smarmy grin, gesturing to Ser Loras. 
 
Jon may not have had any fond feelings towards the Master of Coin but he admittedly did have to smother a snort of amusement at that comment, much to the confusion of Arya. 
 
Baelish, satisfied he’d won his own little verbal joust, returned to his seat and leaned forward to speak to Uncle Ned, “Ser Loras knew his mare was in heat. Quite crafty, really; it threw off his opponents’ horses, hard to steer a stallion who has something else on its mind. 
 
Uncle Ned didn’t reply but Sansa was quick to defend the knight; frowning, she turned to face her mother’s old friend, “ Ser Loras would never do that! There's no honor in tricks.”
 
With a patient smile, like one would wear while attempting to teach a confused child, Baelish gave a nod, “No honor, perhaps, but quite a bit of gold.”
 
“And a far better chance at victory,” Jon was forced to agree, to which Enzo nodded. 
 
Uncle Ned cast a disapproving glance his way, “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t a dishonest act, even if it wasn’t technically cheating it still-”
 
“What’s the Mountain doing?” Arya piped up, brow furrowed in confusion.
 
Clegane had drug himself up, mud dripping from his armor, and stormed to his squire, who looked like a cowering child in the face of his master’s fury. The Mountain ripped his helmet off, throwing it to the ground, and grabbed his sword, a blade easily as long as some women were tall, and with one fierce stroke, severed his horse's head. Blood and gore sprayed the ground and painted the front of the Mountain's face dark red. There were shrieks and cries from the audience, but it mostly it was just stunned horrified silence. 
 
It wasn’t over yet though. Clegane rushed Ser Loras, scaring his horse into rearing up and throwing its ride. The Mountain’s furious attention was fixed firmly on the young knight who was now lying prone and still on the ground and charged at him, bloody sword still tight in hand.
 
“He’s mad!” Jon was on his feet before he could even think to do anything else. He leapt from the King’s Box and into the ring, racing forward he just to grab ahold of Ser Loras by the stupidly elaborate breastplate of his arm and all but tackle him out of the way of the Mountain’s sword. 
 
In many ways, the Mountain was like a bull -faster than you’d expect but not especially good at changing directions when a full charge, especially once enraged. A furious bellow tore from the horrid beast when he noticed his prey had escaped. That didn’t discourage the man though; he started straight for Ser Loras once again, only this time he had Jon in his sights too.
 
The mud made both easier and harder to tug Ser Loras out of the way of their attacker, easier in that the deadweight of his body and armor wasn’t as difficult to move but harder in that Jon knew he could only do it so many times before he stumbled or misstepped or just plain made a mistake. ‘I could just kill him now...’
 
“Leave them be!”
 
Jon hadn’t noticed it, but the Hound had followed him with Enzo close behind; the Hound wasn’t as large as his brother, but he was quicker and more agile. He got in front of Jon and Ser Loras, clashing his sword into the Mountain’s, “LEAVE THEM FUCKING BE, I SAID!”
 
Enzo was on the Mountain quickly, a look of coldness on his face that Jon has seen many times before. He was out for blood. The giant Redguard wrapped an arm around the Mountain’s neck, getting into a chokehold, and then pulled his dagger, reaching around to hold it to one of the brute’s eyes. “I wonder,” Enzo hissed, “do you feel so brave facing someone your own size?”
 
The Mountain roared once more and started to thrash, causing the Hound to push in harder with his sword and Enzo to tighten his grip. Jon’s eyes met his friend’s and there was a question there, one Jon answered with the slightest shake of his head. ‘No, he’s mine.’
 
“THAT’S ENOUGH! Stop this madness in the name of your King!” The voice of the King bellowed across the tourney field, strong and clear. Jon’s eyes flicked to him and, for a moment, he didn’t see the fat and lascivious man whose company he’d been sharing for over two months now but rather the confident and powerful man who overthrew a dynasty. So powerful it was, that the Hound immediately stepped back and drop to his knee in a bow, a wild swing of his brother’s sword arching just above his head. Enzo had released his grip on the Mountain as well, though with far more hesitation and he did not bow. The brute’s sweaty red face, twisted with anger, turned to Jon and Ser Loras, Enzo, King Robert, and then finally to his brother before whatever intelligence he possessed told him not to press this further. He threw his sword to the ground and stormed off, cursing and growling blood-thirsty threats all the way. 
 
Enzo watched him go before turning to Jon, ignoring the commotion coming from the stands, and started to help him get Ser Loras to his feet; pulling off the man’s helmet -revealing hair that was still somehow looked perfect, which was a bit annoying- and patting the young knight on the cheek to bring him around. 
 
“What happened?” Ser Loras muttered, blinking hard as he stared confused at Jon, Enzo, and the Hound.
 
“A mountain almost fell on you,” Enzo said in his usual curtly ambiguous matter while, at the same time, the Hound growled, “You almost got yourself killed with that fucking stunt of yours. If not for the little wolf boy here, then you’d be nothing more than a bloody pile of meat in pretty armor.”
 
“Oh,” Ser Loras said, voice still somewhat slurred. Still, he turned to Jon and gave him a smile, “Thank you, Jon, you saved me”
 
Jon returned the smile but gave a shrug, “Think nothing of it, you should really be thanking the Hound; he stopped the both of us from being carved up like a turkey. Though, if you’re feeling in a generous mood, I wouldn’t mind something to replace these clothes.”
 
He jokingly gestured to his now mud-covered outfit, causing the other young man to laugh before turning to the Hound and Enzo, “I must thank you too, Ser Enzo, and as well, Ser Hound. I owe you my life and if there any way I can ever repay that debt than please let me know.”
 
Enzo gave a small nod of acknowledgment but the Hound just grunted, “Don’t call me Ser; I am no knight.”
 
“Be that as it may-” Loras grabbed the Hound’s left hand and raised it into the air causing a wall of cheers as the remain spectators to rose to their feet to applaud the scarred man’s actions. When a look of confusion flashed across the man’s face, Jon realized as Enzo began to pull him out of sight from the crowds that this was likely the first time he’d ever experienced such a thing.
 
It was a sad thought.
 
“Jon!”
 
Something collided into him with such force that Jon almost doubled over, stopped only by Enzo grabbing his shoulders to steady him. He glanced to see Arya had wrapped her arms tight around his middle and buried her face in his chest, uncaring about the mud that was now smeared over her dress. “Don’t do that again, you giant ass,” she commanded wetly as she squeezed him even tighter.
 
“Sorry, Little Sister; I didn’t mean to worry you,” Jon hummed in as comforting a voice as possible, rubbing her back. Arya, tough as she acted, was still just a young girl and sometimes he forgot that.
 
“Well, you did.” Uncle Ned had joined the small group, face wrought with concern but with a wolf’s anger burning in his eyes. Sansa was by his side, eyes wide like she’d just seen a ghost. Lord Renly had come down from the King’s Box as well, shooting straight towards his former squire. “You need to start thinking before you act, Jon.”
 
Jon frowned, “I will never apologize for helping someone who needs it, Father, and besides, would you have done any different? The Mountain-”
 
“He was just horrid, Father!” Sansa exclaimed, face pale against her auburn hair and voice full of dismay. “How could a knight be so awful?”
 
“Knights are men, Sansa; no more and no less,” Jon explained gently, still working to sooth Arya. Sansa looked uneasy at his words but said nothing, only looking towards Ser Loras and the Hound with disconcertment. 
 
“That is no man,” Enzo growled. “That is a mad beast, one who needs to be put down.”
 
Uncle Ned said nothing, only clenched his jaw tighter and glaring toward the Lannister’s box. After what seemed like forever, Arya finally released Jon and stepped back, giving him a careful once over with her damp, red eyes. Jon hoped this meant he’d finally be able to slip away and calm down after his encounter with the Mountain. But it was not to be...
 
Lord Renly all but shoved past Uncle Ned to get to Jon; without saying a word, the dark-haired lord grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he breathed softly. “Thank you.”
 
He released Jon from the embrace, stepping back to look him in the face while still maintaining a tight grip on his shoulder. “You must join Loras and I for a drink! Two hours from now? In the sunroom?”
 
The sudden invitation surprised Jon, “Oh…”
 
“That sounds like a good idea,” Enzo said, voice as calm and smooth as ever. “I have...business to attend to before the feast tonight.” 
 
Jon understood the unspoken message of his friend’s words and glanced at Uncle Ned, who just gave a small, sharp nod. He turned to Lord Renly and smiled, “Alright, I would be honored to join you both. I just have to get cleaned up.”
 
With another smile and a slap the shoulder, the King’s brother left, presumably to head back up to the Red Keep. Soon after the sky finally burst open, spilling a carpet of fat, heavy raindrops and causing everyone, high-born and low-born alike, to scatter, leaving the tourney grounds empty and quiet. 

