Chapter Text
The fifth day of the royal visit dawned with a pale northern sun struggling to pierce the morning mist. Eddard Stark stood at the window of his chambers, watching servants scurry across the courtyard below. The castle had settled into an uneasy rhythm since the king's arrival: feasts each night, hunts during the day, and beneath it all, currents of tension flowing like underground streams.
Jon and his goddess wives had largely withdrawn to Raya Lucaria Academy through the godswood portal, appearing only briefly and unpredictably. Their absence had done nothing to dampen the curiosity of the royal visitors. If anything, it had intensified it, with whispers of magic and divine power spreading through Winterfell like wildfire.
A soft knock at the door drew Ned's attention. "Enter," he called, turning from the window.
Jory Cassel stepped into the chamber, his weathered face grave. "My lord, King Robert requests your presence in his chambers. He says it concerns Lord Jon."
Ned sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Thank you, Jory. Tell him I'll be there shortly."
After Jory departed, Ned dressed quickly, his mind heavy with concern. Robert had been uncharacteristically patient about Jon's absence, content with feasting and hunting, but Ned had known it couldn't last. The king's curiosity was a beast that required feeding.
He found Robert already breaking his fast, a flagon of ale at his elbow despite the early hour. The king looked up as Ned entered, his face flushed with impatience.
"There you are, Ned! Sit, sit." Robert gestured to the chair across from him. "I've been patient, haven't I? Damned patient, considering the circumstances."
"You have, Your Grace," Ned agreed cautiously, taking the offered seat.
"Well, my patience is at an end." Robert tore a chunk of bread with his teeth, speaking around the mouthful. "I want to meet this godly son of yours properly. Hear his full tale. Not just a glimpse at a feast where he disappears with his wives." He emphasized the last word with raised eyebrows. "Gods, Ned, two wives! And not just any women: actual goddesses, if what my eyes saw was true."
"They are not ordinary women as you have seen," Ned confirmed carefully. "As for meeting Jon, I can certainly ask him to return to Winterfell—"
"Ask?" Robert interrupted with a bark of laughter. "I'm your king, Ned! Command him if you must. I want to hear his story directly. These tales of other worlds and magic, I need to see for myself what's true and what's northern fancy."
Ned felt his jaw tighten. "Jon is no longer the boy who left Winterfell, Robert. He does not respond to commands, even from me. He is a king in his own right." He paused, choosing his next words with care. "But I will speak with him today. Perhaps he would be willing to tell his tale to the court."
Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, but then he nodded. "Good enough. Tonight then, in the Great Hall. I want everyone to hear this story of his." He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "And Ned, I want to see these magical wives of his up close. Especially the golden one. Seven hells, she's a sight to behold."
Ned felt a flicker of unease at the hunger in Robert's eyes. "I'll do what I can, Your Grace."
The godswood was quiet as Eddard approached the shimmering blue portal nestled between two ancient sentinel pines. The sigil gate had become a permanent fixture, though Jon had somehow made it less conspicuous; visible only to those who knew to look for it. Ned paused before the glowing runes, steeling himself for the journey.
Five days since the royal visit began, and still the sensation of passing through the portal unsettled him. The momentary weightlessness, the flash of cold followed by warmth, the sense of being unmade and remade in the space between heartbeats: it was not something a man of the North, rooted in solid earth and practical concerns, could easily embrace.
But embrace it he must. With a deep breath, Ned stepped through the shimmering doorway.
He emerged onto the now-familiar courtyard of Raya Lucaria, where fountains of liquid moonlight played beneath an impossible sky. Academy students in flowing robes moved purposefully along colonnaded walkways, some carrying staves topped with glowing crystals, others with arms full of tomes bound in materials Ned couldn't identify.
A slender woman with copper hair approached, bowing gracefully. "Lord Stark, welcome back to the Academy. Lord Jon anticipated your visit and awaits you in the Celestial Library." She gestured toward one of the academy's many towers. "I can guide you, if you wish."
"Thank you, but I remember the way," Ned replied, having visited the library twice before during the royal visit. The woman bowed again and departed, leaving Ned to make his way through the sprawling complex.
The Celestial Library occupied the entirety of the academy's tallest tower, a circular chamber whose ceiling opened directly to the cosmos above. Bookshelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by tall windows that offered breathtaking views of the surrounding landscape. At the center stood a massive table of polished silverwood, where Jon sat alone, surrounded by open books and glowing scrolls.
He looked up as Ned entered, silver eyes reflecting the starlight that poured through the open ceiling. "Lord Stark," he greeted, rising from his seat. "I sensed your approach through the gate."
Ned had long since stopped questioning how Jon knew such things. "King Robert has requested your presence at Winterfell tonight," he said without preamble. "He wishes to hear your story: your journey through the Lands Between, how you became..." He gestured vaguely at Jon's transformed appearance.
Jon's expression remained neutral. "I expected as much. His patience has lasted longer than I anticipated."
"He is the king, Jon," Ned reminded him, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. What was a king of seven kingdoms to a man who had slain gods?
"He is a king," Jon corrected gently. "As I am a lord of a different realm." He closed the book before him, his movements deliberate and precise. "But I will come. The time for hiding is past, and perhaps sharing my tale will satisfy some of the curiosity that follows me like a shadow."
"And your wives?" Ned asked, unable to keep a hint of concern from his voice. "Robert has specifically requested their presence as well."
A subtle smile touched Jon's lips. "Ranni and Marika will accompany me, though I doubt either will appreciate being treated as curiosities for the court's entertainment." The smile faded, replaced by something more serious. "Lord Stark, you should prepare yourself, and the king, for what this means. I will not pretend to be less than I am to spare Robert's pride or soothe the fears of southern lords."
Ned felt a chill at the quiet certainty in Jon's voice. "What exactly do you mean to do?"
"Nothing dramatic," Jon assured him. "But neither will I hide the truth of what I've become or pretend that the powers I command are mere parlor tricks." He rose from his seat, his robes shifting like captured starlight. "The North has always honored truth, harsh though it may be. I will give them that, at least."
Ned studied the face of the boy he had raised, now transformed into something beyond his understanding. In Jon's silver eyes, he saw not arrogance but a bone-deep certainty, a knowledge of self that transcended mortal concerns. It reminded him, painfully, of another who had carried such certainty: Lyanna, in those final moments when she had made him promise.
