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Chapter Text

The North: Winterfell

The Warden of the North’s solar was thick with tension, quick angry breaths escaped through teeth so tightly clenched one would think they were going to break. It was warmer than normal, the height of a summer day in the north, pushing the temperature just above comfortable in the room.

Grey walls padded by tapestries and a few paintings of scenery, interspaced by mostly closed windows and the soft glow of yellow light from the candles in the sconces cast them in moving light, shadows moulding and shaping their faces all the harsher.  A breeze came from a single cracked window, the framed pane pushed slightly out, wafting in the smells of the evening: burning wood, churned earth, and nature as a whole.  

“It’s not right Ned, none of this is right!” Eddard knew his brother couldn’t help his tone, he was unrestrained, his pacing growing more and more fervent.

This wasn’t a place either thought they would ever be, High Lord and Lordling. They were meant for freedom, not duty. He was the second son, unprepared for the temperament it took to claim his father’s title. Everything was learned through harsh trials and terrible errors. He focused on Benjen, pushing the rampant thoughts away. Each step his brother took further frayed his worn nerves; his shoulders taught, resigned yet apprehensive. 

It felt as if the walls were closing in, a rushing sound following each word as he tried to focus through his unease, clenching and unclenching his jaw.  There was a pervasive wildness in most of his kin, even his youngest sibling.  A willingness to usurp authority, seek out what they thought was right, but nothing was right, nothing had been for a few years and Benjen’s presence only made that clearer to see.

“What would you have me do?”

“Not let him live like this!”  Ben was angry, rightfully so and it made Ned feel guilty, the ever-present pit in his stomach doubled in weight.  

When his brother rushed into his solar, all black, grey, and white fury, voice raised as he yelled that he had meant to find Jon, play with the boy some.  As the youngest sibling himself, Benjen had an inkling of understanding as to how it felt to be looked over.  He understood that for Jon, feasts were especially tough, his longing to be a part of the family so obvious in those deep purple eyes, the flecks of grey so prominent in the daylight. 

Ben had never meant to chance upon the boy crying under the Weirwood, a statement that felt like Eddard’s heart was clenched in someone’s fist.  

“Ben…” Ned said, softly, willing his calm into his brother. “…It’s just not safe.”

Grey eyes were wide, face frowning in concern as he furrowed his brow, quickly processing every word and mulling it over before accepting it heavily, almost like it hurt.  His own words seemed distant, as if in a long hallway and he was at the end of it, there was no conviction just wind meant to make him feel better. 

Ben was pacing the length of the room still, his voice filling it despite how hard he tried to speak softly. 

He shook his head, pushing away the torrent of questions and worries, returning to the present as he looked at his baby brother once more who for his part hadn’t noticed Ned’s distance. 

“He was crying Ned, real tears.” The anger left Benjen in a gasp and a soft shudder as he looked down, shoulders slumped slightly.  His lips pulled into a frown as he looked up at his elder brother.  Ben was no older than ten and nine, but the rebellion, the deaths, and the loss of the majority of the people he loved.  It aged him. 

Ned reacted in kind, his own sombre eyes widening as he listened to him.  His soul felt weary, a lingering and sickening pain weighing him down with each step and each breath.  He was breathing lightly, his own eyes downcast.  “Why?”

“Why do you think, brother?” His voice was distant and sharp.  “He doesn’t understand any of it. He’s a boy.”

“Ben.”

“You forced this on him.  You!” His finger was pointed at Eddard’s chest, black brows furrowed in surprise at his own righteous anger. Ben had always considered himself uncaring. Though Ned had always believed it to be a front; his way of coping with their shared losses and guilts.  Benjen was probably the most caring of them all - a kind heart hidden behind jokes and laughs. But the laughs were over and the jokes fell flat.

“You told her you would protect him, but you haven’t. Catelyn hates the boy, Ned, why do you think I stayed for so long? Why do you think I still haven’t said my vows?” He paused, catching his breath, though continuing shakily at first.  “I’m a Stark, aye, but even the Watch will expect me to choose one way or another.  I can’t be a guest forever.”

“What are you saying Benjen?”

Ben scoffed as if he was unsure he was actually talking to his brother, his open scepticism wasn’t missed.  His eyes were angry, though pleading, questioning and wild.  Ned stuttered in what to say, suddenly unsure. Am I blind? Am I inept? No...I just didn't want to see. The thoughts rushed through his mind between the seconds it took for Benjen to think and take a breath, renewing his tirade. 

“You know what I’m saying Ned.” He ran his hand through his hair now, no longer held up in their traditional manner, but framing his long face in a way that made him look so much younger. 

“I really don’t know who beat it into your head that life is about honour…maybe Jon Arryn and his southron ways, because I know it wasn’t our father, for the most part, he believed family came first.  Those we love. He had his ambitions, aye, but it was always about the pack.  Jon has nobody else Ned, no pack, and if you won’t be there for him then I will. I’m not joining The Watch, I’m not leaving Lyanna’s son to suffer the fate of some bastard at The Wall.”

“I would never…”

“God’s Ned…” Benjen stopped him, hand raised.  “Have you ever heard him call you father when the two of you aren’t alone?” His eyes bore into Ned before he nodded as if seeing the realization cross his elder brother's face; teeth clenched as he all but hissed “What is the point of having honour if it hurts those you love?”

Ned’s eyes grew wide and he drew his head back, a sudden and sad realization as his world was dashed soundly to the side.  He staggered for a moment...clutching the chair in front of him for stability, his knees suddenly weak, whether from drink or sudden helplessness, he wasn’t sure.  Was he so blind?

As if reading his thoughts, Benjen shook his head, again.  His black shoulder-length hair moved from side to side.  Of the two he was always the one that wore a smile the easiest, but not today.  His face suddenly looked older, well-worn with lines of age and sadness and anger creasing his forehead.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing it through his nose and releasing it through his mouth before opening his eyes once more. 

“You’ve deluded yourself so deeply that you aren’t aware of what’s happening in your own castle.  Pay attention and see that she has no love for an innocent child .” Just like Robert.  The words went unsaid but the hint was there.  He bit off the last words with some force, clenching his jaw. 

“On his fourth name day, he asked me why he couldn’t call you father when others were around. He hadn’t even seen his fourth year before he learned what you made them teach him. By all the gods, Old and New, it took everything out of me not to beat you bloody…but not this time Ned, not this one.”  Ben was breathing harder again. “Three days and I tell him the truth.  He’s not a bastard that Catelyn Tully can't love, he is Vaegon Targaryen a trueborn Prince and son of House Stark.”

Before Ned could reply, Benjen swept out.  His grey breeches and white tunic no more than a blur as he pushed past his brother, the taps of his boots retreating down the hall.  There were no words spent, save a stifled attempt at a plea from Ned.  He sighed, shifting slightly as he tugged on his own tunic, untucking it from his breeches before he pulled the chair he was leaning against out and sat in it roughly, a sigh of failure escaping his lips.