 
“Are all tourneys so eventful?” Jon asked, reclining in one of the padded lounge chairs that decorated the Red Keep’s sunroom. Not that there was much sun to be found that afternoon, but with the heat emanating from the large stone braziers, thick woven blankets spread, a few glasses of mulled wine, and a delightful assortment of bread, cheeses, meats, sliced fruits, and little cakes made even the gray skies and falling rain pounding against the glass of the sunroom’s ceiling and walls seem cozy. 
 
Ser Loras gave a laugh, “No, not usually. I mean, whenever you’ve got large crowds and abundant booze in one place things are bound to get a little wild but I bet this one will stick out in people’s minds for a while. Why, I’ll even dare to say that this has been the wildest tourney since the one at Harren-”
 
Lord Renly let out a loud, obviously fake, cough that cut off the young knight, who looked confused for a moment before going wide-eyed when he realized who he was talking to. “Oh...sorry, that was inappropriate of me to say.”
 
Jon gave a sad smile, “Where either of you there, at the tourney, when…”
 
“Not me,” Ser Loras shook his head. “I was too young, mother would have never let me travel that distance.”
 
“I was there,” Lord Renly mused, “with both of my brothers. I remember how grand and exciting it all seemed, but then how angry Robert was. I didn’t understand much of what was going on, of course; I was young too, only seven years old. Still, the happy moments I had at the tourney were some of the last I had before the war, before everything seemed to change.”
 
They lapped into silence then, just listening to the rain hitting the glass, before Lord Renly took another swallow of wine and perked back up. With a smile, he reached over to pat Ser Loras’ hand before giving it a squeeze, “Thankfully, though, I lived to have more happy moments.”
 
“You two have been close for a long then?” Jon asked, tilting his goblet to swirl the deep red wine as he allowed the men to consider the obvious double-meaning of his question. 
 
“Loras was my squire,” Lord Renly explained, eyes hard with his jaw set in a matter that just dared Jon to comment, “but then he became my...friend.”
 
Jon gave an unconcerned shrug, “It is good to have...friends; I have plenty of...friends, both men and women, back in Skyrim.”
 
Ser Loras looked to Jon in shook, perhaps amazed he’d admit such a thing; his golden-brown eyes scanning Jon’s face, almost certainly looking for signs of mockery. “And you’ve never faced scorn for...having such friends.”
 
Another shrug, “Some, people will always be asses, but Nords are, by in large, a practical lot and generally unconcerned about such things. The only time it becomes an issue if a family only has one child to carry on the family name and they have no desire to do so, but other than that…”
 
Another moment of silence, this one slightly more awkward for Jon as Ser Loras and Lord Renly seemed to be having an entire conversation with just a series of silent glances. This one was interrupted when the young knight changed the subject. “Jon, I was wondering if perhaps your...mother was related to my house?”
 
“I’m sorry, what?” Jon asked, choking on a swallow of wine at the unexpected question. “What could have possibly made you think that?”
 
A red flush dusted the young knight’s face, “The tattoo on your hand, its a rose. I thought that maybe it was a memento of your mother.”
 
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Jon corrected. “I never met my mother; this is just a reminder of one of my past adventures.”
 
“What kind of adventure?” 
 
“Well,” Jon said, glancing down at the rose that encircled his wrist, “it was certainly a night to remember.”
 

 
“I have done some investigating and found out something interesting about Clegane; would you like to hear it?” Enzo’s voice was quiet, but there was a hint of smugness in it that made it clear he was proud of something. 
 
Jon's eyes flickered around, scanning the crowd of partier to make sure no one was trying to listen in, before nodding his head to a corner. “I would have thought that this wouldn’t be something we’d been discussing in the middle of a feast.”
 
“Oh, so you do not want to know then?” Enzo teased, which made Jon roll his eyes.
 
“You’re an ass.”
 
Enzo chuckled, “So, it turns out that the Mountainous Beast has quite the problem with headaches and self-treats them with some called Milk of the-”
 
“Milk of the Poppy,” Jon nodded. “It’s a medicine used in small doses to treat pain and in larger ones to render unconsciousness, though too large a dose can kill a man. Maester Luwin would give it to us whenever we had a fever, a sprained wrist, or the like; I remember that when I was eight, I got sick constantly and he worried about how much I was drinking as one can become dependant on it and too much can also make it hard for the body to fight infection.”
 
“Yes, well Clegane apparently drinks it like most men do ale and I was thinking that if you gained access to his supply and happened to...tamper with it then-”
 
“I can bring down the Mountain from the inside without anyone suspecting anything; people will just think that his body just couldn’t take any more of the drug,” Jon finished. “Not a bad thought, though I’ll need a lot of poison for a job that size or, at least, a particularly potent one.”
 
The young Dragonborn thought for a moment, trying to remember what he’d brought from his alchemical stockpile. A certain blue bottle popped into his mind and a wild, wolfish grin flashed across his face, “Oh, have something in mind.”
 
Enzo matched the grin with one of his own, “Good, now I think your adoring public wants some attention.”
 
The giant Redguard nodded to a group of giggling young ladies who kept throwing glances Jon’s way in-between exchanging excited whispers. “Gods, why me?”
 
“Oh, you poor baby,” his friend mocked. “Now, go be the belle of the ball; I am going to go find some fun of my own.”
 
“No, wait! Enzo, don’t leave me alone with-” With not even a wave, the Ebony Warrior waltzed off to go amuse himself and left Jon to the mercy of partygoers. Jon risked another glance in the direction of the giggling gaggle of young ladies to see them all looking at him expectantly. He gave them a nod of acknowledgment before turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction.
 

 
“Tommen? What are you doing under there?”
 
The younger prince peered up at Jon from under a table, having been hidden from view by the tablecloth until Jon had dropped a spoon and noticed him when bending down to retrieve it. With a small pout on his face, the boy crawled out and plopped down in the chair next to him. “Joff was being mean again.”
 
“Ah, that makes sense,” Jon nodded. “What did he say?”
 
“That I was weak and useless, that someone was going to kill me one day and the realm would be better off because of it since no one wanted a useless prince,” the boy mumbled, green eyes downcast.
 
There was a rush a fiery heat and Jon was forced to bite back his any before responding. He tilted Tommen’s chin up to meet his eyes, “Your brother is a battle-hardened warrior then? Well, I certainly didn’t see him proving his skill out there on the tourney fields, did you?”
 
The boy perked up at Jon’s words “No. He spent the whole time sitting on his butt, didn’t he? But even if he did compete, you would have beaten him,” Tommen giggled, looking at the medal of victory King Robert had hung from Jon’s neck.
 
“You got that right,” Jon smiled, giving the boy’s hair a ruffle. “Still,” he added, remembering his talk with Ser Jaime, “your uncle tells me that you haven't been taking your martial training seriously. Do you want to explain that?”
 
The young prince frowned again, giving a shrug, “I just don’t want to hurt anybody.”
 
Jon felt a rush of warmth, “That is a very good thing, Tommen, and don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. But, eventually, there will be someone who wants to hurt you or someone you care about and I want you to be able to protect yourself. So, if only for my peace of mind, will you try a little harder in your lessons?”
 
There was a moment of hesitation, but the young prince gave Jon a quick, sharp nod, his little shoulders set with a newfound determination. “I’ll train harder than Joff ever has, I swear it!
 
“Good to hear it!” Jon gave the boy’s hair another ruffled, “Now-”
 
“Jon!” Arya skidded up to him. Spotting Tommen, she dropped into a brief, but graceful curtsy, “Good evening, Prince Tommen. Jon, come dance with me!”
 
“You want to dance? What is the world ending?” Jon teased. Arya rolled her eyes, grabbing Jon by the arm and started to drag him in the direction of the dance floor. 
 
“Alright, alright! I’m coming,” Jon chuckled, waving goodnight to Tommen and following his sister into the throng of dancers. Giving her a twirl, he cocked his eyebrow, “Now, what is this about?”
 
“Magic,” Arya said, dropping her voice low and serious. “I was talking to Mister Enzo and he suggested that I try my hand at Illusion Magic, said that it can make you invisible and really quiet.”
 
“Aye, that branch of magic is ideal for stealthy fighters.”
 
“So, can you teach me some?” Gods, his one true weakness! Ayra’s puppy eyes!
 
“I’ll try,” Jon agreed, somewhat reluctantly. “Just remember, magic is a secret between you, Enzo, and I. So don’t go practicing it in front of anyone.”
 
“I know, I know!”
 

 
“Jon!”
 
For what felt like the hundredth time that evening, Jon looked up to see who wanted his attention. This time it was Ser Loras, rarely not in the company of Lord Renly. “Ser Loras, what can I do for you?”
 
“I think you’ve earned the right to just call me Loras, Jon, and I was sent to get you by my grandmother; my family wants to meet you!” The young knight replied cheerfully, not really giving Jon a chance to decline as he was already directing him to a table covered by a green and gold tablecloth and occupied by four unfamiliar figures. 
 
