Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was one of the Riverrun servants who first called him a bastard. 

Jon, barely three namedays old, hadn’t known the meaning of the word, but children are perceptive. The tone, the curled lip, the look of contempt—that lodged itself deep in him, a splinter he’d feel for years.

Jon and Robb had been playing some courtyard game—the rules long blurred in Jon’s memory. What remained was the expression on the temporary nanny’s face; their usual nurse had been called away, leaving them with this woman who already looked at Jon like he was something she’d stepped in.

Jon swung his little wooden ‘sword’ against Robb’s. Both boys jumped at the sharp crraack that split the air. Wide purple eyes met wide blue ones before they looked down at the long fracture running up the center of Jon’s sword.

“What did you do?!” the woman snapped. “This is why bastards don’t deserve toys—no respect for your betters’ belongings.” Her lip curled as she ripped the broken sword from Jon’s hands, her nails catching his skin.

Jon burst into tears.

Robb—older by a few turns and already fiercely protective—tightened his grip, raised his own toy sword, and smacked it against the woman’s knee with all the righteous fury a toddler could muster.

Her shriek summoned the guards. One scooped the enraged Little Lord up under one arm, deftly relieving him of the toy, while the other crouched beside Jon, who was sobbing so hard he hiccuped.

“Come now, Snowpup,” the guard murmured, the years had wiped Jon’s recollection of his name, leaving Jon only with a vague impression of kindness “wipe those tears. Any more crying and your nose might fall clean off—oh! Too late.” He plucked Jon’s ‘nose’ from his face, holding his thumb up triumphantly.

Jon’s sobs hitched, “Hic—no—hic—it—hic—won’t!”

The guard widened his eyes in mock horror and hastily pressed the “nose” back onto Jon’s face.

“Look at that—good as new.” 

Jon rolled his eyes dramatically, but the tears had stopped. The guard took his small hand and led him toward the kitchens, chatting about the fresh scones Cook had made and how a handsome boy like Jon could surely charm the old woman into giving him two.

Back in the courtyard, it only took a short conversation with the Little Lord Robb for the guards to understand the situation, and lead the infuriated servant towards the Lords Chambers, where an extremely uncomfortable conversation with Lord Stark awaited her. 

Jon didn't learn what bastard meant that day, but he also never saw that particular servant again.

Jon had been raised in the nursery with Robb—shared a wet nurse, toys, clothes, lessons. He was a clever child who’d met the Cerwyn twins several times, so naturally he assumed he and Robb were also twins. They were brothers, they were the same age—what else could they be?

Lady Stark corrected him swiftly.

“I am not your mother.” Her cold blue eyes pinned him in place.

Years later, Jon would be able to look back on Lady Stark’s treatment of him with a certain level of understanding. Their relationship could be best characterized by a series of ups and downs, but while she had not treated him kindly, she had also not mistreated him. At times she had even acted cordially with him-especially once she realized Jon had no interest in Robb’s inheritance.

(Unknown to him, but his own destiny awaited him)

Jon had grown up in a unique position, a bastard raised alongside the Lord of Winterfell’s legitimate children. Even in that North, who didn’t view bastardy as sinful, at least on the child’s part, that was just not done. Very few people had known how to react to Jon at first, and for a devout follower of the Seven and highborn Sothron Lady, Jon wasn’t surprised Lady Stark had been less than pleased with Jon’s existence.

A Northern woman might have taken a strip out of their unfaithful husband's hide, but a ‘proper’ Sothron Lady like Lady Stark would never allow herself to be outwardly angry with her husband, which made Jon an easier target.

Despite this, Lady Stark had never hurt him. 

Jon’s belly had always been full, his fire wood always stocked, furs and boots as functional as her own children’s, and the only bruises Jon ever had were a product of training or his own ill judgment. Jon had attended lessons with her children, and while she wasn’t pleased when Jon did well, there were never any physical consequences when Jon did better than Robb.