How had he failed so decisively?  Ned could remember maybe a handful of times Jon had called him father, and even then it seemed guarded as if he were afraid he’d get caught in the act.  Before he realized it, his hair was falling around his face, obscuring his vision as he leaned forward and put his face in his hands, clenching his jaw and simply breathing the sadness through his teeth, roughly. 

Tears welled up in the inside corner of his eyes, he tried to hold them back but they fell between his fingers and to the floor.  His body shook with each soft gasp and sob, as a heavy and true reality set in so deep and profound that it shook him.  I have no honour.  Everything seemed to coalesce into a disgusting truth, he had utterly failed Lyanna’s son, a boy with no mother or father, he had never even given him the name he deserved and the comfort of unconditional love. 

He took a deep stilling breath, unsure of how long he had remained there.  Resolve formed in his steely grey eyes as he looked up and wiped the tears from his face on his sleeve.  Everyone was still talking and laughing and eating at Robb’s name-day feast. 

He was alone in his solar, and with a pang of guilt, he realized Jon would be alone too.  Benjen was right, he needed to tell the boy, tell him his truth and figure out a way to give Jon some sense of comfort and peace. He had to, he needed to. 

With a new sense of purpose, he left his solar and strode with resolve through the main keep.  He made no noise as he walked out to the coolness of summer in Winterfell.  Summer for the North would be considered winter to the remaining kingdoms. Storms blanketed them with snow, at times one or two feet deep with no warning, rain and cold battered them, but it was less; and therein was the definition of the Northern summer.  Less snow and cold than the winter but still much more than the rest of the kingdoms. It bred for tougher people, the Northerners liked to brag.

He nodded as the guards passed him, begging them off with a wave as he made for the Godswood, for Jon.  Within a few moments, he realized the boy wasn’t there, he thought for a moment before finding himself walking to his son’s room. At times like this, he cursed the expanse of winding halls he called home.  It made searching that much harder, and finding his destination empty that much more disappointing. Ned frowned, unsure where else to look. His only conclusion was that mayhap Benjen brought him to the Great Hall. 

Upon arrival, and with a quick glance, he could see that Jon wasn’t here either. His heart began to speed up as he turned away quickly just as Robb and Cat saw him, only for them to frown as he turned and left them in a hurry.  Robb made to follow but Cat stopped him, corralling the lordling back to his celebration. 

Ned went outside, brusquely pushing through two guards.  “Apologies!” he called back as he made his way to the crypts.  By the time he reached the barred doors, he was realizing what was going on. With a growing sense of dread, he now sprinted through the keep, away from the barred doors of the crypts.  He was panting by the time he reached the guard house. 

“Mi’Lord?” An armoured and cloaked Stark man at arms asked, brow raised in concern as he shared a look with a matching associate. 

“H-Have” Ned tried to say between pants.  “Have you seen anyone come through here? Benjen or anyone else? They’d be on horseback, leaving in a hurry?”

“No mi’lord.” The soldier replied, “I haven’t seen Lord Benjen since he arrived.”

Ned cursed lightly, nodding to the man before telling them to move through the castle quietly and quickly, all the while searching for Benjen or Jon. His heart was sinking as he found his way back into the great hall, a feeling of desperation clinging to it as the sound of music assaulted his ears.  Three days, he said three days, the only thoughts rattling in his mind as his heart threatened to beat through his chest.  

“Little Robb!”

They called, all singing along to some tune Ned couldn’t place at the moment.  He was trying to catch his breath, despite the ever-present pit in his stomach growing, the expanding feeling of apprehension leeching away any warmth he had before.  There was no peace here, his mood now ruined as the apprehension gave way to panic. The guards he had approached no less than twenty minutes ago came to him, both shaking their heads, thin-lipped and grim looking.  He knew now that he had made a mistake…

The music was loud, men and women enjoying every moment of it they could, Catelyn finished making her rounds amongst those that came to join them, baby Sansa bouncing merrily on her hip.  It was by chance that she caught Ned’s expression, watching as he pulled away from the guards he was talking to. Robb stood at her other hip, laughter in his eyes before he tilted his head questioningly seeing the concern on her face. 

“Mother?” he began, not Mama she thought wistfully.  He’d told her that morning that he was a big boy now, and big boys didn’t say ‘Mama’.

But Catelyn smiled down at him, patting him gently on the cheek before stooping down and kissing him on his forehead.  “I’ll be right back my dear.” She nodded to Old Nan, calling the woman over to watch on both of her children as she passed the happily clapping Sansa off to the elder.  She kissed them both on the forehead before sliding through the group of people, making her way from the great hall and to her Lord husband’s solar.  As she reached the cracked door she paused, listening to the voices, speaking. 

“—but why, My lord?”

That was Maester Luwin, she thought as she crept closer to the door. 

“Because I made a mistake with Jon and broke a promise I kept.” Ned replied, his voice heavy.  Is this about the bastard? Had he been crying? She frowned at the thought, sucking in a breath before she pushed the door open.  The faces of Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick and Jory Cassel, Veyon Poole, and her husband all turned to her.  Each with a measured look of surprise save Ned, there was anger in those eyes.

His face grew grimmer, she wouldn't believe it possible if she hadn’t seen it herself.  “If you would let me speak to my wife in private?”  It was posed as a question but the tone indicated it was a command; his voice somber and grave, deeper than normal. 

Nobody said anything as they each left where they were, filing from the door with mumbled greetings for the Lady of the house.  Once they were gone and the door was closed, Catelyn made her way to her husband’s desk and sat opposite him, smoothing her dress and placing her hands on her lap, her face measured and concerned. 

Ned’s eyes never left her face as if he was searching for something in the depths of her eyes.  A storm of emotion played in his own gaze, though underneath it all she saw distance. Something had closed him off from her, something that suddenly had her angry and frightened equally.  It seemed he was fighting something as his mouth opened once and then closed before he sighed, closing his eyes. She knew what he was doing, he was clearing his mind, taking a second to compose himself and put his Lord’s face and voice on.  It only served to put her on guard, nervousness claiming her emotions as she wondered why he would need to do that with her? 

“Jon is…was…” He paused and took a breath, as dread clutched at her heart. “Jon was taken. I do not wish to cause alarm to the household, so this will be handled as quietly as possible until I can get more information.  I do not want to worry Robb just yet, it may still be unnecessary.” He said it with no emotion, the words were hollow and distant, empty of life.

She drew up, shocked for a moment before settling on him, her eyes narrowing.  Her natural reaction was anger as if he was making a very morbid accusation, one she hoped he wouldn’t think her capable of no matter the circumstances, but that was swiftly supplanted by worry as she remembered Ned’s cold reception and colder delivery.  They didn’t speak to apprehending a suspect, but of something else entirely. “What do you mean? He was outside of the great hall when I last saw him.”

“And when was that Catelyn?”

“I’m not certain, Eddard, but I’m sure your bastard is fine.”

Ned’s lips parted for a second as if to speak before drawing themselves into a thin line as any warmth that remained in his eyes fled, only to be replaced by cold flecks of Valyrian Steel grey. “I just said he was taken, and you tell me ‘He’s fine’?” He questioned; his voice soft. 