“Jon, let me introduce you to my family; My father, Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden. My beloved mother, Lady Alerie Hightower. My wonderful grandmother, Lady Olenna Tyrell, and, of course, my sweet and lovely sister, Margaery.” Loras indicated to each member of his family as he introduced them before gesturing to Jon, “Everyone, this is Jon Whitewolf; the man who saved my life.”
 
Before Jon could say anything, Lady Alerie shot forward and wrapped him in a warm embrace. “You sweet boy, you saved my son! How can we ever repay you?”
 
Startled by the sudden show of physical affection, he could only stutter, “Think nothing of it, my lady; anyone would have done the same thing.”
 
The woman pulled back, her damp eyes tracing his face and she reached up to cup her face in one of her hand. She was a handsome woman, tall and dignified with long silver hair and a comforting demeanor; if her son was what a knight from Sansa’s song looked like, then Lady Alerie was what Jon had always imaged a wise queen should look like. She looked warm but intelligent, dignified but approachable. She looked like he always imagined a mother would. 
 
“Such a good boy you are,” she said, patting his cheek. “Such a good, kind boy; your parents must be so proud.”
 
“Well-”
 
“Alerie, dear, you’re embarrassing the poor lad,” Lord Tyrell boomed. He was a..big man, big and jovial; the kind of person who was unfailingly confident in themselves...even if their actual skill didn’t always back up that mindset. “Now, I’ve heard-”
 
“So you’re the one who wiped out our warehouse’s stores for the foreseeable future,” demanded the old woman, Lady Olenna. “I must say, I was expecting someone larger.” She was small and looked even smaller wrapped in heavy green clothing with white hard and gaunt, thin hands. That being said, her frail frame did nothing to disguise the cunning wit in her eyes and voice; the picking on the back of Jon’s neck told him that she was likely the most dangerous member of her family. 
 
Jon shifted slightly so he was standing slightly taller, “Sorry to disappoint you, my lady. But, yes, it was me. Is that an issue?”
 
The woman snorted, “No, not so long as your coin is good. What I can’t believe is that you’re just giving all that foodstuff away. What is it you want, boy? You’ve endeared yourself to the king, gained the admiration of the smallfolk, and saved my grandson, all for what? Do you want a title? Lands of your own? Is there some maiden that has your interest?”
 
“I want nothing, my lady,” Jon replied, face carefully blank. “I have all I need in life, anything the king offered me would be turned down.”
 
Lady Olenna scanned him with brutal intensity and, for a brief moment, Jon worried that she could read his mind. “I never trust a man who has no ambitions.”
 
“Then it is a good thing I never asked you to trust me, my lady,” Jon shot back.
 
His words, surprisingly, got a bark of laughter from the woman, “I like this one; he isn’t a simpering fool. Dance with him, Margaery; I want to see how he moves.”
 
“Grandmother,” the lovely Lady Margaery gasped, “you shouldn’t go putting Ser Jon on the spot like that.”
 
Lady Margaery was as beautiful as Jon had heard. Long, curling brunette hair framed a beautiful face that was not unlike her brother’s with big golden-brown eyes that somehow seemed sweet yet sly at the same time. But she did not look Lyanna Stark and he found that somewhat saddening. Still...
 
“I admit to not being much of a dance, especially in front of a large crowd, but for a lady as glorious as you, Lady Margaery, I’d put aside my inhibitions. So, if you’ll have me, would you care to dance?”
 
Jon held out his hand and, with a small, surprised smile, Lady Margaery took it.
 

 
“You are far too hard on yourself, Ser Jon; you’re a fine dancer,” Lady Margaery complimented as he escorted her back to her family’s table. 
 
“Thank you for the compliment, my lady. Honestly, I prefer small-town festivals to the more formal balls, fewer eyes on you, but I have been enjoying myself these past few days.” Jon admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
 
“Well, I think-”
 
BANG!
 
The large, ornate doors of the main hall of the Red Keep were thrown open with a massive bang, startling the few dozen partygoers that were still present. Jon turned in the direction of the noise and froze in shock when he saw that standing in the doorway, rain dripping from her red and black leather armor, was Serana. 
 
 
 

Next Chapter: You know? Jon may be the hero of our story, but there is a lot of other players involved too. I think we should see what they've been thinking about....
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Text

Timeline

• 283 AC/4E 187: Robb Stark is born; (two months later) "Jon Snow" is born.
• 286 AC/4E 190: Sansa Stark is born; RS-3, "JS"-3.
• 289 AC/4E 193: Arya Stark is born; Theon Greyjoy (10) arrives at Winterfell; RS-6, "JS"-6, SS-3.
• 290 AC/4E 194: Bran Stark is born; TG-11, RS-7, "JS"-7, SS-4, AS-1.
• 295 AC/4E 199: Rickon Stark is born; TG-16, RS-12, "JS"-12, SS-9, AS-6, BS-5.
• 296 AC/4E 200: Direwolves are found; TG-17, RS-13, "JS"-13, SS-10, AS-7, BS-6, RS-1.
• 297 AC/4E 201: Robb Stark turns 14; (two months later) "Jon Snow" turns 14; (one month later) "Jon Snow" runs away from Winterfell/appears in Skyrim; TG-18, SS-11, AS-8, BS-7, RS-2.
• 299 AC/4E 203: Jon Whitewolf sends a letter to Winterfell; TG-19, RS-16, JW-16, SS-13, AS-10, BS-9, RS-4.
• 300 AC/4E 204: Lord Eddard Stark asks Jon to return to Winterfell; TG-20, RS-17, JW-17, SS-14, AS-11, BS-10, RS-5.
• 302 AC/4E 206: 
• Jon Whitewolf receives Arya's letter: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.

1. (two-and-a-half months later) Jon Whitewolf arrives at Winterfell: TG-22, RS-18, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
2. (Four days later) Robb Stark turns 19: TG-22, RS-19, JW-18, SS-16, AS-13, BS-12, RS-7.
3. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18) leaves for KL with Enzo, Ned Stark, Sansa Stark, Arya Stark, and the royal party.
4. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party are attacked while at the Triton.
5. (two weeks later) Jon Whitewolf (18), the Starks, and the royal party arrive at King's Landing. 
6. (three days later) the Tourney of the Hand begins.
7. (five days later) Serena arrives at the Red Keep.

Cersei Lannister I
(Between Chapter 13 & 14)

‘What a cruel trick of the gods to be born a woman.’

The thought burned in the mind of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as she stormed through the halls of the Red Keep towards the finest guest apartments. ‘It means that, despite ruling Westeros for nearly two decades now, my father still feels he can order me about like a common wench; he even has the gall to make me come to him.’

Servants parted before her, their eyes lowered to the ground in respect. ‘They, at least, know their place; so many others could do to learn that lesson.’

The door to her father’s quarters was unlocked -out of habit for the man, which meant he knew Cersei would adhere to his wishes- and she let herself in. 

“Didn’t your septa teach you to knock before entering someone’s quarters?” Despite the phrasing, Tywin Lannister did not ask this; at least, not in a way that she was supposed to answer. Cersei gritted her teeth but said nothing, instead just closing the door behind her and locking them tight. 

“What did you want to speak of, Father?”

They could speak -relatively- freely here, these were the apartments that had been used exclusively by the Lannister family since the Baratheons had risen to power; the time, effort, and capital that went into ensuring it remained safe was not inconsiderable.  

The Lord of Casterly Rock looked up to the documents he’d been examining, his cold green eyes full of the same judgment she’d seen in so many other men. “Oh, many things, but mostly about your complete and utter failure to complete any of the tasks I’ve assigned to you.”

Fury coursed through Cersei’s veins and she quelled the fire burning at the back of her throat with a deep swallow of wine, draining the goblet completely. Fingers curled around the cool glass of the wine bottle’s neck, she poured herself another, “That hardly seems fair assessment, Father, I-”

Her father cut her off, “You’ve failed to tie Shireen Baratheon to our family through either a betrothal or a fosterhood; that girl is in a vulnerable position at the moment and gaining a foothold on Dragonstone would be greatly beneficial to us.”

“You can’t blame me for that!” Cersei defended herself. “Stannis assisted that jumpstart smuggler as her legal guardian and he won’t let anyone near that little gargoyle. Add to that her fanatic shrew of a mother and-”

“So you can’t even convince an illiterate knight born in Flea Bottom or a hapless, grieving widow?” Tywin inquired, cocking a mocking eyebrow in her direction. “That does not bode well for your abilities. Especially considering I’ve tasked you with bringing either the Spider or Littlefinger into our service and my personal spies have informed me you’ve made no progress on either front.”

Cersei sneered, “Those two vultures? You can’t seduce a cockless man and as for Littlefinger? Well, that man’s hunger for wealth will never be satisfied. He’d only ever side with us so long as he could gain something from it before betraying us just as quickly, you might as well trust a scorpion not to sting.”

“Is your imagination so limited that you believe the only way to win men to your side is with sex and gold?” Tywin scoffed. “Even your brother knows better than that.”

There was much Cersei could silently bare.