"Very well," Ned conceded. "After the evening meal, then. The king has requested a full court."
Jon nodded. "We will be there." He hesitated, then added, "How fare my siblings? I've kept my distance to avoid complicating your duties to your king, but I miss them."
The simple admission, so human, so reminiscent of the boy who had left Winterfell, warmed Ned's heart. "They miss you as well. Arya practices daily with her Frozen Needle, though Ser Rodrik complains he's never trained a more impatient student. Bran speaks of nothing but the wonders he saw at the academy. And even Sansa..." He trailed off, remembering his eldest daughter's uncharacteristic defense of Jon when Joffrey had made a disparaging comment. "Even Sansa asks after you."
Something softened minutely in Jon's otherworldly gaze. "Then perhaps this gathering serves a purpose beyond satisfying Robert's curiosity."
As Ned turned to leave, Jon called after him. "Lord Stark." When Ned paused, Jon added, "Prepare the king. What he will hear tonight may challenge everything he believes about the world."
The Great Hall of Winterfell had never been so crowded. Every bench was filled, every space along the walls occupied by standing guests. The air was thick with the scent of pine smoke, spilled wine, and too many bodies pressed together. Candles and torches blazed in every sconce, casting a warm glow over the assembled nobility.
At the high table sat King Robert, his massive frame dominating the center seat that normally belonged to Lord Stark. To his right sat Queen Cersei, her golden beauty like a cold flame in the torchlight. Lord Tywin Lannister occupied the seat beside his daughter, his stern face betraying nothing of his thoughts. On Robert's left sat Ned, with Catelyn beside him, her back straight as a spear, her expression carefully composed.
The rest of the Stark family occupied a second high table, along with Prince Joffrey, Princess Myrcella, and Prince Tommen. Robb sat stiffly beside the crown prince, whose sneering disdain for everything northern had not endeared him to the heir of Winterfell. Sansa, seated on Joffrey's other side, maintained a lady's composure despite the tension, while Arya fidgeted beside her, clearly impatient for the evening's main event.
Northern lords mingled with southern nobles, the distinction obvious in their dress and manner. Lord Wyman Manderly's bulk rivaled the king's, his sea-green finery standing out among the more somber colors favored by his peers. The Greatjon Umber towered over most men, his booming laugh occasionally cutting through the general murmur. Lord Bolton stood quietly near a wall, his pale eyes missing nothing.
Robert had already consumed several cups of wine, his face flushed with anticipation and alcohol. He pounded his fist on the table, the sound silencing the hall. "Where is he, Ned? Where's this son of yours with his magical wives? I didn't arrange this feast to stare at empty chairs!"
Before Ned could respond, a hush fell over the hall. The massive doors swung open, revealing not Jon but Maester Luwin, his face pale with wonder. "Your Grace, my lords and ladies," he announced, his voice steady despite his obvious awe, "Lord Jon Snow of the Lands Between, Elden Lord and Consort to the Goddesses, approaches."
The very air in the hall seemed to change, growing heavier, charged with anticipation. A strange light spilled through the open doors: not the warm glow of torches but something cooler, more ethereal. The assembled guests turned as one toward the entrance, necks craning to catch the first glimpse.
Jon entered first, and a collective gasp rippled through the hall. Gone were the sorcerer's robes he had worn during previous appearances. Tonight he was clad in armor that seemed crafted from the night sky itself: black plate that captured and reflected starlight, each piece etched with runes that pulsed with subtle power. A cloak of midnight blue fell from his shoulders, embroidered with constellations that shifted and moved as if alive. At his hip hung a sword unlike any in the Seven Kingdoms; its blade crystalline, humming with contained power.
But it was his presence, more than his attire, that commanded attention. Jon moved with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate and measured. His silver eyes swept the hall, missing nothing, acknowledging his family with a slight nod before fixing on the high table where Robert and Ned sat.
Behind Jon came his wives, and the hall fell completely silent.
Ranni entered like the night made flesh, her blue skin luminous in the torchlight, her multiple arms moving with hypnotic grace. She wore a gown that seemed woven from the very fabric of the cosmos, stars and nebulae shifting across its surface with each step. A witch's hat of impossible proportions crowned her head, its wide brim casting shadows that only emphasized the ethereal glow of her eyes. The temperature in the hall dropped noticeably as she passed, frost forming briefly on goblets and plates before melting away.
Marika followed, radiant as the sun at noon. Her golden skin and hair seemed to emit light rather than reflect it, illuminating the hall more brightly than the dozens of torches that lined the walls. She wore a gown of black and gold that clung to her divine form, the fabric rippling like liquid metal with each movement. The air around her shimmered with heat, creating the impression of looking at her through summer haze. Unlike Ranni's otherworldly appearance, Marika's beauty was almost painfully perfect; each feature so flawless it bordered on the uncanny.
Behind this divine trio marched twelve knights in gleaming armor unlike any seen in Westeros, their breastplates emblazoned with the crest of Raya Lucaria. They moved with perfect synchronization, taking positions along the walls quickly.
Jon approached the high table and stopped at a respectful distance, inclining his head in a gesture that was neither a bow nor a nod: acknowledgment without submission. "Your Grace," he said, his voice carrying easily through the silent hall. "Lord Stark. Lady Stark. Thank you for your invitation."
Robert stared, his cup frozen halfway to his lips, wine forgotten. For perhaps the first time in his adult life, the king appeared utterly speechless. It was Cersei who recovered first, her green eyes narrowed with calculation as she studied the three figures before her.
"Lord Jon," she said, her voice honey over steel, "we are honored by your presence, and that of your companions." Her gaze lingered on Marika, measuring the goddess's beauty against her own and finding the comparison unsettling.
"Queen Cersei," Jon acknowledged with the same measured respect. "May I present my wives: Ranni, Lunar Princess and Mistress of the Dark Moon, and Marika the Eternal, former vessel of the Elden Ring."
Ranni dipped into a graceful curtsy that somehow managed to be both respectful and subtly mocking. "Your Grace," she said, her voice like wind through crystal chimes. "Your hospitality honors us."