“Ned…what is this about?”  Cat asked indignantly, suspicion and worry clouding her ability to see the greater picture.  Her worry was routed in what she perceived as her husband’s abnormal love and care for the boy, the boy who she believed should never have existed. Though as her anger threatened to rear its head, and paint the room red in her more than righteous fury a thought clicked as she realized that the men that had been in the room had been men of import around the castle.  If Jon was simply hiding in Winterfell, then why would he include the master-at-arms, the captain of the household guard, their Maester and their steward? With a quick look she noticed the raven-sized parchment, quill, and ink. “Where do you think the boy is? Who would take him and why? He is a bastard!”

She realized too late, her tone was less than favourable.  His face contorted for a moment, brows furrowing as he made to speak but then stopped.  She understood it was all he could do to keep himself from throwing something across the room. She’d never seen him this angry.  Ned brought the side of his fist against the surface of the desk, hitting it in a moment of fury, his goblet jumping and clattering.  Cat herself jumped with a yelp as her hand flew to her chest.  “God’s Damn It! Bastard or not, a child is missing and you care so little?!” He shouted, the color draining from Cat’s face as he stood and glowered over her now, both hands planted on his desk. 

“A boy Cat, that’s all he is!” he began.  The calm and collected Ned was gone, emotions clear on his face, panic had set in and fear was there in his eyes.  The cold façade broke the moment he started shouting, the passion and anger coloring his words and gestures.  Eddard rose a shaky hand, pointing at her now, jabbing almost.  “You have brought hate into this house. Hate for a boy that could do little to help himself.  Did you think I would not notice that he struggled even to call me father?” He paused,  his eyes searching her face. 

“Ned…” She breathed, trying and failing to push away as she felt the spittle from his mouth pelt her face; the faint tang of Ale in the air between them.  Suddenly the chair didn’t feel far enough away.  Their few years of marriage hadn’t prepared her for his true ire, that was obvious.  The Quiet Wolf they called him, she’d always paid attention to the first word of that title. His normally stoic face, a demure example of pure resolve.  Yes, he was quiet, but a Quiet Wolf was still a wolf. 

Her eyes were wide and she could do little more than shake her head, trying her hardest to refute what he was saying but knowing it was all true.  “…I tried…” She whimpered.

The fury was back on him, she saw him shudder at her words.  Will he strike me?   Ned’s hand was shaking and she wasn’t certain what he would do next. 

The blood of the wolf they called it, but he’d always said somehow it missed him.  Mayhap his aggression was saved for the battlefield? She’d never seen him fight, and he did lead and survive the rebellion. He took one deep breath, his arm falling limp as he stood upright and sat back down slowly, taking calming breaths as he stared deep into his wife’s eyes.  Cold stone grey found blue as he searched for something, something he must not have found if the deep and suddenly haunted look in his eyes was anything to go by. 

“I pray we can find them, I pray no harm comes to him.” He sighed, shaking his head. 

“His name day is soon, he’s younger than Robb. He wouldn’t inherit over him. All you had to do was smile at him, once even, make him feel like he wasn’t worse than the dirt that’s swept outside.” He chuckled sadly. “But, mayhap were both to blame?”

Cat stayed in the chair, quiet, unsure of what to say but certainly sure of her husband’s stance.  She had been so certain that her belief and treatment was correct.  No highborn Lady would ever accept a bastard, especially one that was a mockery of what she hoped her sons would look like. 

Even at four, the boy was undoubtedly a Stark, save for his very purple eyes, but even those had flecks of grey where her own children were pure Tully blue.  She hated admitting that she made a mistake, one she had been so sure she was well within her rights to make. Ned’s sudden departure and cryptic words weren’t missed on her.

Catelyn could only think that her hate of the boy had made him an easy target for any of her husband’s enemies, and as a Warden, there were any number of them.  It would be the reason that made the most sense, considering how much Ned loved the boy.

Now she only cursed herself for it wondering why her view couldn’t have been this clear before.  She knew she should have tried harder, gave him something, just a little bit, nothing more than a smile even.

He was a boy, and in all honesty, innocent. 

Her heart was beating faster than she’d ever felt. She was scared, what would that mean for her? A woman incapable of loving a helpless babe, Oh God’s cat, you should have tried harder!   The fear gave way to a sudden and harsh sadness. 

The God’s would curse a woman that scorned a helpless babe. 

Maester Luwin was able to convince Eddard that sending a raven to every Lord of the North would do them no good.  If Jon was truly abducyed then the culprit would make their demands known. It seemed to Catelyn that they were skirting a subject, a shared secret, but avoided outright doing so in her presence. 

Despite her feelings and suspicions she still couldn’t understand Ned’s desperation regarding his bastard. She felt the secret of his mother more than ever, as the men and women of the castle began to cast her sidelong glances. 

It wasn’t her fault he was born of sin, it wasn’t her fault Ashara Dayne opened her legs to Eddard, granted none of them could foresee the disaster the next few years of life would be. No, rather than wallowing in self-doubt and believing Eddard chose his bastard over her, she associated his desperation with his sense of honor.  A way to honor the mother who flung herself to her death all because the man she loved married another and killed her brother. It was all too poetic for her at times, finished off with an evil Lady of the house and their story was truly a tale.

A search party was formed quietly, Ser Roderick and Jory Cassel assured Lord Stark that they gathered thirty five of their most trustworthy and honorable men.  It did nothing to allay her husband’s fears as they sorted the men into groups. Ten were to go South along the Kings Road and split up leaving five to sail to White Harbor along the White Knife and another five to ride for Moat Cailin.  Another ten would go East and range over Hornwood and Bolton Land’s. Ten more went West through the Wolfs Wood, making their way to Deepwood Motte, leaving five to go North as far as Last Hearth. Ned went with the group headed south, following the most obvious trail as he was convinced that whoever made off with Jon would head to white Harbor. 

They found Hodor nearly eight miles from Winterfell, heading South West following the Kings Road.  An obvious distraction. He was whistling merrily, a lantern swinging from a pole strapped to his horse as he walked along its side, gold coins brazenly displayed on his hip, completely cloaked in his usual charcoal grey.  

She learned the reason for her suspicions and Eddard’s growing distance then. Maester Luwin originally recommended they avoid sending ravens because they would be placing Benjen Stark in harm's way.  Benjen took Jon because of her hate for the boy. Ned’s voice had been distant as he told her that, eyes staring through her.

He believed that she would, for all of her family’s words, condemn Jon to a life of misery leaving him with the option to lash out and rebel violently or curl in on himself.  It broke her heart to see that Ned agreed, though he did not care for his brother’s method of escape.

Ben, In his haste, had thought it a good idea to use Hodor as a distraction; preying on his simple-minded loyalty. The man was a beacon of all that could be good and right in the world, meandering oblivious to danger down a well-used road.  Hodor’s size and the hound at his side must have been enough to deter most highwaymen.  The fact that they were on staunchly guarded Stark lands was the other; the memory of the rebellion was still fresh.