That comment was far past it. 

“DON'T! YOU! DARE! COMPARE ME TO THAT DRUNKEN IMP!” she roared. “I AM THE QUEEN OF WESTEROS AND I-” 

“Cannot even control your own son.”

Her father's cold, clear voice infuriated her but his words forced her into a fault. She swallowed her fury and bit out, “What do you mean to imply?”

“I imply nothing,” the Lion of Lannister snarled. “I criticize that you are so stupid that you’ve allowed your son, the future ruler of the Seven Kingdoms and the foundation on which our family’s future is to be built on, to get so out of hand that he’s killing women in his own home now.”

A chill went down Cersei’s spine and she gripped her goblet tighter, “How do you know about that?”

Tywin gave a huff, “Know about it? I was the one who cleaned it up, the one who made sure no one asked questions about what happened to those two girls.”

“What does it matter?” Cersei muttered, turning away. “They were just servants, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.”

“As usual you fail to see the obvious,” Tywin shot back, anger being to seep into his voice. “It wasn’t as if Joffrey killed a pair of faceless, nameless whores, these were girls with families and histories. More importantly, they both had ties to this castle and to this family!”

‘Smug old fool,’ Cersei snarled. ‘Always flaunting his supposed intelligence and making others feel small. He’d never speak this way to me if I were Jaime.’

Oblivious to her thoughts, Tywin continued, “I’ve seen this before, Cersei, and I won’t stand for it. I won’t stand for it because next time it will be Myrcella’s ladies-in-waiting or a knight younger sister. After that? Maybe a lord’s daughter or maybe even his own wife.”

‘How much longer does he think I’ll suffer these indignities? He’s mistaken no matter what but still-’

“Are you listening? Cersei!” 

That was her father’s voice, so cold and commanding...used to being obeyed without question. He’d be surprised when that stopped being the case. “What would you have me do then? It is hardly Joffrey’s fault a few sluts caught his eye.”

The anger and disgust only seemed to grow on Tywin’s face. “Well for one, you could stop making excuses for him. If you didn’t coddle him so much, he may never have gotten so bad.”

Her jaw clenched and she could feel her teeth grinding together, “I’ve taken steps to ensure the future of the Lannisters that you’ll never know about! So are you going to offer advice or simply continue to criticize?”

A scowl, “I’ll criticize your poor performance as much as I see fit. As for advice? I have none. But I do have a warning. Now, the last time we had this conversation you pleaded for me to give you a chance and, in a moment of foolish mercy, I agreed to give you two years to shape Joffrey into something resembling a decent heir. A year-and-a-half has passed since then, Cersei, and not only has his behavior not improved, it has gotten worse. Now I am a man of my word, so I’ll allow those last six months, but after that...actions will have to be taken.”

An icy chill settled in the pit of her stomach and the taste of wine grew bitter in Cersei’s mouth. “Wh-what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Tywin dropped his voice into a low, steady growl, “that unless Joffrey’s behavior has changed for the better in half-a-years time, I’ll have him removed for the line of succession, permanently.”

No, no, no…. “What are you saying? You’ll kill my son? You’ll kill your own grandson?” 

In the back of her mind, Cersei noted she sounded hysterical...just like Robert always accused her of being. 

“Perhaps, perhaps not; there are several ways to get him out of the way so Tommen can take his place as crown prince,” Tywin clarified.

“Tommen?” She all but laughed at the suggestion, “You’d have Tommen rule this Kingdom? He’s meek, he’s a child, he’s no warrior, and he cries when his whipping boy is punished. He’s not fit to be a king! Not like Joffrey is; Joff is strong and decisive and-”

“And he kills animals and young women for his own pleasure.” Tywin cut her off. “I won’t let him ruin our family, especially not now.”

“Oh gods,” Cersei snarled, rolling her eyes, “for once in your life, Father, speak plainly!”

Such a comment would usually earn her a harsh reprimand but, strangely, rather than tearing into Cersei for her loose tongue, he merely gave a silent pause as he seemed to consider something. After a long moment, Tywin spoke up again, “Do you know how much gold was mined in the Westerlands this past year?”

‘Why would I concern myself with such a thing?’ The odd turn of conversation caused Cersei to give a dismissive shrug, “I haven't a clue.”

“Go on then, give your best guess,” her father urged. 

Cersei hummed as she imagined the piles of glorious gold unearthed from her homeland, “Pounds, tons, ounces?”

Tywin snorted, “The measurement doesn't matter, the answer is the same: none. Our last working mine ran dry three years ago and our stores have been nearly completely depleted, in no small part thanks to your husband, I might add; though your need for useless luxuries certainly didn’t help matters. As it stands the only steady stream of income in from what we make in imports.”

The implications of those words had Cersei gasping in horror, “That can't be! You’re saying we’re out of money? Then how have we been paying for anything?”

Her father let out a deep sigh and, for the briefest moment, Cersei saw him as the old man he truly was. “The crown owes the Iron Bank of Braavos a tremendous amount of money.”

“You’ve always said we were the crown?”

“Exactly.”

This couldn’t be happening to her, “How many dragons? Is it in the hundreds? Thousands?”

“A tremendous amount,” Tywin stressed, even as he remained vague. 

 ‘Inconceivable! How could he let it get this far?’ She shot her father a cold glare, “There must be someone at the Iron Bank you can speak to, come to some arrangement or deal?”

Her father’s returned to its low, tense growl, “The Iron Bank is the Iron Bank; they can not be bribed or threatened or pacified and the only agreement they make is ‘pay your debt or we’ll back your enemies.’ Enemies we will definitely have if your son continues with his current behavior. Do you understand?”

‘Back to the demands then? Typical,’ she spat bitterly in the privacy of her own mind. “What will you have me do then?”

“Control Joffrey, just like I’ve been telling, and you can start by finding him a wife. The sooner the better, as well; another backup heir would not be unwanted,” her father instructed, sounding not unlike her childhood septa did whilst giving lessons. 

“I know Robert fancies the older Stark girl for Joffrey’s bride,” Cersei offered with a grumble and slight shrug. “She’s foolish and pliable, eager to please; she wouldn’t be a bad choice.”

“The Starks have few ties in the South, binding them to us would be beneficial," Tywin contemplated. "However, in terms of capital and goods, they have little to offer us. The Tyrells are a better choice; you’ll arrange a marriage with them, if not with Joffrey than one of the other two."

“You really want to bind our family to the Tyrells? They’re nothing but greedy upstarts; that girl is a snake dressed as a rose. She’ll never work for the good of our family,” Cersei sneered at the thought of the brunette whore. 

“That is true enough,” Tywin admitted. “But they are rich and if we play our cards right, we can take them for every dragon they have. So, you ensure one of your children's’ marital future is tied to one of the Tyrells and I will work on bringing one of the Starks into the fold.”

Her father was not a foolish man; so the very idea he’d trust a Stark was unbelievable. “Which Stark are you talking about?”

There was no immediate response; instead, her father settled back down behind his desk and returned to the documents. “You’re dismissed; move along, you have work to do.”

The dismissal hurt more than just about everything.

Then that pain was replaced by anger. 

Slamming the door behind, the Queen of Westeros slammed her father’s door behind her and stormed towards her own private chambers. Oh, she had work to do alright, like securing her own future as Joffrey’s regent and adviser by removing any possible dangers to his legitimacy. Once she got read of her oaf of a husband, that is. 

Tywin Lannister I
(Before speaking with Jon in the Godswood)

‘If such things as the gods exist then they are surely cruel for damning me with such incompetent children.’

That was the thought that crossed the Lion of Lannister's mind as he watched confusion play across his oldest son’s face.

“Why are you asking about Jon?”

Tywin held back a sigh. It was confounding really, he had three children and not one of them was worth their weight. Cersei was beautiful and could command a room well enough but she wasn’t nearly as smart as she believed herself to be. This meant Tywin couldn’t trust her with anything more than the simplest of tasks, most of which Cersei still failed anyway and leaving Tywin to clean up her messes. 

Jaime was perhaps the greatest warrior in Westeros and looked the part too with the glorious golden hair and gleaming green eyes of all classic Lannisters. But his son, the one who should have been the perfect heir, was slow when it came to anything that wasn’t related to the battlefield, doing poorly in the lessons he’d taken with Casterly Rock’s maester when he was younger. The maester, Volarik, had once described Jaime as ‘barely literate’ and suggested that he needed extra lessons; Tywin had him sent back to the Citadel and replaced by Maester Creylen. Many lords never learned their sums or how to read, of course, but that left them open tricky from all sorts and Tywin wouldn’t have that happen with his heir. 

Then there was the Imp. The drunken hedonistic little beast that had taken his beloved Joanna from him. If he’d never been born than she’d still be alive, alive to instruct Cersei in matters of courtly strength and keep foolish ideas like joining the Kingsguard out of Jaime’s head. She’d be alive to give him counsel and guidance like only she ever could. 

But no, she was gone and he was stuck with the vile misshapen creature that killed her.