Marika merely inclined her head, a gesture that carried more authority than submission. "King Robert," she said, her voice resonating through the hall like distant thunder. "We have heard much of your reputation."
Robert finally found his voice, setting down his cup with a thud. "Seven hells," he swore, his eyes moving from Jon to his wives and back again. "Ned told me, but seeing is something else entirely." He gestured expansively. "Come, sit! There are places prepared for you at the high table."
Jon glanced at the indicated seats, placed prominently beside the king, and shook his head slightly. "If it pleases Your Grace, we would prefer to remain standing for now. My tale is not one best told from a seat of comfort."
Robert frowned briefly but nodded. "As you wish. But first, wine! No good story starts with a dry throat."
Jon accepted the offered cup but did not drink, instead holding it loosely in one gauntleted hand. He turned to face the assembled court, his silver eyes sweeping across the sea of curious faces. The hall fell silent once more, even the servants stilling their movements to listen.
"Five years ago by your reckoning," Jon began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "I died beneath the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood."
A murmur rippled through the crowd at this blunt beginning. Jon continued, undeterred.
"Assassins caught me alone, their blades finding my heart and throat without mercy. My blood soaked into the roots of the weirwood and froze in the snow. In that moment between heartbeats, as darkness claimed me, I felt myself falling: not down into the earth, but sideways, through a tear in the very fabric of existence."
Jon described his awakening in the Lands Between, naked, confused, surrounded by the ruins of a civilization far beyond Westeros in both splendor and decay. He spoke of his first deaths and resurrections, of the crushing despair that had nearly broken him, of the gradual awakening of power within himself as he claimed the shards of a shattered cosmic order. Many nobles did not seem to believe him but listened nonetheless.
As he spoke, Marika raised one perfect hand, and the air above the central table shimmered. Images formed in the empty space: visions of the Lands Between, landscapes of breathtaking beauty and terrifying desolation. The assembled guests gasped as they saw towering castles suspended in eternal storm, lakes that reflected skies filled with stars even at midday, and creatures of such alien design that some ladies turned away in fear.
"I fought through blighted swamps where scarlet rot consumed everything it touched," Jon continued, his voice steady as the images changed to match his words. "I scaled mountains where ancient dragons ruled skies that had never known the flight of ravens. I descended into catacombs where the dead refused their proper rest."
The images shifted again, showing Jon as he had been: younger, less transformed, wielding a simple sword against horrors that defied description. They watched as he died again and again, each resurrection leaving him changed in subtle ways, his eyes gradually shifting from Stark gray to cosmic silver.
Robert leaned forward, his fascination evident. "You fought these creatures? These gods and monsters? How? What weapons did you use?"
In response, Jon drew the crystalline sword at his hip. The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, a sound like distant bells that raised goosebumps on every arm in the hall. "This is Moonlight Greatsword, forged from the essence of the Dark Moon itself," he said, holding the weapon aloft. The blade caught the torchlight and transformed it, casting patterns of silver-blue radiance across the hall's ancient stones. "But it was only one of many. I wielded weapons crafted from dragon bone and cosmic fire, from the frozen tears of giants and the crystallized blood of gods."
Arya's eyes shone with undisguised admiration, while Bran leaned forward so eagerly he nearly upset his cup. Even Sansa seemed captivated, her usual composure forgotten as she watched the visions of Jon's incredible journey.
"And how exactly did you come to marry these goddesses?" Cersei asked, her voice cutting through the wonder like a blade through silk. No doubt she was still stung from his rejection at the first night's feast. "It seems a remarkable rise for a bastard from the North."
A dangerous silence fell over the hall. Robb tensed visibly, his hand dropping to where his sword would normally hang. Arya's expression darkened with fury at the insult, while Catelyn's face remained carefully neutral.
Jon's expression didn't change, but the temperature in the hall dropped noticeably. Frost formed on goblets and plates, and several of the nearest torches guttered as if struck by a sudden draft.
"As I have said before, in the Lands Between," Jon replied, his voice carrying a subtle edge that hadn't been there before, "one's birth matters far less than what they become. I earned my place through trials that would break most men, through sacrifices that cost me everything I once was." His silver eyes met Cersei's directly. "As for how I came to marry Ranni and Marika, that is their story to tell, if they wish."
Ranni stepped forward, her multiple arms moving in graceful patterns that left trails of starlight in the air. "I chose Jon," she said simply, her voice like music from another world. "I, who had rejected the path laid before me by the Greater Will, who had sacrificed my flesh to free my spirit from divine control, I recognized in him a kindred soul. One who questioned the order he was meant to restore, who sought a different path than endless cycles of rebirth and stagnation."
The images above the table shifted, showing Jon and Ranni beneath a sky filled with impossible stars, their hands joined in a ceremony unlike any wedding in the Seven Kingdoms. The stars themselves seemed to bend toward them, casting light that transformed them both.
"He became my consort when I claimed the shattered throne," Ranni continued, her luminous eyes sweeping across the assembled nobility. "Together, we ushered in the Age of Stars: an age where the Greater Will's grip was broken, where humanity could walk a thousand-year journey into night, free from the tyranny of gods."
The visions showed a second ceremony, this one conducted beneath the branches of a massive golden tree that dwarfed even the heart tree of Winterfell. Golden light surrounded Jon and Marika as they exchanged vows in a language no one in the hall could understand, yet somehow all could feel the weight and meaning of the words.
Robert had fallen completely silent, his cup forgotten as he stared at the images floating above the table. Tywin Lannister's face remained impassive, though his eyes never left Jon, measuring and calculating with cold cunning. Cersei's expression had shifted from skepticism to something more complex: a mixture of disbelief, envy, and a hunger that had nothing to do with food or wine.
"So you see, Your Grace," Jon concluded as the visions faded, leaving the hall feeling somehow dimmer, "I returned to Winterfell not as the boy who left, but as something else entirely. The Lands Between changed me in ways that cannot be undone. I am Elden Lord, consort to goddesses, guardian of realms beyond your understanding."
Robert drained his cup in a single swallow, then reached for the flagon to refill it. "Seven hells, boy," he said, his voice rough with something between awe and disbelief. "That's quite a tale. If anyone else had told it, I'd have them flogged for lying to their king." He gestured toward Ranni and Marika. "But with these two standing beside you, well, a man would have to be blind not to see there's truth in it."