Catelyn found no peace over the coming days.  She wasn’t even sure when she realized a few moons had turned, and she had yet to have her moonblood.  The thought sent a chill down her spine, a lingering suspicion that she wasn't too thrilled about. It was as if the gods were mocking her, telling her ‘He’s finally gone, it is what you wanted?’ Maester Luwin confirmed her suspicions one gloomy morning. 

They were in the Maesters turret.  The sun had just crept above the horizon and she had desperately fought off a bout of sickness.  Her face was a bit paler than normal, but her eyes were alive; focused and anxious. “You are with child my lady.” The Maester said softly after the examination, his eyes not looking at her but writing something as she sat up resting her hands on her lap fidgeting as she took a deep stilling breath.  

“It is something to be excited for My Lady, is it not?” Luwin followed up, this time looking at her.  She caught the concern in his gaze.  

Some women were known to abjectly hate the thought of children after birthing their first few, some even found themselves distant from their children.  The Maesters eyes searched her face, obviously worried for something along those lines but she nodded her head. The reality stung in a way she hadnt thought it would, her thoughts fleetingly pondered the sex of the child. 

She left Luwin with a smile and thank you. Agreeing with him that it was a thing to be excited for, though it was half hearted. Woe seemed to be her constant friend. Ned’s company was very rare now, and although he had come to apologize for his words that night, she still felt them to be true.  His distance was greater and colder than the great grey stones of Winterfell’s freezing wall-walk, the ancient grey curtain wall standing strong against all manner of foes.    

It was during the lulls in her activities, during the times she wasn't busy being the Lady of Winterfell, going over sums, following up with their kitchen staff, or making sure the children were minding themselves that her mind would wander back to the babe that grew within her.  Pregnant. It wasn’t the first time she had actually hoped it wasn’t true, and as a devout follower of the Seven, she knew it was wrong to wish a babe away.  How could the Gods see to give me a child when I ran Ned’s from this home? 

With the boy gone, remorse seemed possible, almost absolute…it was easy to see the weight of her actions when the face of betrayal wasn’t looking at her day in and day out.  Though Benjen’s laugh always seemed to echo through the walls, she had thought she hated the way he would chase his nephews through the keep.  She had scorned them then, chastised Ben for taking Robb away from his studies with the Maester.  They’re only four Cat, they have a lot of time before they need to worry about duty. The memory of those words almost haunted her

She had been vexed, still only a bit so, but in her mind, it was justified.  A disingenuous sense of humility washed over her pale face.  She couldn’t even pretend it didn’t matter.  She questioned her every action now. At one point she had been proud of her ability to manage a castle of Winterfell’s size, but doubt was a sinister friend and often left her wondering if she made the right decision. 

She was angry at herself for forcibly estranging the boy, and in doing so, her own son.  Robb was not stupid, even at five, he knew something happened and why and disliked her for it. He would act out at any given time, preferring his father's company to hers. She had thought telling him he would soon have another brother or sister would make him happy, put a smile on his face but it hadn’t worked, quite the opposite actually. 

“I don’t care! I don't want another brother or sister, I want my brother! Jon!”   He screamed at her, the accusation was there, not spoken but implied. 

He had run from her then and tried his hardest to stay away from her, hiding when she came down a hall or searched for him in the yard.  He often took to the Godswood, knowing she never felt comfortable there, now even more so. A child of five years, so full of sadness and anger and confusion and only knowing it was his mother’s fault his best friend and brother wasn’t at home. 

Time had a way of continuing its progression regardless of strife or discord.  She wasn’t sure when she had taken to reading the ravens with Maester Luwin as they arrived.  It became a daily practice, to check in with him for any new news. 

A clutch of something like hope lingered in her bosom as her stomach began to show. The gloom had given way to hope; hope this child would be strong and healthy and help heal their home.  Arryn if a boy, Arya if a girl. She promised herself she would confer with Ned when he returned. 

The Greyjoys had rebelled again. 

Ned’s now constant anger had flared, and he almost dove at the chance to leave the castle.  Though she couldn’t blame him, he needed an escape.  He was tired and overwhelmed. His brother and son were gone, he knew not where.  Hodor had been a decent enough distraction to allow them to vanish in the night.  Ravens had come of a deserter and a death from the Night's Watch, and she had watched Ned’s face visibly pale.  She couldn’t understand why though was curious at the names or why Ned wouldn’t share them with her, deciding rather to throw the missive in the hearth and watch it burn, jaws clenched and brow furrowed.  She tried to see who they were but only succeeded in deducing that the death was of the old Maester at castle black.  

A few days later, he told her who it had been, his voice distant and forlorn.  He repeated the words methodically almost like he had rehearsed it, just as detached and hollow as the night he told her Jon was gone.  An ancient Targaryen and a disgraced knight that had once been sworn to the very same Targaryen’s house. 

She had expected Ned to say something, anything, deriding the knight's honour, but his face had grown distant. His grey eyes now pale and bloodshot.  So tired, so sad. His lips had tightened into a frown, the slightest lines of grey worming their way through the dark brown almost black of his beard.  He had looked like he wanted to tell her something.  But he just left, a sombre sigh on his lips as he vanished deeper into the keep.

That had been moons ago, and now she was sitting, alone in Jon’s old chambers looking down at something he had drawn.  He had an odd way of worming his way into her thoughts; she hadn’t realized where she was walking until she was lighting a torch and dragging two larger pieces of wood into the hearth. 

Now that there was more light in the room she could see better. The room was sparse, startlingly so.  There was barely any evidence a little boy had once lived there. 

The drawings she held onto were charcoal, drawn on some bits of worn paper that had fallen off the upturned crate he had been using for a table. They were rough etchings, though she could make out two small drawings beside a bigger figure, each with what looked like swords in their hands. Jon, Robb, and Ned. 

There was a tree with a face. The Weirwood, she thought. 

She traced it until her finger stopped at another small figure on the left she hadn’t noticed, another figure roughly the same size as the bigger one holding the stick sword. It was holding a crudely drawn smaller figure. She wasn’t certain how she knew it was holding it, but she couldn’t help the sad smile that crossed her cheeks before she cursed inwardly. 

Sansa and I.

An odd conflicting sensation as she processed what she saw, a war of emotions was being fought inside her, a willingness to do more was tempered by a hate that had always lingered.

The memory sprung forward, surprising her by its sudden clarity, as if her mind was mocking her soul. Her naivety was in believing there was anyone or anything to blame outside of herself, if anything it should have been her husband who deserved her anger. But when her eyes first took in the boy she wasn’t able to help the sudden sharp breath she took or the overwhelming jealousy. Even as an infant he carried the Stark look and that had made her fear real. She had wished the boy dead before he could take what was rightfully her sons, him and his purple eyes. 

She had never despised a woman more than Ashara then, for birthing this mockery of the love she had for her husband.

He looked too much like Ned for her to ever feel comfortable with. Her fear was rooted in her faith and its deep dislike for bastards, but why? Because of one occurrence by fools born of incest? Jon’s circumstance was nothing like that. His unluckiness was having Ned Stark, the honourable fool for a father.