The worst part was Tyrion was by far the most competent of Tywin’s three children. 

Perhaps he truly was cursed. 

“I am always curious about impressive individuals who cross my path. You must admit that this young man has himself an interesting story, disappearing from his home only to return years later with a fortune and name of his very own. He’s won the king’s favor and your’s too, it would seem. I’d just like to know more about him, his character, his abilities, and his standing where he lives.”

In all honesty, the boy’s character was worth far less than his assets, but Jaime rarely understood such things. 

Jaime looked unsure for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, before eventually nodding. “Jon is an exceptional young man, one of the finest swordsmen I’ve ever seen and a good head on his shoulders. I know he’s apparently held in high regard back in that place he was living-”

“Skyrim, it is on the continent of Tamriel,” Tywin impatiently corrected his son. 

“Yes, yes, that place. I know that he holds a noble title or two there and has connections with the East Empire Company; they-”

“Trade in exotic goods, I know. They occasionally do business in Braavos; I’ve reached out to them a few times, trying to bring them into Lannisport. They’ve always denied me.”

Jaime frowned, “Really? That is odd; I overheard that Jon arranged for them to include White Harbor in some of their routes.”

That was...interesting. “Oh, I’m sure Lord Manderly is enthusiastic about such an arrangement. He’ll be the envy of all the port cities in the kingdom.”

There was inevitable bitterness that seeped into the Old Lion voice but Jaime didn’t seem to notice, only a brief shrug. “I like Jon; he… he reminds me of his uncle, of Ser Arthur.”

Tywin fought the urge to roll his eyes; even after this time traces of foolish idolatry towards dead knights still danced in his son’s head. Such delusions were strong enough that Jaime’d bought into the tale that Ned Stark’s bastard was born of Ashara Dayne’s womb. Perhaps he shouldn’t blame his son for that, Jaime was hardly the only one to do so; it was a pretty tale and even Tywin had given it more than one moment of consideration. He’d eventually discarded it however, the timeline was full of far too many inconsistencies. That left the mystery who exactly Snow’s mother was but while why Tywin had no fondness for mysteries this was one he ultimately discarded as irrelevant.

‘I may have been too hasty in that assessment,’ the Lion of Lannister admitted to himself. “Do you believe he’d be a suitable husband?”

“...to who?” 

Jaime’s confusion was palpable, eyebrows threaded together, and mixed with a touch of wariness. 

Tywin was tired of being questioned.

“Your cousin, Joy, is of age to be married and it is my responsibility to find her a suitable match. Her status limits her options, however, even with a more than generous dowry behind her; I’d planned to wed her off to a high ranking guard or into a loyal family, but I believe this Jon Whitewolf might be a better option,” he explained, folding his hands behind his back and looking into the Red Keep’s godswood where Snow was entertaining his enormous pet wolf. 

“I think Jon would be a wonderful husband to little Joy,” Jaime smiled then, looking more like the boy who’d first joined the Kingsguard all those years ago, still naive enough to believe in the order and to not realize he was nothing more than a hostage in pretty armor. His smile dropped though, “but how do you even know he’d want her for a bride anyway?”

“Why wouldn’t he? Your cousin has a sizeable dowry, has connections to a powerful family, and has been educated in all matters of wifely duties. She is as perfect of a wife as Whitewolf could imagine. He may also feel a sense of comradery with her due to their shared status and want to free her from the shacks of her name.”

More importantly, Joy was beautiful. 

Young men rarely cared about more than that. 

The Old Lion would call this opportunity that had fallen into his lap an amazing stroke of luck if he believed in such things. Tywin finally had the opportunity to be rid of the acknowledged bastard niece he was forced to care for and support. It was all because that fool Gerion broke tradition and acknowledge the product of one of his blow-bys and now that he was… that he was gone, the responsibility fell on Tywin. True, he didn’t have to support her but having anyone, even a little bastard girl, with ties to Casterly Rock out there and out of Tywin’s control was unacceptable. 

The marriage would also provide something Tywin wanted for a long time, a potential foothold in Winterfell. As it stands, there were only five male Starks -one of them a member of the Night's Watch at that- and two females. Also, there were no close, paternal cousins that may provide a potential backup heir if anything were to ever...happen to the ruling Starks. Should the worse occur than the son of a known and acknowledged bastard would not be an unlikely candidate for the lordship of the north. Especially since said bastard has the favor of the king.

Now there was also the possibility of new and exotic trade goods that Snow’s connections could bring in… Something to fill up the hungry stomach of Casterly Rock with the gold and riches it was yearning for. 

Jaime gave a nod, “That is true, but I also know he’ll be leaving Westeros soon. Is there even time to bring Joy from home for a wedding?”

“If Whitewolf decided to take her back to Skyrim with her than so be it, perhaps she’d even be happier there. Don’t concern yourself with such things, just go talk to him,” Tywin commanded sternly, nodding towards Snow’s back.

Jaime shifted on his feet for a moment, still looking uncertain, before finally obeying and walking off. Tywin watched him go, everything was coming together nicely. 

Jaime Lannister I
(After speaking with Jon in the Godswood)

‘Would it really have been such so difficult of the gods, if they exist at all, to see that my family wasn’t at one another’s throat for one damned day?’

“-then that withered old bastard dared to blame me for that ugly little gargoyle not knowing what is good for her! She should have jumped at the chance to marry into our family, with a face like that Lancel is better than she’ll ever get elsewhere! But no, she insults me by brushing him off and I get blamed for it! Can you believe that, Jaime? Jaime, are you listening to me?” 

“Huh? What?” Jaime snapped out of his stupor. ‘Is it my turn to speak?’

His sister paused her furious pacing and turned her burning emerald glare onto him, “So now you’re ignoring me too? You’re just like every other man, just like Robert and Father!”

The comparison left a nasty taste in his mouth and Jaime fought the urge to frown. ‘She didn’t mean that; she is just upset and overwhelmed.’ 

Cersei was constantly under immense pressure and Jaime was the only one she trusted to vent to; he should be honored -should be happy- that she loved him enough to be honest and at ease around him. Listening was the least he could do. 

He took her hand and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it and relishing in the feeling of her soft skin against his lips. “Apologies, my love, I was...distracted, yes, but I was listening. It was not fair of Father to blame you but it also doesn’t seem like all of the faults can be put on the little lady Baratheon. It's not as if she’s free to choose her own betrothed, correct? It's up to her mother and Seaworth, not her.”

Cersei scoffed, tugging her hand free and pouring herself another glass of wine. “The little beast finds herself head of her own house and yet she still can't even choose her husband? How pathetic. I wager she never even brought it up to her guardian, no matter what she told me.”

She downed half the goblet in one long swallow, seemingly finally at the end of her rant. Calmer now, she turned to him and furrowed her brow, “You’ve been distracted quite often recently. Are you still think of that Snow boy? I swear, Jaime, if I didn’t know better than I’d think you want to take him to bed!”

“No,” he shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking about Jon.”

Well, not just about Jon, at least. Jaime had been thinking Jon and about his father’s plans for him. Did Jon accept the proposal? He hoped so. 

‘Jon would be a good husband for Joy, kind and wealthy and strong and smart; he is exactly the kind of husband Uncle Gerion would have wanted for her.’

“I was thinking about the boys, Tommen and Joff-”

“Joffrey!” Cersei exclaimed, cutting him off as her lovely face reddened with anger once more. “You won’t believe what Father threatened to do to Joff! He threatened to ‘remove’ him! He threatened my son! Claimed I couldn’t control him! It's hardly my fault some sluts got what was coming to them, mine or Joffrey’s!”

“What are you talking about, Cersei? What has Joffrey done now?” Jaime asked, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. Did he really want to know?

“Nothing!” his sister snapped, seemingly enraged by the implication that her ‘precious son’ could do any wrong. "There was just an...incident a few months ago; two serving girls seduced Joffrey and he… he got a bit too enthusiastic with them. It was just an accident!”

Jaime felt his blood run cold, “He- he killed them? By the gods, Cersei! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it didn’t matter!” Cersei hissed back. “They didn’t matter, not compare to my son! Not compared to our son!”

His mouth fell open and Jaime tried to form his disgusted thoughts into words before wisely shutting his mouth. No, he couldn’t say that here. Instead, he forced a smile and pulled the queen into his arms, “You’re right, Love. I understand.”

He understood what must be done.

Jaime had never allowed himself to be a father to Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, never even allowed himself to be their uncle really. He couldn’t, less someone suspect dangerous secrets. But he’d watched them, watched and hope they’d be good and healthy and safe. 

He’d seen what incest could create, after all.

Tommen and Myrcella grew into normal children, beautiful and sweet, but Joffrey? Jaime knew something was wrong with him since he was barely able to toddle, He hadn’t even been able to form full sentences and yet still seemed to take great delight in hurting his nannies, either by biting and scratching their faces and arms deep enough to draw blood or yanking handfuls of their hair out. Years passed since then and with each passing one, Jaime wished more and more that it was Rhaegar who’d emerged victorious.