How much of that was her own morals or Lord Stark’s orders, Jon would never know.

But at four namedays old, none of that nuance existed. All he knew was that Lady Stark wanted him gone.

And everything changed the day she forced the matter.

***

Jon crouched outside the nursery door as voices rose inside, his left eye positioned in the crack of the door as he watched his Papa and Lady Stark fight.

"-not have that bastard learning at the foot of my son-your heir!" Lady Stark's cold blue eyes had flashed with anger as she argued with his papa, her tone clipped and short, her arms wrapped around baby Sansa protectively.

"Both my sons will receive the best education I can provide as Lord of Winterfell" papa's face had been stone cold, as cold and immovable as the mountains, and Lady Stark's expression went distant and placid. 

“You told me Winterfell would be my new home, yet I have endured insult after insult since you brought your bastard here!” she cried. “Your people sneer at my faith. They parade their daughters at you. They call me Lady Stark but none accept me!”

“I warned your father—” Ned began.

“And you do nothing to stop them!” she snapped.

“I’ve done what I can. But you make it harder by pushing the Seven on those who follow the Old Gods. You replaced servants without consulting me. I cannot alienate my bannermen.”

“They call Robb Andal-born. They question my fidelity!” Tears streamed down her face. “They say the same of Sansa now that she’s fire-touched!”

Ned’s silence was heavy.

"I have provided for the child, when many other Sothron Ladies would have ensured the little beast had an ‘unfortunate accident’, offered him food, shelter and protection, but this is too far. I will not have my son raised in the shadow of some baseborn whelp!” 

“You will not touch Jon.” papa's voice wasn't raised, but it reverberated through the room all the same, dripping menace and Lady Catelyn's face turned the color of milk, and Jon flinched from where he was crouched outside the door. 

"I'm wroth with you, my lord, but I would not harm a child, and the fact you think me capable of-" more tears dripped from her eyes, and the tension bled from papa's shoulders. 

“I know. I only—” Ned hesitated, “I promised his mother I would protect him.”

Silence. Jon held his breath.

“What woman,” Catelyn whispered, “commands such devotion from you that you’d threaten your Lady Wife, who holds such a tight grip upon your heart that you would bring your bastard into your home, offer him a seat at your table, a Lord's education, and raise him along your trueborn children?”

“It is not relevant.”

“It is entirely relevant!”

Ned didn’t answer.

"Regardless, I am the Lord of Winterfell and I'm telling you that Jon will be raised as a son of House Stark" papa's voice was low and even, with an icy edge that Jon had never heard at that point in his young life. 

"If that is your final decision, my Lord, I have no choice but to accept your judgment. However, I believe we are at a crossroads," Lady Catelyn's lips quivered, and she pulled a folded letter from her skirts, and handed it to his papa. "Either you compromise with me right now, or I shall be returning to the seat of my Lord Father, I’ll start preparing for the separation of my Household in the morn” Lady Catelyn’s face was a cold mask as she looked at her husband, unflinching and uncompromising. 

Jon wouldn't learn what the letter said for many years, wouldn't know what had been said to create such a look of rage and loathing on his normally gentle papa's face that even Lady Catelyn, sure of her ensuing victory, took an instinctive step back. 

"Are you certain you want to take this step?" Lord Stark asked, not a drop of warmth in his face, and Lady Catelyn's hands fisted in her skirts, and more tears fell from her eyes. 

"You think I want any of this? Nothing about this situation is what I want, but I can't live like this, Ned" Lady's Catelyn's voice cracked like ice snapping, and papa didn't respond, his eyes glued to the pages. 

"Robb is the Heir of Winterfell, taking him from Winterfell without my blessing would be a declaration of war. Your father knows this, he would turn you away at the gates of Riverrun" papa's words were certain, but his expression was grim and sad. 

"Sansa isn't" Lady Catelyn stated, and papa's eyes closed briefly as if she'd struck him. 