Her resolve broke in that dark room as a cold harsh truth settled in. She loved Ned for the man that he was, foolish decisions and all. They were strangers on their wedding night, yet he’d lain with her and given her a son, as was his duty.  He made a mistake and accepted his son, unlike any other lord, Ned stood true to himself despite what others would say and claimed the boy as his own, as was his duty.  

Family, Duty, Honor. Ned held all three more dearly than she ever did.  Jon was his family, as his son, was also his duty. He married her to uphold his father’s honour though they had grown to love each other dearly.  She scolded herself as she set the drawing down. She had taken pride in her studious adherence to her family’s words, but never realized she was in fact failing. Duty and honour meant nothing if her family was broken. 

A quick silent prayer left her lips as she fled from her very dim new view on life. She had to try harder. 

Her pregnancy was very clear now.  Every dress was a rough reminder as she was forced to have some of her things tailored and new dresses and gowns and small clothes made.  The baby kicked furiously, so much so that she was fairly certain it would be a boy, but Old Nan swore to her it would be a fierce little girl.  She would simply be happy if the child lived.  She shook that off as they stood in Winterfell’s main entry, everyone forming a greeting line in the courtyard as outriders hailed Ned’s return.  She was cloaked in a thin grey fox-fur lined cloak, underneath it a grey and blue dress she had sewn herself. 

The day was surprisingly bright, sparse bouts of rain pelting them for brief moments before vanishing amidst bright beams of sunlight and blue sky.  It was mildly off-putting, the brief moments of cold interspaced by lingering flights of warmth all mingled together by the wet.  It made for a ghastly feeling.  She stood at the front, Robb to her right and little Sansa, almost three-name days old to her left, holding her hand. She had finally supplanted the bouts of morning queasiness, though the paleness still lingered on her otherwise rosy cheeks.  Her hair was done up, tight enough for the wind not to tug at it. 

The horses were what she heard first, followed by the clatter of the smaller carts and then the larger wains until finally, voices came past the gatehouse and into the courtyard as the cloaked form of Lord Eddard Stark came trotting through on the back of a white destrier barded in chainmail, proud running direwolves sewn on either side; Lord Stark looked the image of The Warrior in his armour. 

He was wearing a dark grey, almost black brigandine, grey steel pauldrons, vambrace, gauntlets, cuisse, and grieves.  A blackened steel gorget with twin Stark dire-wolf heads facing each other were just visible under the straps of his cloak. Ice was strapped to his horse, a bitter homage to his strength as the ancestral greatsword moved with each step of the steed. Ned had his hair pulled back into a tight knot.  Only a few strands moved around his face in the few gusts of wind that pushed past the stone.

It was hard to place his expression as the sun chose just then to shine from behind him, casting him in black and shadow.  He had halted them all with a gesture of his gauntleted hand, his horse trotting to a stop before he dismounted swiftly, sable black cloak billowing as his grieves clicked when he reached the ground, a stable boy came and took the horse.  He said nothing as he approached his wife, and neither did she, it had been the better part of a year. 

“My Lady.”

“Winterfell is yours, My Lord.”

“And Robert?”

“King’s Landing I would assume,”  Ned replied.  They had retreated to the Lord’s solar, just he and Cat as they made to catch up.  Ned relayed what news he had and his story as Catelyn did the same.  “After I killed Balon, the Iron Islanders surrendered.  Victarion Greyjoy sits as steward and regent until his nephew, Theo or Theon, is old enough to take his rightful place.” Ned said, still unsure of the boy’s name.  It had all happened in a blur, landing on the Island, the fighting, storming the keep and Balon resisting…He was angry, she knew, still so angry and it had gotten the best of him.  “Jon Arryn believes it would be wise to foster the boy here.”

He sighed as he leaned back into the couch beside a mildly surprised Cat. She stayed her words, the thought of a random child, no hostage, running about their home.  Mayhap he could be friends with Robb?  She thought but shook the thought off in a matter of moments.

Nobody would ever replace Jon, in Robb’s eyes, and the boy would have to remember his place. 

“We have time to think about it, don’t we?” She asked him, and he nodded. 

Some servants brought them food, while everyone else retreated to the great hall to feast and celebrate their Lord's return.  “God’s Cat, it wasn’t supposed to turn out like that. I shouldn’t have killed him.”

“It’s war Ned, you can’t blame yourself for ending a foolish war a deluded old man started.  He knew the cost of his actions.  You only did what was right, to bring you home to me, Robb, Sansa, and…Arya.”

Ned’s grey eyes widened as she finished, the deep frown turning up as he sat upright and looked at Cat in full now.  “How can you be certain?” He asked, trying to hide his delight. 

She nodded, though finished with the slightest shrug.  “One can never be too sure, but I have my suspicions.” 

Ned smiled a real smile, one that she hadn’t seen in so long.  Before she could reply, he had swept to her and his lips were pressed against hers, she couldn’t stop the small giggle that bubbled up and escaped her lips before she returned the kiss. 

They were in their rooms now, her naked and very pregnant form pressed against his side, one leg casually draped over his as he traced a pattern on the small of her back.  She was looking out of the window, listening to his gentle heartbeat, noting that the sun must have set some time ago.

The gentle roar of the fire in the hearth warmed and cast them in a gentle soft glow, queer shadows dancing on the wall.   Being with him after so long had felt like a desperate measure of peace trying to overwhelm the sorrow she felt.   However desperate it was, it had worked and she felt warm and full and sure. She sighed contentedly, allowing her gaze to pull upward, though it was all obscured by his beard as she was resting her head just under his chin. 

“What made you choose that name?”

 “Jon Arryn, your foster father.”

He didn’t reply for a moment or two, “Oh.”

“I thought if he were a boy we would name him Arryn, but I’m certain this little wolf in my belly is a girl.”  She began.  “But…I really did it because of…your Jon…” She lied, but it was worth it, the symbolism was worth it.  She had to try.

Ned had grown still, though she could hear his heart, it was slowly speeding up almost as if coming to life.  She wasn’t sure if it was nerves or anger, perhaps she had miscalculated, but he was stiff now, his fingers no longer tracing the patterns on her back. 

“Please don’t pull away from me Ned.  I have missed you so, and the chill between us feels as if it’s finally gone.” She paused, growing a bit more certain, though she could hear his heart now, hammering against his chest.  “You were right…” She had to press forward, even if it went against her Southron pride, “I brought a cloud into this home. A shame so deep, but I can only ask for your forgiveness.  We will find them, we will bring them back to Winterfell…”  She couldn’t call it home and include the boy in the same sentence just yet.

He said nothing, only remained still, she imagined his eyes were closed listening to her.  His heart was racing, but his body was akin to stone, unmoving.  She meant to speak, break the quiet but was stopped as she felt him press a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Thank you, my lady.”

And that was it.  Nothing more was said that night.  They both lapsed into an amiable silence.  The warmth of the fire licked at their faces and what parts of their naked bodies were exposed.  Summer in the North would barely have been considered Summer anywhere else. 