"Every word is true, Your Grace," Jon confirmed. "Though I've spared you many of the harsher details. Some experiences cannot be properly conveyed through words or even visions."
"And now?" Tywin Lannister spoke for the first time, his cold voice cutting through the wonder that had settled over the hall. "What are your intentions, Lord Jon? Do you mean to establish this academy of yours permanently in the North? To bring more of your kind through this portal in the godswood?"
The question hung in the air, its implications clear to everyone present. Beneath the polite inquiry lay a deeper concern: What threat do you pose to the established order of the Seven Kingdoms?
Jon turned to face the Old Lion directly, silver eyes meeting green without flinching. "My intentions, Lord Tywin, are simple. I have returned to the place of my childhood, bringing with me knowledge and resources that may benefit the North. The academy exists within its own realm, should you ever wish to visit, harming no one, taking no land that could be used for crops or settlements." His voice remained measured, respectful but unyielding. "As for bringing 'more of my kind,' there are no others quite like us."
"Yet you command power beyond anything in the Seven Kingdoms," Tywin pressed, his fingers steepled before him. "Power that could upset the balance that has maintained peace since Robert took the throne."
A dangerous silence fell over the hall. Even Robert seemed to sense the tension, his hand tightening around his cup as his gaze moved between Jon and Tywin.
"I have no interest in your politics, Lord Tywin," Jon replied, his voice carrying a subtle resonance that made several nearby candles flicker. "I fought through hell itself to claim the power I now hold. I did not do all this to become entangled in the petty struggles of mortal kings and lords."
Ranni's hand settled on Jon's arm, a gentle touch that nonetheless sent ripples of starlight dancing across his armor. "What my husband means," she said, her voice melodic yet carrying an edge of frost, "is that we seek only peace and the freedom to pursue our own path. We have no designs on your Iron Throne or the power it represents."
"A throne of melted swords holds little appeal to those who have sat upon the shattered remnants of cosmic order," Marika added, her golden light pulsing subtly with each word. "Your seven kingdoms are but a small corner of a vast tapestry we have glimpsed from beyond the veil of stars."
The blunt assessment, that Westeros and its concerns were insignificant in the grand scheme they inhabited, sent a ripple of unease through the assembled nobility. Some looked offended, others fearful, while a few nodded in thoughtful agreement.
Robert laughed suddenly, breaking the tension. "Well said! Why worry about an iron chair when you've got goddesses warming your bed, eh?" He raised his cup in Jon's direction. "To Jon Snow, or whatever we should call you now, the luckiest bastard in all the realms!"
Several northern lords joined in the toast, though many southern nobles hesitated, looking to Tywin for guidance. The Old Lion raised his cup with precise, measured movements, his eyes never leaving Jon's face.
"To Lord Jon," he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to be polite without conveying actual approval. "May his return bring only benefits to the realm."
The Crypts of Winterfell, The next day
Eddard led Robert down the winding stone steps into the cold darkness of the Stark crypts. Their footsteps echoed hollowly against ancient stone, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence that had ruled this place for thousands of years. The torchlight Ned carried cast flickering shadows across the faces of stone kings and lords who had watched over the North since the Age of Heroes, their granite expressions forever frozen in solemn judgment.
The air grew colder as they descended, heavy with the weight of history and the lingering presence of the dead. Unlike the southern crypts Robert had visited, bright, airy mausoleums filled with sunlight and adorned with flowers, the Stark burial ground embraced darkness and simplicity. Iron swords rested across stone laps, their edges long since rusted away, yet still symbolically guarding the North even in death.
Robert's breathing grew labored as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Five years of excess had taken their toll on the once-mighty warrior, and even this short descent left him winded. Still, his eyes remained sharp as they scanned the rows of stern-faced statues, searching for one face in particular.
They stopped before the statue of Lyanna Stark, her stone face serene in eternal repose. A single winter rose, freshly placed, rested at the foot of her tomb, its blue petals a stark contrast against the gray stone. Robert stared at her likeness, his expression a complex mixture of grief, longing, and something darker that Ned couldn't quite name.
"Did you have to bury her in a place like this?" Robert asked, his voice unusually soft, almost reverent. "She deserved more than darkness."
"She was a Stark of Winterfell," Ned replied simply, his tone gentle but firm. "This is her place."
Robert reached out, his thick fingers brushing the cold cheek of the statue with surprising tenderness. "She should be on a hill somewhere, with the sun and clouds above her."
"She wanted to come home, Robert." The words felt worn with repetition, a conversation they'd had many times over the years, yet the king seemed determined to revisit it whenever they stood before Lyanna's tomb.
Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken grief and the weight of shared history. The torch flickered, sending shadows dancing across Lyanna's stone features, almost giving the illusion of movement, of life returned to cold stone.
The cold of the crypts seemed to deepen as Robert turned from Lyanna's statue, his expression hardening into something more regal and demanding. The torch in Ned's hand cast long, wavering shadows across the stone faces of dead Starks who watched this exchange with silent, eternal judgment.
"I need you, Ned," Robert said abruptly, his voice echoing against ancient stone. "Down in King's Landing, not up here where you're no damn use to anybody." His blue eyes cut through layers of fat to reveal the sharp, commanding gaze of the warrior-king he once was. The smell of wine on his breath mingled with the musty scent of the crypts as he leaned closer. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you Hand of the King."
A cold weight settled in Ned's stomach, heavy as Ice across his shoulders. He'd anticipated this moment since the raven arrived, had rehearsed his answer countless times in the sleepless dark. The chill air seemed to crystallize around them, making each breath visible and labored.
"I cannot accept, Your Grace," he replied, feeling the rough texture of duty in his throat. His fingers tightened around the torch, the heat barely penetrating the numbness spreading through his hand. "My place is here in the North."
Robert's face transformed like storm clouds gathering over the Narrow Sea. First disbelief rippled across his features, then anger darkened his countenance. Blood rushed to his cheeks, making his beard seem darker against flushed skin.