"I could take it to Robert" Ned acknowledged back, and it would only be once Jon met the Stag King as a man that Jon would understand the undercurrent of threat those words carried. 

(Robert would kill Catelyn for 'stealing' his 'brothers' child, but especially a Stark daughter. It wasn't a question. It would mean war, the Seven Kingdoms vs the Riverlands. The Riverlands would lose. Badly. And every life lost would weigh on his Father's shoulders. They both knew he couldn't do it)

"You won't" Catelyn stated, and papa didn't respond. 

She was right. They knew it. And one day Jon would understand, but at almost 4 years old, he only saw his papa refuse to fight for him. The first of many, and the beginning of papa becoming Father (and Lord Stark when he was particularly cross) to Jon. 

"I won't send him away" papa stated, and Lady Catelyn's face tightened. 

"Even now?" she demanded, and papa gave a single nod. 

"Even now" papa confirmed, and Lady Catelyn's expression shuttered. 

"Either remove him from Robb's lessons in perpetuum or remove him from the Family Wing, including all the privileges that come with being housed alongside our children" Lady Catelyn demanded, and papa was silent as he wrestled with that. 

"He'll stay in the guest quarters. He will continue to eat at our table. He will not be separated from our children" papa surrendered, and Lady Catelyn's face lightened as Jon's heart dropped into his stomach. 

"I can live with that" she acquiesced, but papa's face did not soften. 

Jon runs away, leaving the conversation to continue behind him. 

"You worked to undermine me in my own castle, Wife, conspired with another Lord Paramount, weaponized the care I hold for my child, and threatened the Realms with war all to appease your wounded pride. This will not come without consequences," papa's voice unsettled Lady Catelyn, "All Riverlanders with the exception of your personal household attendants shall return to Riverrun. I will allow our children to be taught by a septa, as was agreed in our betrothal contract, but they will be allowed to choose which Faith they follow, and you will not protest. Maester Luwin must approve all proposed educational material. You will not be permitted to arrange terms on behalf of House Stark in perpetuum. Lastly, Jon shall answer to me, he will be forced to obey you as Lady of Winterfell, but all punishments will be meted out by me, and if I find you have enacted any Sothron punishment upon him, you will face Northern Justice, regardless of what your Lord Father threatens" Lady Catelyn's face paled once more. 

"I understand, My Lord" she said timidly, and didn't speak another word as her husband left the nursery. 

Papa found him hiding under his bed shortly after. 

"I thought I heard little feet lurking" Papa sighed, his shoulders slumped as he sat on the floor beside the opening under the bed. 

"... Are you sending me away?" Jon's voice warbled, and papa's large calloused hand reached under the bed, palm up, and Jon shyly slid his small hand into his, gripping his papa's thumb tightly. 

"Never," papa vowed "you might be leaving this room, but you will always have a place in this family. You might not have the Stark name, but you have our blood, and that means something" Papa promised, and Jon was quiet while he rolled the conundrum around his head. 

"... I have your blood, but not your name... Does that mean you're not my papa?" Jon asked, tears burning in his eyes, and papa's hand gently pulled on Jon's arm, encouraging him to come out of hiding. Jon scrambled out, throwing himself into his maybe-papa's arms, who pulled him close, placing him on his lap.

"You are my son" papa stated, and Jon buried his face in his papa's beard.

"... But Robb's mama isn't my mama?" Jon asked quietly, and papa sighed tiredly. 

"No, she's not. Your mama was someone... Very important to me, Jon, and one day I'll tell you all about her, but not today" papa promised. 

For years, Jon would question if Ned had been lying about telling him the truth, if he'd changed his mind as Jon grew, or if he really did intend to tell Jon who his parents were... He would never know the answer, since Jon hadn't heard the truth from Ned, and never could bring himself to believe his words in the aftermath...

"... What does that make me?" Jon asked sadly, and papa ran gentle fingers through Jon's messy raven curls.