They were still hit by brief flurries of snowfall and rain, hammered by ungodly winds and shadowed endlessly by grey clouds.  The weather and the environment, the land and its people, they were all hard. The hardest in all the kingdoms, Cat was sure of that. They were tougher than Rivermen even.  Jon and Benjen would live, and she would help Ned find them.

The Greater North

He watched as the normally dour but ever unctuous man sucked in air harshly between his teeth before he balled up the message he had given him to read and threw it on the floor, the flickering light of the candles pronouncing a vein in his forehead, slowly pulsating to life as he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.  By all the gods above, he knew the man was trying. “God’s damn that fool!” His voice exploded in a puff of white as his hot breath fought the cold air, voice reverberating off the ice-like walls.

He didn’t seem to care though. 

He was pacing now, black-gloved left hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His free hand opened and closed as he walked, eyes darting to the window and bolted door. Vigilance. But even vigilance could not account for all the admittedly foolish happenings surrounding them. 

“It was already a mummers farce of a plan, and now we barely have any time to make this work…” His associate began. 

“I understand your concern my friend, but we must make do with what we have. At the very least, the raven took three days, but no more than four.” The aged man interrupted, taking a deep stilling breath before he pushed himself up from the chair he was currently reading the newest ravens delivered from around the realm, some having stopped at other castles along the way; though only the message his associate threw to the floor was worth the effort to read at this point.

“Emotion can get the best of any man, Ser Alliser, I speak from experience of course.”  Aemon finished with a chuckle, hiding his own reticence. 

Ser Alliser Thorne stopped abruptly, his head jerking up as wild eyes stared at the elder Targaryen with a look between abhorrence, anger, and sheer incredulity.  “You think this is a time for lessons and laughs Maester? What we mean to do is treason…” He drew out the word, “…and death.  There is no going back. So I don’t see what could possibly be funny about any of this!”, his voice a furious whisper as he stood over the older man, taking deep panting breaths that misted like smoke. 

“Calm yourself Alliser or you will be our undoing.” Aemon was stooped over his desk now, strangely calm pale lilac eyes moving over his desk as he sorted papers into neat piles before he placed most of them in a sack of his own making, tying the rest up in a spare piece of string and leaving them on the desk. “Can you get the body up here within the hour? He already has quite a lead on us, if he’s made it past Last Hearth and rode through the night...” He trailed off, voice still a whisper.

For a man of seventy and four, Aemon was surprisingly spry, his age masked well.   A genial smile, long cloak and robes hid the stuttering steps in the morning; the cold froze his joints and made his upper legs and left hip ache.  A wondrous sense of nobility and truth in every word he spoke masked the pain when he stretched from sitting and his lower back screamed at him in defiance. 

He had seen the rise and fall of many kings, many from behind their own walls. Age and knowledge allowed him to speak of pain and sorrow because he understood it.  It was as much a part of him as his worn knees.

He wouldn't deny that at times he was an optimist, indulging in thoughts of new life and rebirth, or a hope for a better tomorrow and the strength to fight for what you hold dear.  He shared a connection with his dead nephew, Rhaegar, an affinity for the occult. He believed that foul things were stirring where the eyes of men could not see.

Though none of it mattered when faced with the life of his ilk.  “You obviously know that it is of utmost importance that you are not seen.”  Aemon looked up at Ser Alliser.  “And try not to break any of the bones of the corpse.” 

Alliser nodded tersely, muttering a pithy “Aye”, before stepping out of the room leaving Aemon to his own devices. 

The plan had been simple enough: Aemon was to, for a lack of better words ‘die’, which of course would all be an act.  Once ‘dead’, Alliser would happen upon his ‘body’, and being aware of the older man’s wishes he would move his corpse North of The Wall to be burned.  While they were busy burning the decoy body of a bald wildling dressed in his clothing, Aemon was to sneak out in the dead of night, the guard being distracted by his death and whatever else was going on in remembrance of the man.

It was summer, the Watches numbers dwindled and the guard count was low.  Aemon would have made it out with no problem and it would have been as if he died and was gone.   The plan was simple, full of holes but in lieu of time, it was the best they had to escape the Wall relatively unharmed. 

A knock brought him back to life, his blood roaring in his ears.  He had let himself get idle, too absorbed in his preparations.  He wasn’t so old as to be deaf.  He cursed inwardly, straightening up with a grunt before he turned and went to the door, a soft yes, yes, as he reached it. 

“Maester?” A new recruit, Aemon mused. 

“Yes, young man?”  He asked. 

“Lord commander’s asking if there is any news of note, and if possible could you meet him this evening to talk about what you want sent to Eastwatch?” He mumbled.

The Maester gave the almost man a nod, “Ahh, yes, I received a missive from the citadel.  They asked for the correspondence to be distributed from here.”  Aemon said, A smooth lie. “Not to worry dear boy, I will bring it to the Lord Commander.” He finished with a quick shoo as the younger boy nodded and bowed away. 

“No more distractions, he mumbled.”  His heart slowed down as he returned to his preparations.  Clothes were not a necessity and a Maester’s robes were far too conspicuous.  Whilst he was preparing himself he heard yet another knock, but a gruff call of his name calmed his reaction as he returned and opened the door, letting a frazzled-looking Alliser into his room. 

The man grunted in acknowledgement, crossing the threshold with a figure over his shoulder.  “You weren’t seen?” He asked. 

“No, I told you I wouldn’t be, didn’t I?” He snapped, dropping the body on Aemon’s bed.  “Hurry and dress him, old man, we have to go tonight and I have to sling you over my shoulder.” 

That stopped Aemon in his tracks, “Why?”

“Raven from Lord Eddard Stark,”  Alliser replied quickly, pitching his heart into ice. 

“He says he sent some men North and asked if they could speak to you, they will be coming from Last Hearth on the morrow.  Lord Commander is curious as to why they would like to speak to you, so you have to die tonight.” 

He was only meant to be called a deserter but now they will call him a traitor and a murderer instead… he wanted to add, but that conversation would make them hesitate. 

He couldn’t afford that now. Pulling himself from his tremulous thoughts, Aemon prepared to do just as he said.  The knight turned as the older man slipped into black breeches and a black tunic.  He slipped o  black boots and came to his belt, strapping it on, flabbergasted for a moment by how thin he was. 

He had no mail or armaments, save for a small dragon bone dagger his father gifted him many decades ago.  Once he draped his cloak over his shoulders he set to preparing the dead man and pouring lantern oil over as much as he could. 

Aemon paused as he clutched at the links of his Maester’s chain, a wistful look in his eyes.  He was a prince, yes, but more than that, he was a Maester.  This chain was his truth, a literal and physical manifestation of what his mind had achieved.  Its weight was a testament to his desire to learn, his ambition, and his drive. I must, he thought to himself.  

“We don’t have all day.” Alliser’s voice brought him back to reality. 

“You’re right,” he said as he slid the chain over the corpse's neck and stood, staring for a moment at what would soon be his skeletal likeness.  He sent a little prayer for the soul that would serve their purpose, a thank you of sorts before he turned around and nodded to the man.  He pointed out the small satchel with his most prized notes. 