"Cannot?" The word exploded from him, disturbing dust that had lain undisturbed for generations. "Seven hells, Ned. I'm not asking you to serve; I'm asking you to save the bloody kingdom! Like Old Jon. The man was like a father to us, and now he's dead."
The mention of Jon Arryn sent a pang of genuine grief through Ned's chest. He tasted bitterness on his tongue as he replied, "I grieve for Jon. But I must refuse. Choose Lord Tywin or your brother Stannis; both would serve you well."
A harsh, contemptuous sound escaped Robert, bouncing off stone walls that had witnessed countless Stark secrets. "Tywin? My goodfather would drive me mad within a month. And as for Stannis..." He shook his head with visceral disgust, his massive shoulders shifting beneath royal finery. "Have you ever seen Stannis at a feast? He is my brother but the man would turn milk sour with a look."
Ned felt the weight of divided loyalties pulling at him: duty to his oldest friend warring with obligations that now transcended mere politics. The torch flame guttered slightly as he exhaled.
"I cannot leave Winterfell. Not now." Each word felt carved from the same unyielding stone as the statues surrounding them.
Robert's eyes narrowed, becoming calculating in a way that reminded Ned uncomfortably of court politics. The king studied him in the dancing torchlight, shadows accentuating the lines of dissipation that years of excess had etched into his once-handsome face.
"This is about that boy, isn't it? Your bastard and his..." His meaty hand waved through the air, disturbing the stillness of the crypt. "Whatever in seven hells they are."
The air between them seemed to crackle with tension. Ned felt sweat beading at his temples despite the chill, aware of how dangerous this conversation had become.
"Jon is part of it," he acknowledged, choosing each word with the sound of a man navigating a field of wildfire. "His return has raised questions that need answers. And the North must be prepared for whatever comes with him."
Robert's boots scraped against stone as he paced away, the sound grating like the edge of a blade on whetstone. His breath came in short, frustrated puffs that formed small clouds in the cold air. When he turned back, his strategy had shifted with the abruptness that had once made him formidable in battle.
"Then at least let us join our houses," he proposed, his voice softening with what might have been genuine sentiment. "I have a son, you have a daughter. My Joffrey and your Sansa shall join our houses as Lyanna and I never could."
The mention of Lyanna in this sacred space, with her tomb watching them, sent a shiver through Ned that had nothing to do with the crypts' perpetual chill. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs as memories and secrets pressed against his conscience.
"Sansa is too young for betrothal," he said, feeling the conversation slipping into treacherous waters. "And I've seen little of Prince Joffrey to judge his character."
The king's face darkened like the sky before a northern blizzard. His massive chest expanded as he drew breath, the jewels on his doublet catching torchlight in angry flashes.
"By the gods, Ned!" The words thundered through the crypts, disturbing ancient dust that swirled in the torchlight like ghosts awakened from slumber. "Why would you refuse both my offers? Sansa could be a queen! What more could you want for your daughter?"
"A good match, Robert," Ned replied, standing his ground even as the stone kings seemed to lean forward in their niches, listening. The smell of damp stone and ancient decay filled his nostrils as he added, "No offense, but from what I've seen, Joffrey does not seem it. You yourself can't seem to stand him."
"No offense?" Robert's bellow shook dust from the ceiling, a fine powder settling on their shoulders like early snow. "You refuse my son and say 'no offense'?"
The silence that followed felt weighted with centuries of judgment from the stone-eyed kings. Ned watched emotions war across Robert's face: rage giving way to indignation, then reluctantly yielding to a grudging recognition that loosened the tight set of his jaw.
"The boy does need a firmer hand, I suppose," Robert muttered, deflating slightly. His fingers combed through his beard, a gesture so familiar it momentarily transported Ned back to simpler days in the Eyrie, when they were boys with dreams instead of men with burdens.
"I only speak the truth as I see it, Your Grace," Ned said quietly, feeling the rough texture of honesty between them like an old, well-worn cloak.
Robert expelled a breath that seemed to carry the weight of his crown, his shoulders slumping beneath invisible pressure. The smell of wine and sweat mingled with the crypts' musty air as he stepped closer.
"This isn't over, Ned," he warned, his voice low and determined. "I didn't ride all this way to go back empty-handed."
His footsteps echoed heavily as he turned toward the entrance, each one punctuating his departure like the closing of a book. Ned remained rooted in place, drawn back to Lyanna's statue as if by some magnetic force. The single winter rose at her feet seemed to glow with unearthly blue in the torchlight, its petals still fresh as the day he'd placed it there.
What would you make of all this, Lya? The thought formed unbidden in his mind as he gazed at her stone features. Your son returned from death itself, bearing powers beyond comprehension, married to beings who call themselves goddesses. And Robert here, still dreaming of what might have been, never knowing the truth that lies buried with you.
A deeper chill settled into Ned's bones: the cold of foreboding rather than mere temperature. If Jon had discovered his true parentage during his otherworldly travels, or if his divine wives had somehow revealed it to him...
The torch guttered as Ned finally turned to follow his king, casting wild shadows that made the stone kings seem to move in their niches. Their empty eyes tracked his departure, centuries of Stark secrets held in their silent gaze. With each step toward daylight, Ned couldn't shake the certainty that soon those secrets would emerge, and neither he nor the Seven Kingdoms would ever be the same again.
The morning light painted the training yard of Winterfell in pale gold, the chill air carrying the promise of the day's warmth to come. Jon stood at the edge of the yard, watching Arya practice with a wooden sword. Despite the early hour, his little sister attacked the training dummy with fierce determination, her small form a blur of focused energy. Ser Rodrik Cassel stood nearby, calling out instructions that Jon occasionally supplemented with his own guidance.
"Keep your guard up, Arya," Jon called out, his silver eyes tracking her movements. "Even when you attack, your defense must remain strong."
Arya pivoted, executing a perfect parry against an imaginary opponent, her face lighting up as she looked to Jon for approval. "Like this?"
"Just so," Jon nodded, a small smile warming his otherworldly features. "You're a natural."
From the sidelines, Robb and Theon watched the impromptu lesson, occasionally calling out encouragement. Robb's face showed genuine pride in his sister's progress, while Theon maintained his usual smirk, though even he seemed impressed by Arya's quick learning.