"The world will call you a bastard because I wasn't married to your mother, some might mistreat you over it, but Stark blood runs true. You are exactly where you are meant to be" papa promised, and Jon, still only 4 namedays old and holding a childlike love and trust for his papa, accepted this easily, laying his head on his papa's shoulder. 

"... Do I really have to move now?" Jon asked sadly, and papa sighed. 

"Not tonight" his papa promised, and Jon accepted that, letting his papa tuck him into bed, even though he was getting much too old to be tucked in. 

"I love you" Jon whispered as papa pressed a kiss to Jon's forehead. 

"I love you, too" Papa whispered against his forehead, leaning across Jon to blow out the candles, drenching the room in darkness as his papa left him to sleep his last night in the Family Rooms.

Tomorrow everything would change... But for tonight Jon Snow, known to exactly 3 people as Vaegon Targaryen, slept peacefully.

Chapter Text

Two years had passed since Jon had been removed from the Family Wing when word reached the North of the Ironborn Rebellion.

Jon, not yet six namedays old, knew the moment he learned Father would ride south to join the war—leaving Lady Stark as the Stark of Winterfell—that she would do everything in her power to separate him from Robb. She would never dare send him away outright, but Jon fully expected to be “discouraged” from taking meals with his siblings or barred from joining Robb in his lessons.

(As it happened, she did both.)

Robb hadn’t believed him until the next morning, when Jon was turned away from their lessons at the door. The look on Robb’s face told Jon this was the first time he truly understood the breadth of his mother’s mislike.

“It’s not right,” Robb frowned.

“I know. But she’s your mother,” Jon said softly.

They lay side by side on the grass before the weirwood in the godswood—the one place Lady Stark would never enter, and no Northern servant would dare disturb them. Robb’s hand found his, their fingers squeezing tight enough to whiten their knuckles.

“I won’t let her separate us,” Robb vowed stubbornly, lip curling in a wolfish expression that made Jon blink. For the first time, he recognized how much Robb resembled Father. His eyes were no longer the bright Tully blue of early childhood—more grey now. His features echoed their father’s, and even as a boy he had the tall, sturdy Stark build. Even his red hair ran darker than the Tully scarlet, something between red and brown. If anyone bothered to look, he did not appear all that sothron.

(Years later, Jon would realize the same logic applied to himself. Despite the dark hair, pale skin, and long face of the Starks, his bone structure was unmistakably Targaryen: high cheekbones, thin nose, a wide, sensual mouth; a body built long and lean.)

Above them the weirwood’s bone-white branches stirred, and a faint static pricked Jon’s skin, though he dismissed it.

“I know you’ll try,” Jon murmured, “but we’re only six. And outside this place… she has all the power.”

Robb’s grey-blue eyes narrowed. “I’m the real Stark of Winterfell. Mother is technically only my regent.”

He sounded so priggish that both boys dissolved into giggles.

“She’s a regent who controls your dessert privileges,” Jon teased.

“Like I’d ever trade you for dessert,” Robb scoffed.

“Even chocolate cakes?”

Robb’s face twisted in mock deliberation. “…I mean—Ow!” he yelped as Jon punched his arm. Jon turned away with a dramatic huff.

“I’m teasing, you big baby! Of course I love you more than chocolate,” Robb laughed, dragging Jon into a smothering hug and planting a disgustingly wet kiss on his cheek before shoving his face into the dirt.

“Robb! Get off!” Jon wheezed, failing to push his brother off. Robb only laughed harder.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you love me, too?”

“I’d love you more if you weren’t so heavy,” Jon groaned, earning a scandalized gasp.

“Heavy?! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly normal-sized—unlike your delicate constitution—Ow! Watch the elbows!”

The weirwood’s branches swayed, red sap trickling down its carved faces. As the boys roughhoused, the faces almost seemed to smile.