“The chest? You left it where I asked?”

“Aye, Maester, I did.” 

Aemon smirked at the tone, an odd sensation on his face as he had little reason to do so before.  His faint lilac eyes grew distant for a second before all light was blocked as the younger knight covered him in a black blanket and he was graced with a brief moment of disorientation and discomfort as the knight lifted and rested him on his shoulder. 

“Be quiet…I can’t explain any noise coming from a rug.” Alliser paused.  “Everyone should be in the main hall. The Lord Commander will want to speak to you after he’s done in there.  I’m going to drop you near the stables and then get the guards to help me in the barracks.  It’ll only be for a few moments.  Did you pour the oil over your bed and the books?” At Aemon’s muffled agreement, Alliser took a deep breath before walking to the door, on his way knocking over the candle on the table, waiting for a few moments before they both heard and felt the flames jump to life. 

“God’s watch over us and this fool of a plan…”  Aemon heard Alliser say before they left the room, and vanished into the depths of Castle Black.  It was eerily quiet, somewhat disconcerting as Aemon swung lifelessly over Alliser’s shoulder.  Nothing was said as the man moved through the corridors and down.  Aemon had to stifle a yelp every now and then, but before he knew it, they were exiting the warmth of the old stones of the castle and into the courtyard.  

“FIRE!” Someone yelled. 

“No, no, no, no, no…” He heard Alliser mutter as he felt the man sprint now before his body was unceremoniously dropped to the ground.  He could hear the horses and a chorus of voices following the shouting now. 

“Get to the horse Maester, I left one saddled, and stay quiet and in the shadows. I have to figure out how to make sure that fire stays lit, there shouldn’t be anyone at the gates now.” Alliser said to the old man on the ground wrapped in a blanket. 

He didn’t give Aemon a chance to respond before he turned and dashed back to the tower, following the commotion and voices and calls of fire. 

Aemon had one chance.  He struggled free of the blanket before he pushed himself from the ground, groping for his satchel.  He found it and made a mad dash for the first saddled horse he saw, a red-brown palfrey.

He was surprised by his own limberness, almost giddy by the feeling of mischief. He shook it off, attention back on the horse. It wouldn’t be the fastest, but it would keep going.  He came to it in the shadows, petting the horse gently as he muttered sweet words in High Valyrian to the beast.  He came to its reins and untied them before gently guiding the horse from the stables.

His heart was in his throat; every beat near made him gag as he swore he could taste bile.  By now, the majority of the men at the lower levels of Castle Black would be trying to douse the flames, but the fire had managed to continue to roar.  Alliser must have done something. 

Almost too soon, he was at the gates, the horse slowed before he pulled himself up its side and swung his leg over and with one quick whip of the reins, the horse surged forward. The Maester died as Prince Aemon Targaryen escaped into the night. 

“Oh my…” Aemon was breathless, the ride over had been rough, really reminding him of his age. The chest in his lap hadn’t helped much at all. He was a venerable totem of knowledge, not made for midnight escapes.  Each trot felt like a hammer fall on his lower back. His heart beat roughly against his rib cage, making him double over as he left the saddle, tentative steps checking the ground before he pressed down fully, dropping the chest with a slight rattle. 

He patted himself down, “I haven’t had that much excitement in a long time.” He said aloud, to no one, in particular, sore but thrilled.  He leaned against the side of his horse, using it to support him for a few moments as he let his body and mind find commonplace. 

He stretched his aged limbs before laying a calming hand against his horse as he led it to the huddled shadow just outside of Mole’s Town he’d been told to watch for. A muffled greeting confirmed his suspicions as Benjen dropped the heavy black cloak obscuring their bodies and faces. 

He smiled now, cheeks pulling back as a sparkle like none other came to his eyes.  “Hello, little one.”  He said softly, stooping over as he approached the boy in Benjen’s arms. 

He was perfect, in Aemon’s astute view. Soft black curls pooled around a pale face not too different from his own, barely hiding frightened purple eyes he was told contained flecks of grey, but couldn't see in the poor light.  His cheeks were pink, probably from the ride.  He took a deep breath, a soft pull through his tiny nose as he pushed his face away from the older man and into his uncle's chest.

He could see it, in his chin, his cheekbones, his nose, and the shape and colour of his eyes.  His features were softer, mixed in well, but this boy was most assuredly a Targaryen. It quite literally takes one to know one. The pull of the boy's dragon blood, the flames within yanking at Aemon in recognition only solidified his thoughts. 

The warmth in Aemon’s own chest was near unbearable, a fluttering pressing against his lungs as if he was almost struggling for air.  He had removed his gloves, soft hands like warm worn leather reached for the boy's own exposed hand. 

“Fear not, my boy, I am your great uncle.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but his own lilac eyes peered at the youth, almost marvelling. 

He would explain their relation later. The tears in the young boys face made it clear that he was going through quite a bit.  Trying to explain this weathered face and how he could be his uncle would take a bit more calm.

The future of our house. 

Jon responded in kind, sniffling ever so slightly as he looked at the older man, curiosity ever present despite the clear signs of anxiety.  Tentatively, he extended his own hand, letting Aemon take it and shake it gently. 

Such a proper child, the elder thought warmly.  Despite the overwhelming feeling of grief and despair, the boy must have felt the small flare of warmth when the man’s soft hands touched his own. 

“My…uncle?” He asked, voice so little, so soft.  He looked up at Benjen now, tilting his head to the side as his shoulder-length black hair fell back.  Ben nodded a gentle warmth in his eyes, and Jon turned back to the old man the tiniest of pouts on his lips as tears welled up in the boy's eyes again. 

“Oh my dear boy, don’t cry.” Aemon reached forward, swiftly taking the child from Benjen’s unyielding grip.  Something in Aemon yearned for that child, a hollowness he had ignored for so long.  A hole in his heart had found something to fill it and he gripped Vaegon, his little Vegg, with a strength he never thought he had. 

The boys sobs shook his body violently, and he clung to the old man as if afraid he would be stolen away just as quickly.  Aemon didn’t understand what was coming over him as he felt the tears in his own eyes.  He shushed the boy gently, patting him on his back as he rocked him. 

“It’s been a long ride.”  Benjen finally said, his voice soft and sad.  “A tough ride.”

Aemon only nodded, remaining silent as he cradled the now gently breathing boy.  “We should be going.  I do not know if the fire lasted.” He shook his head as Benjen went to question him.  “A story for another time, right now we must move.” 

Benjen took the chest and satchel Aemon had brought as the older Prince mounted his horse, Jon still in his arms.  The pair left, vanishing into the night, leaving Moles Town that same evening with nothing more than words and whispers in their wake. 

They met Alliser, a day later, though the man was injured and missing an eye.  He had no desire to speak on it then. A few hired strangers helped whisk their likeness into the night, spreading the false tale of Benjen Stark across the North, far and wide. 

“Iksan bȳre jēdri uēpa.”

A small face wrinkled in confusion as he looked at the writing and shook his head, loose black curls bobbing around, frowning now. 