 A second Mad King could not be allowed. Jaime wouldn’t allow his greatest deed to be undone by his own seed. 

“I’ve got to go,” he mumbled into Cersei’s neck, planting a kiss on her cheek. “Selmy will geld me if I’m late to another meeting.”

“I can’t have that,” Cersei nodded, running her fingers through his hair before pulling away. “So many gray hairs...you’re getting old, Jaime.”

His hand moved to his head instinctively, “Well, it happens to all of us.”

The queen just hummed and poured herself another glass of wine, “If you see Cousin Lancel then send him to me, I have a task for him.”

Tyrion Lannister I
(Day of the joust)

‘The gods surely enjoy torturing me for their own amusement; was it not enough to be born a dwarf?’

Tyrion Lannister, the (official) heir to Casterly Rock, took a shaky breath, pushed himself up to his hands and knees, blinked river water out of his eyes, then thoroughly emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground before him. Once all the sick and river water was out of his body, the imp stumbled to his feet and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ll forever be in your debt, Bronn; you saved my life and, more importantly, you saved my wine!”

With that Tyrion grabbed one of his wine bottles -the one that thoughtful young Jon Whitewolf had given him before they went their separate ways- and swished a bit of the burning liquid around in his mouth before spitting it out. His companion gave a chuckle from his seat of a boulder as pulled one of his boots off, upturning it to dump out the water and muck that filled it. “And we clearly know which one of those two things was more important, don’t we?”

“Rarely have truer words ever been spoken,” Tyrion smirked, tossing the bottle to Bronn who caught it easily and took a drink of his own. 

“Ooh, that’s got a good burn,” he remarked, smacking his lips. Rocking back to his feet, the man glanced at the gray, cloudy sky. “We need need to get a move on; it's already midday and unless we hurry we’ll be sleeping outside.”

“Oh, we won’t need to do that,” Tyrion responded, slapping the coin purse still thankfully attached to his belt as he started gathering up the few scattered possessions that had gone into the river with them. Opening the satchel he always carried his favorite books in, he let out a breath of relief, he wrapped his tombs tightly and carefully in layers of oilcloth so even now they were mostly intact. 

‘Perhaps it's a good thing I didn’t steal that book,’ he thought with a smile. “I still have plenty of coin and there are many inns that dot the roads to King’s Landing. We can just stay in one of them if it gets too late; I’ll even pay, my treat.”

“All those inns will be filled right up, what with the tourney going on,’ Bronn snorted. “We’d be lucky to get a pile of hay in the barn with the horses at this point.” 

“In the barn?” Tyrion couldn’t help but gasp. He was a big enough imp to admit he was spoiled little shit, even at Castle Black he’d been given comfortable enough accommodations. On the road, he’d always had guards, attendants, specially trained and fitted horses, and a luxurious tent. 

‘Now I have none of them though,’ he admitted to himself, the severity of the situation fulling setting in. ‘My guards and servants are dead, my horse has run off, and my tent ransacked and burned. I can’t even count on my name; it may do more harm than good. All I have is a purse full of coin, my favorite books, a sellsword I like but am not foolish enough to trust yet...and my mind.’

He tacked on that last thought after a moment, shivering at a cold breeze that cut right through his wet clothing. ‘I always have my mind. Jaime has his sword, Cersei has her beauty, and I have my mind. Sometimes I feel it is all I have.’

“We should start walking,” he agreed solemnly, swinging the strap of the satchel over onto his shoulder. “I must tell my father about the attack on our people, about the deaths.”

Bronn shrugged but picked up his own bag, “Will the Old Lion even care? He hates you and, from what I’ve heard, views his own people as expendable.”

“Thank you for that reminder,” Tyrion grumbled bitterly, unable to deny such a thing. “But you miss one important thing about my father, he’s a prideful old man. The death of a few guards won’t draw any tears and my own would probably move him to dance a gleeful jig, but someone attacking his own people? That will get him angry. If I am killed, it will be by his own orders.”

“Lovely family you’ve got there,” Bronn remarked before clicking his tongue. “Then again, I caved in my own father’s face with a piece of firewood so who am I to judge?”

“We really are two peas in a pod,” the imp japed before turning serious again. “The real question is, was the attack random or was it planned?”

Bronn hummed, “It is an awfully big coincidence that both the King’s party and yours got attacked.”

“How do you know about that?” Tyrion asked, eyes snapping to look up at the sellsword in surprised. He’d received a raven about the attack of course, along with instructions not to say anything about it except with the head of the Lannister guards he was traveling with. And he hadn’t, burning the parchment after committing its contents to memory. 

The taller man threw his head back and laughed, “All you rich folks are the same, always talking but never thinking about who might be listening. Everyone is listening, Imp, always.”

“Oh,” Tyrion said, the back of his neck prickling, “and what might they be hearing?”

The sellsword peered down with him with a sneaky glint in his bright blue eyes, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then he turned away, tilting his head back and began to see a merry tune. 

Enzo Vlast III
(After joust and before meeting Jon at the feast)

“I think this, Ser, might be what you are looking for.”

The tall, weedy vendor presented Enzo with an elegant lariat necklace made from alternating bright blue and pink glass beads with a simple ivory charm of a crescent moon that would hang at its lowest point and strung together with thin yet durable leather cord. He took it in his hand to judge the length and weight; it went without saying that his nephew, Inzo’s, soon-to-be bride, Jennenie T’ijem, was far smaller than him, but Enzo possessed a good eye for details and was quite certain it would suit her nicely.

Metal jewelry was not as popular with the denizens of Hammerfell as they were with those who live in cooler climates, the sun could cause it to heat up and scorch the skin. Glass and porcelain jewelry were more common. The necklace would also suit Jennenie’s personal taste; she enjoyed colorful ornamentation yet disliked gaudy gemstones. Yes, Enzo was confident it would be an acceptable wedding gift. 

“This will do nicely; what is the price?”

Enzo was expecting the man to attempt to haggle with him but, smartly, the vender just offered a rather reasonable-sounding price of seven silver stags. Impressed by both the qualities of the man’s wares and his ability to know when to when not to test his luck, Enzo took the time to select several more pieces for different family members: matching sun pins for his mother and father, a necklace of red and yellow beads for Inzo’s sister, Suria, an amber and pearl decorative hair comb for Sherya, the wife of his younger brother, Kalrick, and woven leather bracelets for their daughters, Eriley and Tenyina, who were nine and five respectively. He had other gifts planned for his Kalrick and Sherya’s son, Karrsek, and Suria’s young twins, Cyrden and Davinta. He also, of course, had a special gift planned for Inzo, the deed to a nice plot of land that came with pre-built cottage and plentiful well. 

“Is there anything else I can help you, Ser?”

Enzo paused his packing up of all his purchases, thinking. “There is,” he admitted. “You see, there is a man I need to find information on. Do you happen a good place to find such a thing?”

The vender scratched his cheek, “Information, eh? Now that is a valuable thing indeed, but what makes you think that I’d know where to find it?”

Enzo bit back a snort before reaching into his coin pouch and pulling out three gold coins. “You work in a business frequented by the rich and we both know the rich rarely watch their tongues in front of those they deem lesser.”

He punctuated his point by sliding the three coins, neatly stacked on top of one another, across the counter.

With a dry laugh, the vendor scooped up the coins, “A man after my own heart, Ser. Who are you after information on?”

“He calls himself the Mountain.”

The other man when stiff, his eyes widening, “A very brave man too, or perhaps a very foolish one. I’d avoid that matter if at all possible, Ser, should you value your life.”

“I paid for your knowledge, not your opinion,” Enzo responded coldly. “Do you know anything or not?”

The vendor gave a resigned shake of his head, “Not much myself, but my sister, Rosalynd, works at the Wench’s Hall; it is a tavern popular with guards and travelers, all of whom love gossip, especially after they’ve had their rum and ale. She’ll know something.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “How do I get to this tavern?”

The other man jerked his head to the left, “It is about five streets over that way, but it’d probably be easier if you just grabbed one of the carts at the bottom of the street. Not sure how many will be there with the rain going but if you manage to grab one they’ll take you right there. My sister, she’ll be the one with the orange hair and the birthmark on her right cheek.”

Enzo nodded and pulled another three silver coins, sliding them to the vender. “Thank you for your assistance; I am glad we could do business.”

As far as taverns went, Enzo had seen worse; the roof didn’t leak, there were twin roaring fires on either wall, the floor was relatively clean, and there was no one in a corner losing the contents of their meal into a mop bucket. The air did stink of something not too dissimilar to a wet dog but that was more likely due to the tavern’s patrons than any fault of the establishment itself. 

He folded his bear fur cloak over one arm, rainwater dripping to the ground, and slid past a slight, bald man with a beak of a nose to claim a seat at the bar closest to where the red-headed server was pouring drinks. “You must be Rosalynd.”