“Come now, young sir, you’re much too pretty to waste your face on frowns. Keep that up and you’ll look like me when you’re old and withered,” Old Nan teased.

She had begun joining Jon for his midday meals since Lord Stark rode to war. It wasn’t the first time someone had called him “pretty,” though coming from anyone else the word might have stung. The first time he’d bristled, Old Nan had promptly scolded him for “abiding by Sothron foolishness.”

Northerners had their own prejudices on 'soft' men, but Northerners called those men 'droskin', which didn't necessarily mean 'weak' or 'pretty' men. Afterall, Northerners understood that everyone had their role to play when Winter Came. Not all of those required you to be 7 feet tall and capable of swinging a battle hammer with one hand, and that didn't make their contribution mean less.

(That wasn't to say Northerners didn't value battle prowess, but war for the sake of war was wasteful, and there was nothing the North hated more than waste)  

But purposefully trying to avoid hard work? Or leeching off of others' hard work? That was more a sin to a Northerner than being a bastard ever could be. They also held their nobles to the same standards as commoners, so it was a common Northern saying that the northern lord who starved his people while living in the lap of luxury would soon find himself two heads shorter.

At near 6 namedays old, Jon was much too young to be considered droskin, and for all the sins Lady Stark had heaped on him, not even she had accused him of being lazy or wasteful. 

“Where’s that shadow of yours?” Old Nan asked, stroking Jon’s unruly black curls with bony fingers. There was an affectionate shine in her eyes, and Jon opened to the affection like a starved flower.

“In lessons,” Jon muttered, lips turned down slightly, and Old Nan's eyes turned flinty.

"And why aren't you in your lessons?" Old Nan asked, her voice light, but like she already knew the answer. 

"Bastards don't need to learn history, I guess" Jon sulked, and Old Nan spit out an unfamiliar phrase, the words sharp as cracking ice, but smooth and lilting like rolling waves.

“And Maester Luwin approved this foolishness?”

Jon shrugged. “Lady Stark is the Stark of Winterfell now. He doesn’t have a choice. I’m not allowed in the library, and he can’t answer my questions.”

Old Nan rapped his knee. “And what am I, hmm? Think that upstart with his robes and silly chain knows more of the North than me? Children these days—no respect.”

Before Jon could protest, she hauled him to his feet with surprising strength.

"Old Nan, I can't ask you to do that, you're already so busy" Jon looked down at his feet and the old northern woman harrumphed. 

“First of all, look someone in the eye when you speak to them," Old Nan started leading Jon down the hallway, "Second of all, your father left me with half a legion of attendants before running off to war, so I’ve time enough. Now come along.” Old Nan grumbled, and the corner of Jon's lips turned up in a small smile. 

“…If you’re sure,” Jon whispered.

She was. And Jon soon found himself seated at a sturdy wooden table within her Wintertown cabin. Old Nan, as a highly respected elder and decades long member of the Stark household, was afforded luxuries that most Northern commoners would never see. She shared a small cabin with Hodor on the edge of Wintertown, full of sturdy northern furniture, a large hearth, and copious amounts of furs. 

"Don't you worry, by the time I'm through with you, you'll be begging for Luwin's lessons back" Old Nan gave him a small devious smile before dropping a stack of books nearly half as tall as Jon himself on the table between them. 

Oh dear...

Despite Old Nan's ominous warnings, Jon took to her lessons like a kraken to water. 

Each day, while his siblings studied with Maester Luwin, Jon spent his mornings drilling Old Tongue pronunciation and Northern history, and his middays learning the houses, bannermen, and trade networks of the North. After some grumbling, Old Nan conceded Luwin had taught him Common and numbers well enough.

"Probably best that way, I've always preferred words to numbers" Old Nan had grumbled, and turned to quizzing him on each of the Major Northern Houses, their bannermen, who was allied with whom, and what their main trade exports and imports were. 