“Worry not, you have a lifetime to master your father tongue.” He chuckled, a soft voice echoing around the spacious solar of ill-refined marble and sandstone. The room was well-lit, a few candle sconces sat parallel to each other. A warm fire roared in the hearth that sat horizontally to them on the wall to the desk's right. 

A rectangular Ironwood desk sat in front of the wall opposite the door.  On either side were bookshelves and a small end table, each with a litany of books, some common, others archaic.   The shutters and panes were closed as a summer storm battered the thick walls that housed them.  Prince Vaegon, Vegg to some and Jon to others, sat at the table closest to the desk at the left-hand of the man he looked to as grandfather.  

The elder man’s vision was almost past saving, but he clung to what remained.  Luckily, now relieved of the forward-thinking stagnation of Westeros and the Maester's order as a whole, he was able to search for solutions for his diminishing vision elsewhere.  He settled on a special form of Myrish lens that could be worn over the eyes and across the bridge of the nose, hooking behind his ears. 

Though they were a nuisance, they gave him a new view of life. Literally. Aemon was truly at home amongst his books and small literary treasures.  He found solace in his time to read and looked for solutions to questions of his own.  Though his greatest comfort came in the form of the small black haired, purple-eyed boy, he had the pleasure of calling his kin. 

He had never been so glad to have lived so long.

His death had been easy enough to falsify.  He was old, there was no other Maester, all he needed to do was have an accomplice, which he did.  Ser Alliser Thorne had always been bitter, even more so since the rebellion. The defeat left a foul taste in his mouth, so despite the ramifications, he agreed to be Aemon and Benjen’s accomplice, especially once he found out Ned Stark’s bastard was no bastard at all.  A fire like none Aemon had felt roared to life in his belly, his kin needed him.  

Benjen’s initial lack of communication and sudden raven sped up their whole timetable, leaving Aemon and Alliser to pick up the pieces.  Luckily, there weren’t many to pick up.  A year had passed by rather quickly. Four of those moons, Benjen was travelling between the kingdoms, assessing the situation, learning what it meant to be a lord apart from his brother. 

Having never joined the watch, he wasn’t missed. But since Vaegon was brought to Winterfell, and Benjen noticed his mistreatment at Catelyn Tully’s hands, his plan and focus had never strayed far from ensuring what remained of his cherished sister was safe. 

He admired the man and his earnest goal. A man with a purpose was a hard man to beat. Aemon enjoyed teaching the young Stark as Benjen’s father died long before he could impart him with the knowledge to successfully endure as a lord. He felt partially responsible as his kin was the reason for that death, but Benjen was bright and amiable, which made life that much easier. The only true way to gain the young man's ire was to mistreat his nephew.  

Aemon was writing in his notebook as Vaegon sat a ways from him, writing out his lessons.  The notes were detailed, telling of everything from when he left the Watch to that day.  A true compilation of activities, arguments, lessons, random thoughts, ideas, and anything he believed worthwhile.  If nothing else, Aemon was thorough.

He reflected on the initial difficulty of their plans.  He and Benjen were forced to contact a few people who remained loyal to House Targaryen and in turn their nephew. Ben's age, name, and association made it difficult for him to appeal to potential allies, so it was left to Aemon to delineate some of the finer details. 

Their conspirators relied on anonymity as their new positions in post-rebellion Westeros kept them close to the capital, but through them and a few friends in the North, they were able to secure safe passage to Skagos where he and Rhaegar had once planned to gift his betrothed a home away from home on a smaller island to the North West of Skagos’ main isle where he would petition the Citadel to allow him to be the maester of. 

His deceased nephew had been ecstatic when he found the location, Targaryens were oddly fond of islands.  He decided that it would be the Tower of Joy’s Northern counterpart, a place where the royal family could get away from the strife and power plays of the south and mayhap become closer to their Northern counterparts; though that was never to be. 

His notes were auspiciously blank on the days and weeks after Rhaegar’s death had been officialized.  The sadness that halted the planning, he thought.  But as with an old man’s wants and desires, he continued the plans with the hopes that one day a Targaryen would be able to claim it; imagine his surprise when he and his nephew were the Targaryen’s to do just that.  Friends from the old regime helped in secret where they could; Benjen and those he swore were trustworthy helped with the rest.  The notes, everything he wrote, were a link to the dead past he had once been tied to. He missed his family dearly and was only too happy to pull those plans out once more all those years ago when Benjen first came to him.  The memories still made him smile, almost as much as the little boy he was raising.  

Solitude; the aptly named home of two runaway Targaryen’s and a Stark, as well as a disgraced one-eyed knight and a growing host of interested islanders.  The foundation and smaller curtain walls had been finished years ago, as well as the first interior walls of the keep.  It wasn’t hard to finish; complete the rookery, the gatehouse, the port and the different rooms.  Braavosi builders were quick, and rock and stone was a very abundant material.

Small hills, too small to be mountains, but too big to just be hills rolled underneath a canopy of trees, ranging for miles on the Northern side to only a few on the southern.  The western shore was used for the small port with a wide walkway that led northeast and then south to the gatehouse.  The southeastern side was home to the highest hills, where they were able to keep an eye on Skagos and Westeros mainland by way of Myrish Lens and a three-floor tower, though their view was mainly of Karstark lands. 

The Stoneborn were easy to deal with and in all reality wanted no trouble, the year-round cold and snow and ice gave enough for all. They even proved Aemon’s thoughts true, they weren’t cannibals.  They weren’t as boorish as one would expect after dealing with wildlings, but they had a ferocity of their own. 

Some came to Solitude, finding comfort in creating a trade and a place amongst the shunned lords of Westeros and foreigners that stuck around. Most were charmed by the odd family and curious child instantly taking pity on the renegade wolf, the little dragon, the old dragon, and their ornery one-eyed friend. 

Alliser became their master-at-arms of sorts, while Benjen remained the steadfast young halfLord, starting a trade and venturing to ensure the keep was always well stored, ‘Winter is Coming’, he often liked to remind them.  Aemon took to Vaegon as a Grandfather, and before they knew it, a content life had sprung up around them, all for the sake of a little boy who thought himself a worthless bastard. 

“I…” Jon looked up, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m six?” He asked, head tilting to the side.

Aemon smiled brightly at the lad, tapping the desk with a hum of approval.  “Correct!”  He said, “And how did you figure out what I said?”

“I thought of the word I knew.” He pointed to it, “Six.  And then I knew what you were saying.” He finished with a shrug.  Aemon smiled, the grandfatherly note of approval on his warm cheeks as he nodded at the boy's less-than-spectacular explanation. 

Jon was a remarkably quick learner who seemed to take to his studies as a fish to water.  Aemon was thrilled, it forced him to think of lesson plans, curriculums, and activities to stimulate a growing boy.  It forced him to think of the best ways to hold someone’s attention, forced his mind to question answers he had given time and time again because Jon wouldn’t settle for ‘It’s how it’s always been done’.  ‘Why’ was his go-to word.

And Prince Aemon would answer him every time.