The woman looked started upon hearing her name, peering at him with equal parts curiosity and wariness. “You know my name but I don’t know yours and I doubt I’d forget someone like you.”

“We have never met.”

A spark of anger flashed in the woman’s pale blue eyes, “Was it Arlen who sent you? Did he tell you that I’d just lift my skirts right up? Well, let me tell you, the last man to try that got my knife right up his-”

“Your brother sent me,” Enzo cut her off.

Rosalynd’s eyebrows shot right up, “Tarver? What about?”

“He said that you might be able to help with a…project I am working on.” Enzo leaned forward, unfurling his gloved hand so the half-dozen silver and gold coins just barely flashed in the flickering light. That got her attention. “I want information, your brother said you would be a good source of it.”

Rosalynd’s lips quirked into a smile, dark red birthmark pulling taut across her cheek, “He’s right about that; I’ve been forced to listen to enough drunken boasting that I could tell you more secrets than any Master of Whispers ever could. What do you want to know?”

Enzo leaned in so they wouldn’t be overheard, “Tell me about the Mountain.”

The name sent the woman all but reeling back, “I can tell that you should stay as far as possible from that horrid creature.”

“That is not going to happen,” Enzo shook his head.

Rosalynd gave an angry growl, “I can tell you that he is a monster, an absolute beast and that he deserves to die for all he’s done! All the rapes and murders and all the misery…. There isn’t a soul in this kingdom that would weep if he were to meet the worst end known to mankind, I can tell you that!”

“That seems to be what everyone says, can you tell me anything else?” Enzo implored.

The woman bit her lip, brow furrowed in thought. “Well,” she said slowly, “I’ve heard that he spends an awfully lot of his blood money at apothecaries buy up Milk of the Poppy; I've heard he apparently buys it by the jugful to treat headaches. Does that help?”

Enzo gave a low hum, “I believe I can work with that, thank you. For your troubles.”

He pressed the coins into Rosalynd’s palm and rose to his feet, giving her a find nod of thanks. Things were finally starting to look up.

Varys I
(After the joust but before the feast)

It took a strong man to admit when they had made a mistake and, after all these years, Varys was willing to concede that he had handled certain issues of the past...poorly. 

Having Aerys’ ear put him in an invaluable position, one that was threatened by Rhaegar. The Silver Prince trusted the words of few and to say Varys was not among them would be an understatement; when the direct approach hadn't worked he tried to slither his way into the prince’s mind through others, but Rhaegar’s inner circle was both tight-knit and tight-lipped. So when he made no progress with the older son and the younger son was too much of an unknown, Vayrs was left to make do with the father and, as he’d done many times before, whispered the right words into the King’s ear, words about familial treachery and betrayal. 

It wasn’t all lies, of course. Rhaegar certainly was planning on overthrowing his father; there was no possible way Lord Walter Whent could have afforded to host such a grand tourney without help. In many ways, Varys actually was quite impressed by the young prince -quiet and solemn yet sharper than the sword he carried- but he couldn’t allow such schemes to fester unimpeded. It was not easy to convince the ever paranoid King Scab to leave the Red Keep and travel to Harrenhal, but he’d done it. 

Then, as things often do, they fell to pieces due to passion and lust; even the serious, dutiful, and intelligent Silver Prince had fallen for a pretty face and lost his level-head to his lesser desires. The realm burned and people bled, suffering crept into the hearts of many.

And Varys helped it.

‘Sacrifices are often necessary,’ he admitted to himself, trying not to remember the blood-soaked cloth that covered the body of a once-living little girl with dark hair and a warm smile who loved nothing more than playing with her kitten. ‘But I miscalculated then and am now left to deal with what remains.’

Robert was a fat, fool of a king -spending and whoring without thought of the future- but Varys could deal with that easily enough. He could deal with an inattentive king, preferred it to a certain degree, and he could deal with the Lions and the Roses who stalked and crept. It helped that Lord Arryn, a reliable man if there ever was one, was there to reign in Robert’s most outlandish exploits. But the Hand of the King would not last for much longer and the realm would lose a major sense of stability once that happened. 

Then there was the issue of heirs...or rather, the lack of a solid one. 

Joffrey would never do; he was violent and boorish with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He’d need to be disposed of as soon as possible. Tommen was a likable enough lad without a cruel bone in his body and naive enough that he could be easily manipulated, but his meek disposition would be ill-suited for leadership. The girl was the best of the lot with a solid head on her shoulders, a pleasing personality, and enough personal strength to match her pretty face. Unfortunately, the realm would never accept a little girl as their ruler. 

And all of those issues were without the problem of being bastards born of incest and fathered by Jaime Lannister.

Stannis could have made a dutiful king but he died before his time, leaving only a daughter behind. Shy little Shireen Baratheon was smart and unquestionably her father’s daughter, but the fact that she was a daughter would always be trouble. There was also the terrifying possibility that the greyscale on her face could reawaken; it was a rare occurrence, but did happen and if it were to happen in the middle of a city as crowded as King’s Landing? Absolute chaos.

Renly Baratheon was a vapid child but could be charming enough to the general populous even if it was unlikely that he could be trusted to handle the throne with any more decorum than his elder brother. However, his personal proclivities also could create a problem; there were some men who, despite preferring the company of other men, were able to produce an heir. That being said, Varys wasn’t going risk backing someone who could create the same situation in a decade or two and, even if there was a diamond in the rough among Robert’s gaggle of bastards, it was doubtful there would be time for Varys to polish it up enough to be an acceptable heir.

Not that Varys had much interest in continuing to support the current regime anyway, but even the decision of who to replace them with was a vexing one. 

The untimely death of Illyrio and sweet Serra’s son -he allowed himself a moment to mourn the loss of both and lament the pain of his dear friend- also marked the death of his and Illyrio’s original plan. But, alas, the dice always fall where they may and, in the end, there was always the spares. 

Viserys was dead now, killed by his horse-lord good-brother, and that was no real loss; all the reports show that the boy was ill-tempered and entitled, too much like his father and too much like Westeros’ current heir apparent. The girl, on the other hand, possessed...potential. She’d proven surprisingly resilient, ferociously compassionate to the beaten and downtrodden, and capable of swaying the loyalty of others -including one of his most valued spies; Varys’ would be lying if he claimed that he wasn’t slightly bitter- to bring them to her side. If the other rumors, the ones he worked hard to stop from reaching the ears of the king, proved to be true… Well, they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. 

‘Would she listen though?’

That was the burning question. The desire to protect the weak and change the world for the better was admirable...but often foolish, especially if it wasn’t properly tempered with reasoning and caution, and the ability to crush one’s enemies was impressive...but often unsustainable -the Dornish had proven that to the Targaryens- and needed to be balanced with measured words and careful diplomacy. 

Simply put, Varys didn’t know enough of the girl to trust she could accomplish such things. Danaerys was too much of an unknown, both to himself and to Westeros. 

That left…

‘The boy,’ he considered carefully as he peered in on the young man’s conversation with Lord Renly and Ser Loras, ‘may suit my needs nicely.’

It did not take him long to put together the truth behind the parentage of ‘Jon Snow’ and, honestly, it was surprising others hadn’t done the same; he may not have as many spies in Winterfell and the whole of the North as he’d like but it was only logical, after all. Rhaegar got a babe on Lyanna then she died birthing and Eddard Stark claimed the child as his own to protect it from Robert’s rage at all Targaryens, even newborn bastard one. Varys had considered having the child collected and moved elsewhere to be used at a later date, but ultimately decided to leave it be in Winterfell and simply keep an eye on it. 

He was pleased to hear that, as the years passed, the boy displayed no signs of madness and was instead simply a quiet, solemn boy with a talent for swordplay. Intelligent enough and beloved by the majority of his siblings, Jon could have easily been a valuable asset at some point. 

Then he disappeared, leaving not a trace behind; Varys had spent a not inconsiderable amount of time and money trying to uncover his location or, at least, what became of him, even asking Illyrio to check the free cities. Yet, despite this, his search turned up nothing, which was both disappointing and extremely frustrating. It was a point of pride to the Spider that his network was able to track down just about anyone and even dead men leave a trail but it truly seemed as if the last living child of Rhaegar Targaryen simply vanished into thin air. 

But now, five years later, the bastard once known as Jon Snow was back and a boy no longer, but rather a man with his own name and own reputation. 

‘And the timing could not be more perfect,’ Varys mused. 

Robert would not be alive much longer, that was certain. Perhaps the events surrounding his eventual demise were unclear -Would his heart finally give out? Would his liver turn against him? Would he take a drunken tumble down the stairs? Would a scorned woman slip a bit of poison into his drink?- but the Masters of Whispers knew the King’s reign would be coming to an end soon.

The unrest such a thing caused would allow for the perfect opportunity to unveil the truth of the royal children and the existence of Rhaegar’s lost heir. It would cause a touch of civil unrest, yes, and the Lannisters wouldn’t take such a thing lying down, nor would the remaining Baratheons, but Varys also knew some would rally behind the boy. 