One afternoon she poured tea for both of them. “Why do the mountain clans obey the Starks? They’re the only Northern clan that still openly calls the Starks Kings of Winter.” Old Nan asked him as she poured them both cups of tea. 

“They don’t like the South?” Jon ventured.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Old Nan asked pointedly, and Jon struggled not to fidget. 

“Telling,” Jon said firmly.

"It's more than 'not liking' the South. The Drakkari have stood with the Starks since the beginning—since before the wars against Marsh Kings and Barrow Kings, and the dozens of uprisings and wars since. To this day they hold the only surviving chapter of the Green Men other than the Isle of Faces. Knowing that, why do you think they remain loyal to the Starks?" Old Nan asked, and Jon blew gently on his tea as he thought about it. 

"Something ties us together, deeper than alliance or marriage, a Vow upon a weirwood grove is eternal" Jon declared, and Old Nan nodded. 

"Legends say that the Clans knelt to the First King in the Drakkar, swore upon the gods to serve his blood eternally. Other Houses have tried to claim they were descendants of the First King, but the Drakkari have held that the Starks are the Kings of Winter. They have served faithfully ever since, no amount of threats, bribes or alliances have swayed them. They continue to tend to the weirwood grove and record the history of the North, acting as impartial witnesses in disputes and wars. They never participate in Sothron conflicts, no King of Winter has ever convinced them to fight in a Sothron War, not Brandon the Golden, nor The Hungry Wolf, nor Torrhen the Kneeler, and not your father" Old Nan explained, and Jon's eyes widened in surprise. 

"They didn't fight in the Rebellion?" Jon asked, and Old Nan shook her head. 

"At the time of the Rebellion, most of the Lords didn't want Lord Stark to kneel to the Stag King; 300 years of loyalty hadn't earned the North much more than bloodshed and disrespect from the South. The Drakkari were among those who wanted to crown Eddard as King of the North, even offered to fight with him. Eddard refused, and managed to talk most of the Lords down, but the Drakkari refused to fight" Old Nan explained, and Jon sat still as he processed that. 

Jon understood both sides of the argument, 6 years after the Rebellion, and Jon could see the discontent among the Northerners was getting worse, not better, since his father had Knelt and taken a Sothron wife. There wasn't a Northerner alive who hadn't thought of independence, but Jon could also understand where his father was coming from.

The North wasn't ready to be independent, they weren't strong enough. 

The rest of Westeros greatly outnumbered them, they could hold off an invasion on land, but so much of warfare was naval now, and the North hadn't had a fleet since Bran the Burner.

This Ironborn Rebellion was proof of that, the Northern Army had to march to White Harbour, then sail all the way around Dorne to convene with the rest of the Crown’s forces. This had taken two moons of travel time, whereas if the North had a fleet on the western shores-perhaps Sea Dragon Point or the Stoney Shores-it would have been a matter of days, perhaps a week or two if the roads were poor. 

They also relied too much on the other realms for trade, particularly the Reach's grain, after the loss of the Gift to the Nights Watch. The Gift had been predisposed as one of the few areas in the North capable of producing grain, gutting the North's economy as the greedy bastards of the Reach demanded more and more extortionist prices. 

Northern independence during the Rebellion would have either failed or cost a lot of lives. 

But it was coming whether his father wanted it or not, if not now, what about when Robb became the Warden of the North? 

A thought chilled Jon to the bone and made his breath quick in his chest. 

The North was loyal to the Starks... But what happened if the North decided Robb wasn't Northern enough?

(Unknown to Jon, those were the exact fears that had caused Lady Stark to fear Jon so much, because Jon looked Northern. He might be unusually pretty, with finer features than the average Northern child, but he looked, walked, and talked like a Northerner)

Jon hardened his jaw. He would make them loyal to Robb. Not today, but someday. He would stand behind his brother and shield him. Fire-touched or not, Robb was a Northman and the future King of the North—and if anyone chose to dispute that…

…they would answer to Jon.