At a small distance from the training, Ranni and Marika observed the scene. The goddesses' presence caused nearby guards to cast furtive, awestruck glances their way before blushing and looking away. Ranni's blue skin glimmered in the morning light, while Marika's golden radiance seemed to create a halo around her perfect form.
The peaceful scene was interrupted by the arrival of Prince Joffrey, flanked by the Hound, Ser Jaime Lannister, and a retinue of Southern nobles and Lannister soldiers. Their loud approach drew all eyes in the yard, conversations dying as the prince strutted forward, his golden curls catching the sunlight.
Joffrey's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene before him, his gaze lingering first on Jon, then moving dismissively to Arya. His lips curled into a sneer.
"Is this what passes for training in the North?" he called out, his voice dripping with disdain. "A girl playing at swords?"
Jon ignored the barb, keeping his attention on Arya's form as she continued her drills with stubborn determination.
"Footwork, Arya," Jon said calmly. "Your strength is in your speed."
Joffrey's face flushed at being ignored. He stepped closer, his voice rising. "I'm speaking to you, bastard. Or has living with those foreign whores made you deaf as well as stupid?"
A tense silence fell over the yard. Robb stepped forward, his hand moving to his sword hilt, but Jon gave him a subtle shake of the head. The temperature in the yard seemed to drop several degrees, frost forming beneath Jon's boots despite the morning sun.
Meanwhile, Jaime Lannister approached Ranni and Marika, his golden armor gleaming in the morning light. He moved with grace, a charming smile playing on his handsome face as he bowed before the goddesses.
"My ladies," he said with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to admiration, "I must say the tales of your beauty do you no justice. Perhaps you'd care to watch a real swordsman demonstrate his skills?"
The goddesses turned their gaze upon him simultaneously, their otherworldly eyes seeming to pierce through his very soul. The Kingslayer's smile faltered under their scrutiny.
"Your heart is heavy with your sins and mistakes, Kingslayer," Marika said, her voice like distant thunder though she spoke barely above a whisper.
Ranni tilted her head, her cosmic eyes seeing far beyond the present moment. "You would be a good man, a great man, if you had told them all the truth, if you had saved them..." Her voice dropped lower. "The princess and her children."
Jaime's face drained of color. He took several hurried steps backward, as if physically struck by her words. His hand trembled slightly as it moved to his sword hilt, then fell away, useless against the truths laid bare by divine sight.
At that moment, Lord Tywin and Tyrion Lannister arrived at the training yard, drawn by the growing crowd. Tywin's cold eyes assessed the situation with calculating eyes, his face darkening as he observed Joffrey's behavior.
The prince, growing frustrated at being ignored, stepped closer to Jon. "I challenge you, bastard! Let's see if the so-called 'Elden Lord' can wield a sword as well as he can tell tales!"
"Joffrey!" Tywin's voice cut through the yard like a blade. "Enough of this foolishness. Apologize at once!"
Joffrey ignored his grandfather, his face flushed with anger and wounded pride. "Live steel! Unless you're afraid, Snow?"
Tywin moved forward quickly, his face a mask of cold fury, but Jon spoke before he could intervene.
"I accept your challenge, Prince Joffrey," Jon said, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that silenced the yard.
Tywin reached Jon's side, speaking in a low, urgent tone that carried the weight of both command and plea. "Ignore my grandson's stupidity. I will make him apologize for this insult." His eyes, normally cold and calculating, held a flicker of something Jon hadn't expected: concern, perhaps even a hint of fear.
"There's no need for concern, Lord Tywin," Jon replied with a bored smile that never reached his eyes. The silver in them caught the morning light, reflecting it like the surface of a frozen lake. "I won't harm him." The unspoken "much" hung in the air between them, heavy as a winter cloak.
Jon stepped into the center of the training yard, the packed earth crunching beneath his boots. He remained empty-handed while Joffrey drew his sword with a flourish, the metallic song of steel leaving its scabbard echoing against the stone walls. The prince's face twisted with smug anticipation as he brandished the finely crafted blade, its golden hilt gleaming ostentatiously in the sunlight.
"Where's your sword, bastard?" Joffrey taunted, his voice carrying across the now-silent yard. The word "bastard" rolled off his tongue with venom, meant to wound.
Jon felt a familiar coldness settle in his chest: not the rage he once would have felt at such an insult, but something deeper, more ancient. I have faced gods and monsters beyond your comprehension, princeling. His silver eyes gleamed in the morning light, catching it like twin moons. "I won't need one."
What followed was less a duel and more a demonstration. Jon evaded every wild swing and thrust from Joffrey with effortless grace, his movements fluid and precise, almost dance-like. The whisper of the blade passing inches from his face stirred no fear in him. After facing Malenia's waterfowl dance and Radahn's gravity-bending strikes, this felt like watching a child wielding a toy. The prince's face grew increasingly red with exertion and fury as his blade cut nothing but air, his breathing becoming ragged while Jon remained composed.
"Your grip is too tight," Jon called out calmly, sidestepping another clumsy lunge. He could smell the prince's sweat, sour with frustration. "You're showing your attacks. Mind your footwork." Even Nepheli would find this disappointing, he thought, remembering the warrior woman's disciplined stance.
The sound of Joffrey's boots scraping against the dirt filled Jon's ears as the prince stumbled after another failed attack. After several minutes, Joffrey stood panting heavily, sweat pouring down his face while Jon hadn't broken a sweat. The yard had grown silent except for the prince's labored breathing and the occasional murmur from the growing crowd. Jon could feel their eyes on him: some fearful, others impressed, all of them reassessing what they thought they knew about the Bastard of Winterfell.
"Jon won! Jon won!" Arya's voice cut through the silence, unable to contain her delight at seeing the arrogant prince humiliated. Her joy pierced Jon's heart with unexpected warmth, a reminder of the family bonds that had once been his world before the Lands Between.
The shift in Joffrey's demeanor was instant. Jon sensed it before he saw it, the way a wolf knows when a cornered animal will lash out. Joffrey's face contorted with rage, his humiliation crystallizing into something dangerous. With a cry of frustration that sounded more animal than human, he hurled his sword at Arya, the blade spinning through the air toward the small girl.