Obviously, the Starks would support Jon’s claim, especially once Robert was gone; Ned Stark’s loyalty was to his friend, after all, not the Lannister children who would succeed him. Houses that were Targaryen loyalists, such as House Velaryon, would also be likely cast in their numbers. While the Tullys had no love for the boy, Robb Stark did; the Heir to Winterfell’s fondness for his perceived bastard half-brother was well-known. That connection, along with Hoster Tully’s own personal ambitions, could easily be leveraged. Then there were the Martells and that was tricky; they hated the Lannisters and Baratheons with enough passion to side with anyone who opposed them but that their potential future king was the son of Lyanna Stark would sour them. More concessions would have to be to sweeten the deal for the rulers of Dorne to ensure their assistance.

Their enemies would be the Lannisters above all, with the remaining true Baratheons as a secondary concern; the best course of action would be to play the two powers off of one another. The Baratheons weren’t likely to appreciate the queen attempting to pass off her bastards as true-born stags, after all. The more time and resources they spent fighting one another was time and resources they couldn’t spend fighting Varys’ plan. The Lannisters had the support of the Westerlands Houses, of course, but there was also the possibility of them hiring a sellsword army to bolster their numbers; if they could afford to pay them, that is. 

Houses Arryn and Tyrell were uncertainties. If Lord Arryn were to outlive Robert, which Varys highly doubted despite his best efforts, then he could be counted on to support the Starks as he did in the past. But if he died before… Well, that would leave the sickly, young Robin Arryn as the ruler of the Vale and his mother, Lysa Arryn, as his regent. Lysa Arryn was the current Lady Stark’s sister, but she was also, at best, unstable and overly-possessive of her son and, at worse, a killer in her own right. As for the Tyrells, they were opportunists and if a shiny enough reward was dangled in front of them they could be manipulated.

Then there were the Greyjoys but Varys didn't care to give them much thought at the moment.

‘But how to tie the boy back to Westeros?’

Marriage was the best answer; a marriage to either Arianne Martell or Margaery Tyrell would serve both to tie Jon back to Westeros and satisfy both families' desire for leverage in the new royal family. Such a plan had its dangers and this ‘betrothed’ of his was a potential hindrance, but occasionally risks must be taken and obstacles could always be removed at a later date. 

Obstacles like-

“Ah, Lord Spider, perhaps you can assist me in an important matter.” 

Jon’s strange companion had proven himself to be an interesting dichotomy; he spoke with impeccable politeness to nearly all he came across and yet was also completely irreverent towards all those in power. This left him as someone the servants liked and were willing to help but who the intimidated nobles left alone. Enzo Vlast was clearly not a man to be taken lightly and wanted all those around him to know it. 

But he was also a man who could be incredibly useful and Varys was hardly going to let that opportunity pass him by. 

“Ser Vlast, how lovely to see you; I hope you’ve been finding King’s Landing pleasant. How may I be of assistance?” he inquired with a nod of his head and a welcoming smile.

“Jon’s… oh, what do you call it here? Ah, nameday! Yes, his nameday is coming up and in all of the recent excitement, I have yet to get him a gift. I wish him something special, something unique, and I have reason to believe you can point me in the right direction.” The man’s voice was pleasant and his posture was relaxed, but he gave away nothing that he didn’t want to be known. 

That being said, he did give Varys something to work with. ‘The right gift given at the right time could go a long way in winning the boy’s trust.’

“I’m flattered, Ser, and if you are in the market for something truly special then you should investigate Tobho Mott’s shop at the Street of Steel; he does fantastic work.”

That got him a smile, nod, and thanks before the giant of a man vanished down a corridor, leaving Varys to head off in an opposite direction. He had work to do, starting with getting documents signifying Jon’s legitimacy drawn up and strategically placed in the Citadel. 

‘So much to do and so little time.’

 Jon Arryn I
(After the joust but before the feast)

‘All these years I've lived and I still need more time, just enough to set things right.’

Heavy was the mind of the Hand of the King as he sat in his solar; most would never know what it was like to have the fate of millions and the future of a nation resting on their shoulders and Jon Arryn envied them. He was an old man, he should be spending his final days in his home surrounded by loving grown children and sweet little grandchildren without a care in the world, content in the knowledge that his legacy would live long and proud. 

But, alas, that was not the hand the gods saw fit to gift him with. 

Instead, he was far from home where his wife kept his sickly only child locked away from the rest of the work while he was here in King’s Landing contemplating on what he should do about the heir to the throne of Westeros being not only mad, but a bastard born of incest. 

He’d spent months mulling this dilemma over ever since Stannis had brought the matter to his attention, dozens of sleepless nights spent tossing and turning as he considered every action and the many possible consequences that could follow them. Something needed to be done, surely, and his honor, his duty, and his love for Robert urged him to bring the matter to light so it could be set straight. It simply wasn’t right.

 And yet…

So many had died during Robert’s Rebellion.

So many innocent people, smallfolk who had nothing to deal with the squabbles and bitterness or lords and ladies. Not that nobles didn’t suffer in their own way, dying in battle or forced to send away their children to foster. It seemed like it was only recently that the kingdom finally recovered so could Jon, in good conscience, subject them to another war? 

On the other hand…

Joffrey was a monster, a monster who couldn’t be allowed to sit on the throne. Jon Arryn knew evil well, he’d seen it in Aerys, seen it in war, and now he saw it in the crown prince’s eyes when he berated a servant or tormented his siblings or kicked one of the King’s hunting hounds. For as handsome as the boy may look on the outside, his inside was nothing but poison and hatred. 

And that was to say nothing of the corpses of dismembered animals -cats, rabbits, birds, rodents- often found in the godswood and the two young maids who’d disappeared. The rumor was that they'd both run off with secret lovers that their families’ did not approve off, but Jon highly doubted that. Three weeks ago, two female bodies were pulled out of the bay down near the dock; the pair had been dumped in the water but not after having their hair shaved and faces mutilated to the point of being unidentifiable. There was no way to prove it, of course, but Jon suspected he knew the names of those two women. 

But still…the fall out of revealing the truth of the royal children’s parentage would be massive and chaotic; Robert’s anger would rage with the fury of a thousand summer storms and at least some of the anger would fall on the children themselves. Joffrey may be a monster but Tommen and Myrcella were completely innocent, they didn’t deserve to be punished because of their parents’ sins. And, realistically, even if Joffrey did come into power, how long would it possibly last? A decade, maybe two? Hated kings rarely lasted long and if he died without issue than sweet Tommen would be crowned and peace would return.

‘But what if he does have a child?’ the horrible thought crept into the Lord of the Eyrie’s mind. ‘What if he has a son who grows to be as bad as he is? What if the son grows to be even worse? What about the things he’ll do to the child’s mother? Can you stand by allowing that to happen again?’

No. No, he wouldn’t allow such a thing to come to pass. Joffrey couldn’t be allowed to take the throne. Jon knew it and so had Stannis; Stannis had known it first and now he was dead, dead from what Maester Pycelle had declared an ‘infection of the intestine’.

‘Please let that be the case,’ Jon thought as he rubbed his own stomach; he’d been feeling better for the past few weeks and even dared to hope his suspicions were incorrect...only for his symptoms to return in full-force two days ago. ‘Please let me not have gotten Stannis killed.’

As heavy sheets of rain pelted and washed over the windows of his tower, he leaned further over the book he’d been studying. He needed to find proof of his claims before he brought them forward, needed to find a way to protect Robert, to protect Ned and his brood, and hopefully keep the kingdom from plunging back into an all-out war. 

‘There is still time,’ he attempted to reassure himself before his stomach lurched, sending him into a vicious coughing fit; Jon doubled over the table, hands covering his mouth, and when the fit finally ended, he pulled his from his mouth he could only stare grimly at the bright red drops that covered them. 

‘But how much?’

Thoros of Myr I
(Night of the feast)

“What do you see in the flames, Thoros?”

Thoros tore his eyes from the flames where images of ice and death and fire and sacrifice did a deadly dance and turned them to were his dearest friend stood with a flagon in each hand. Berric flashed his now usual tired smile as he passed Thoros one of the drinks before taking a seat next to him on the bench that was positioned in front of the tavern’s main fireplace. He took a deep swallow of his own ale, “Something is coming, Berric; I see fire and ice and death. I’ve seen a naked woman being devoured and pulled apart by giant rats. I’ve seen a silver horse galloping through a grassy field, fire trailing behind it. Then there is the boy, I see him too; I see him in the center of it all.”

“What boy?” Berric asked, firelight flickering in his one blue eye. 

“The one who defeated me in the melee.”

Berric gave a dry chuckle that turned into a cough which was smothered by a drink of ale he'd gotten to wet his throat more than anything else. Thoros watched and bit back the guilt that filled him, had he truly done the right thing bringing his friend back from the grave? “Oh, him! The lad was impressive, no doubt about that, but why would you be having visions of him?”