Time seemed to slow for Jon. His heart thundered in his chest, the familiar surge of protective rage flooding his veins. Not her. Never her. Before he could move, the Hound reacted with surprising speed for such a large man. He yanked Arya out of the way, the sword clattering harmlessly to the ground. Sandor Clegane's burned face twisted with disgust as he looked at the prince.
Tywin strode forward, his footsteps echoing with purpose, and slapped Joffrey hard across the face, the crack of palm against cheek reverberating through the yard. The impact sent the prince sprawling in the dirt, a cloud of dust rising around his fine clothes. The Old Lion's face was a mask of cold fury, his green eyes glittering like wildfire.
"Have you lost what little wits you possess?" he hissed, his voice carrying in the stunned silence. Jon could hear the barely contained rage beneath the controlled exterior. "Do you want war with the North?" He turned to the nearby Lannister soldiers, who stood frozen in shock. "Take him to the king. Now."
Joffrey scrambled to his feet, dirt clinging to his once-pristine clothing. His face twisted into a mask of petulant rage. "I did nothing wrong! The bastard—"
His words died in his throat as the daylight suddenly dimmed, as if the sun itself had been blotted out. An unnatural chill descended upon the training yard, the temperature plummeting until breath frosted in the air. Jon felt it emanating from his own body: the cold of the void between stars, the darkness of the Age to come. All eyes turned to Jon, who now stood directly before Joffrey, though no one had seen him move.
Jon's silver eyes had gone dark as the void, seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. He felt the power of the Elden Ring stirring within him, fragments of memory and might coalescing around his form. Around him flickered a vision that all could see: a blood-covered version of himself, a large dead beast in black armor lying at his feet, Jon wielding a massive ebony sword dripping with gore. In his mind's eye, he saw Maliketh fall again, felt the weight of Destined Death in his hands. His voice, when he spoke, seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once, carrying the weight of a thousand battles and countless deaths.
"O Death, be my blade once more."
Jon could smell the acrid stench of urine as Joffrey's breeches darkened, the prince wetting himself in terror. Jon lowered his face until it was inches from the prince's, close enough to see the tears forming in his eyes, to feel the trembling breath on his skin.
This boy knows nothing of true fear, Jon's thought appeared in the back of his mind, nothing of the darkness that waits beyond the stars. But he will learn.
"If you EVER put any of my family in harm's way again..." Jon's hand slammed into the ground beside Joffrey, creating a crater large enough to fit a man. The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through the packed earth of the training yard, the sound like thunder contained in a bottle. Dust and small pebbles jumped into the air, settling back down in a ring around his fist. The smell of crushed stone and disturbed earth filled Jon's nostrils, sharp and primal.
Everyone except Ranni and Marika recoiled in shock, even Tywin Lannister's composed face showing alarm. Jon could see the slight widening of the old lion's eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw: tiny fractures in his legendary composure. The Lannister guards stepped back involuntarily, their hands trembling on their sword hilts, metal rattling against scabbards. They fear me as they should, Jon thought, feeling the ancient power coursing through his veins like ice and fire intertwined.
As suddenly as it began, the darkness receded. Daylight returned, though the crater remained as evidence that what they witnessed was no illusion. Jon straightened, his eyes returning to their silver hue, though they remained cold as he looked down at the trembling prince. He could feel the tension draining from his body, replaced by a hollow exhaustion that always followed these moments when the power of the Elden Lord manifested itself.
I must be more careful, he reminded himself. This is not the Lands Between, where gods walk openly and men expect wonders and terrors.
The Southerners and Lannisters backed away from Jon, their boots scuffing against the dirt as they retreated, the sound of their fearful breathing audible in the sudden silence. Meanwhile, the Northerners, Robb, and Theon stood their ground, though they too looked unnerved by the display of power. Jon could sense their uncertainty: a mixture of awe and apprehension that made his chest tighten with a familiar loneliness. Arya alone seemed unfazed, her eyes shining with fierce pride as she moved to Jon's side, the warmth of her small body against his arm a comforting anchor to this world he sometimes felt so disconnected from.
At least one of them still sees me as family, not monster, he thought gratefully.
Tywin Lannister was the first to recover, his calculating eyes reassessing Jon with new wariness. Jon could almost hear the man's mind working, recalculating threats and opportunities in light of this revelation. "My grandson will be disciplined," he said, his voice betraying none of the shock evident on his face. "You have my word, Lord Jon."
Jon nodded once, the cosmic light in his eyes dimming as he stepped back, feeling the weight of a thousand stars fading back into the recesses of his being. "See that he is. I would hate for there to be misunderstandings between our families." The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implication, and Jon could taste the metallic edge of threat on his tongue as he spoke them.
Tywin nodded. Soon the training yard had largely emptied following Jon's display of power. The Lannister guards had hurried away, half-dragging the still-trembling Joffrey between them. Most of the onlookers had scattered as well, muttering prayers to gods who suddenly seemed very distant compared to the silver-eyed man who had just punched a crater into solid stone. The air itself felt charged with remnants of Jon's power, a lingering electricity that made the hairs on everyone's arms stand on end.
Only a few remained: Robb, Theon, Arya, Bran, the Hound, and Jon himself. The dark aura that had surrounded Jon during his confrontation with Joffrey still lingered, a palpable shadow that made the air feel heavy and cold despite the afternoon sun. Jon could feel it clinging to him like a second skin, the cosmic void that had become part of his very being in the Lands Between. He tasted ash in his mouth, felt the weight of countless deaths pressing against his chest.
Ranni and Marika approached from the sidelines, their divine presence parting the tension like a blade through silk. Jon felt their familiar energy before they even touched him: Ranni's cool starlight and Marika's golden warmth, the twin forces that had anchored him through countless battles. Each placed a hand on Jon's shoulders, and the darkness around him began to recede at their touch, like mist burning away under morning light. Their touch sent ripples of calm through his body, easing the storm of power that threatened to overwhelm him.
"Peace, beloved," Marika whispered, her golden voice soft yet carrying across the yard. "The danger has passed." The scent of summer roses and honey accompanied her words, wrapping around Jon like a comforting blanket.
Ranni's cosmic eyes reflected starlight even in daylight as she studied Jon's face. Her gaze penetrated deep into his soul, seeing the turmoil that still raged beneath his surface. "Your family is safe. Let the darkness recede." The cool touch of her multiple hands against his skin sent soothing waves through his overheated blood.
Jon drew a deep breath, feeling his heartbeat slow as he fought to contain the ancient power that had surfaced. His silver eyes slowly returned to their normal luminescence as the shadow surrounding him dissipated. The taste of ash faded from his mouth, replaced by the familiar scents of Winterfell: leather, steel, and pine. His gaze drifted to where Sandor Clegane stood, awkwardly ensuring Arya was unharmed. Jon felt a surge of gratitude toward the scarred warrior.
"Thank you, Clegane," Jon said, his voice still carrying echoes of that otherworldly power that reverberated in his own chest. "For protecting my sister."
The Hound grunted, his burned face twisting into what might have been embarrassment. "Don't need your thanks. Wasn't going to let the little shit hurt a child." He shifted uncomfortably, his armor creaking as he moved, clearly eager to be away from this display of magic and power. Jon could sense the man's unease, could hear his quickened heartbeat from across the yard: a remnant of the heightened senses Jon had developed in his time away.
But before he could retreat, Marika's melodious voice stopped him. "Sandor Clegane. Approach." Jon recognized that tone: the voice of a goddess who had commanded armies and shaped worlds.
Something in her tone compelled obedience. The massive warrior found himself walking toward her, though wariness showed in every line of his scarred frame. Jon watched as the man's pupils dilated with fear, his breathing shallow and quick. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt, and his eyes darted between the three impossible beings before him.
"Kneel before me," Marika commanded gently.
To his own evident surprise, Sandor dropped to one knee, his massive frame folding before the golden goddess. The sound of his armor hitting the packed earth echoed through the silent yard. Marika placed her perfect hand against the ruined side of his face, the burned flesh a stark contrast to her divine beauty. Golden light flowed from her fingers, spreading across his scarred features like liquid sunlight. Jon felt the pulse of her power, warm and healing, so different from the cold void he commanded.
"You can still be a good man in a world of evil, Sandor Clegane," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom. "Your brother's cruelty need not define you."
When she removed her hand, the horrific burn scars that had defined Sandor's appearance for most of his life were gone, replaced by smooth, healthy skin. Jon could smell the fresh, clean scent of new flesh, could hear the subtle shifting of muscles as Sandor's face moved in ways it hadn't for decades. The Hound touched his face in disbelief, his fingers trembling slightly as they explored terrain that had been twisted and ruined since childhood.
"Why?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion he couldn't fully suppress. Jon heard the vulnerability there, the raw confusion of a man who had known only cruelty suddenly faced with kindness.
Marika's golden eyes held compassion that seemed to pierce through the warrior's carefully maintained defenses. "Because you protected an innocent when others would not. Because there is honor in you, buried beneath pain and rage."
Sandor rose, still touching his healed face, and walked away without another word. But his back was straighter, his stride more purposeful than before, as if a burden had been lifted from more than just his physical form. Jon recognized that walk: the gait of a man reborn, something he himself had experienced countless times in the Lands Between.
Arya watched him go, her gray eyes wide with wonder. "You healed him," she said, turning back to Marika. Jon felt a swell of affection for his little sister, whose capacity for awe remained untouched by the darkness of the world.
Ranni's multiple arms shifted in a graceful gesture, the sound of silk brushing against silk barely audible. "Some wounds can be healed with a touch. Others require more time." Jon knew she spoke not just of Sandor, but of himself: of the wounds that ran deeper than flesh, carved into his very soul.
Robb approached Jon cautiously, his expression a mixture of awe and concern. Jon could smell his brother's fear: not of him, but for him. "What... what was that, Jon? What happened to you just now?"
Jon exhaled slowly, the last traces of darkness fading from around him. His chest felt hollow, emptied of the power that had surged through him moments before. "A glimpse of what I became in the Lands Between. What I had to become to survive." His voice carried the weight of countless deaths and resurrections, of battles that had forged him into something beyond human. Each word felt heavy on his tongue, inadequate to explain the transformation he had undergone.
Theon, uncharacteristically solemn, shook his head. "Remind me never to anger you, Snow." Jon caught the scent of fear and respect mingling in Theon's sweat, heard the slight tremor in his voice.
A ghost of Jon's old smile flickered across his face. "You already anger me daily, Greyjoy. Yet here you stand, unharmed." The familiar banter felt strange on his lips, a relic from a different life, but comforting nonetheless.
The jest, so reminiscent of their old relationship, broke the tension. Robb and Theon exchanged relieved glances, a nervous laugh escaping them both. Jon heard their heartbeats settling into more normal rhythms. Even Bran, who had watched the entire confrontation with unnervingly calm eyes, smiled slightly.
Arya tugged at Jon's sleeve, her face alight with excitement rather than fear. "Will you teach me to do that? To make the day turn to night?" Her small fingers were warm against his arm, her touch grounding him further in the present.
Jon ruffled her hair, the gesture achingly familiar amidst all the strangeness. The silky strands slipped through his fingers, reminding him of simpler times. "Some powers aren't meant to be taught, little sister. Some are bought at too high a price." His silver eyes clouded momentarily with memories of suffering beyond her comprehension. I died a thousand deaths to gain this power. I would spare you even one.
As they spoke, servants and guards were no doubt already spreading word of what had happened throughout Winterfell. Jon could almost hear the whispers beginning, feel the ripples of change moving outward from this moment. By nightfall, every person in the castle would know of Jon's display of power and of the Hound's miraculous healing. The political implications were immense, with the balance of power in Westeros potentially shifting on the fulcrum of a bastard-turned-demigod. Let them talk, Jon thought. Let them fear. Fear keeps them from doing foolish things.
Arya slipped her small hand into Jon's, looking up at him with complete trust. "Will there be trouble because of this?" Her grip was firm, fearless, and Jon felt a surge of pride for her courage.
Jon squeezed her hand gently, feeling the delicate bones beneath her skin, marveling at her fragility and her strength. "There's always trouble when power shifts, little sister. But we've faced worse than angry lions." He glanced at his wives, who stood like divine sentinels beside him, their presence a comfort and a reminder of all they had endured together. "Much worse."