Chapter Text

Six months after riding out with his bannermen, the Warden of the North finally returned to Winterfell.

The next morning Jon resumed his lessons with Maester Luwin. Despite the tension that clung to Lord and Lady Stark like frost, neither acknowledged what had transpired in the months Ned had been away. Feeling a pinch of vindictive satisfaction, Jon simply asked Old Nan if he might continue afternoon lessons with her. The old woman laughed her raspy laugh and agreed.

(Unknowingly, his actions had sparked a bit of a cold war between the two, which would last until Jon was well into his adulthood)

Jon had not been the only one affected by Lady Stark’s behavior. Robb had tried, at first, to reason with his mother, only to be sharply rebuffed. Since then he’d turned frosty in her presence. In recent weeks he had even begun accompanying Jon to the godswood instead of attending morning sermons with his mother and siblings.

Lady Stark only attempted to force him to attend once. 

The Northerners had not taken lightly her attempt to turn the future Lord of Winterfell from the Old Gods to the Seven. Lady Stark had nearly been lynched, and her reputation had taken permanent damage.

It was decided that Robb wouldn’t rejoin until Lord Stark’s return. 

“Just another thing she blames on me,” Jon complained to Old Nan. She told him to quit his bellyaching over what couldn’t be changed—and promptly redirected him into a lecture on old Northern folktales.

Despite sitting at the high table during Ned Stark’s homecoming feast, Jon had never felt more isolated. Lady Stark’s shunning had grown sharper still after her failed attempt to remove him from Robb’s lessons. Robb had taken to accompanying the Greyjoy Heir everywhere, and both Sansa and baby Arya had occupied his fathers time.

Months of loneliness followed—until, shortly before Jon’s seventh nameday, Uncle Benjen arrived. The Night’s Watch ranger hadn’t visited Winterfell in years, but he made a point of seeking out Jon whenever the boy looked forlorn.

"Have you started riding lessons yet?" Uncle Benjen had asked one day after their morning meal. Before Jon knew what was happening, Jon was being pulled away from his lessons to spend the day in the stables with Uncle Benjen learning about caring for horses. 

"I thought we were going to be riding?" Jon had asked, on the verge of sulking as his whole body ached and feeling in desperate need of a bath. Uncle Benjen just grinned at him. 

"Did Maester Luwin hand you a book before teaching you to your letters? Or Ser Rodrik hand you live steel in your first martial class? When it comes to learning to ride, knowing how to care for your steed and doing it yourself is crucial to building trust. Riding is a partnership between horse and rider, so caring for the horse is important for building trust, and ensures the horse will listen to you and wont throw you from its saddle" Uncle Benjen had explained gently, and Jon's face had twisted in annoyance. 

"I wouldn't know about the live steel, you'll have to ask Robb and Theon" Jon scowled, and Uncle Benjen looked at him in surprise. 

"You haven't started your martial lessons? I'd assume you would start with Robb, since you two are so close in age" Benjen observed, and Jon crossed his arms across his chest. 

"... No, Father doesn't think it's time" Jon kicked the dirt, unable to look at Uncle Benjen, even as a voice, sounding unsettlingly like Old Nan', chided him for rude manners and bad posture. 

"And the riding lessons?" Benjen's voice was deceptively mild. 

"... Father gave Robb his first lesson before he rode out, and Ser Cassel has continued them since, when asked he said that a boy's first ride was a fathers right, so he wouldn't teach me" Jon slumped, assuming Uncle Benjen would also refuse to teach him, and Uncle Benjen's spine straightened. 

"Don't worry, something tells me your parents would prefer that I teach you" Uncle Benjen declared, his tone ringing oddly cryptic, but Jon was too excited to care.

"Really?!" Jon beamed, and Benjen grinned at him. 

"Yes, and don't you worry," the Rangers grey eyes flashed like a knife in the dark, "I'll be talking to Lord Stark about your martial lessons" Benjen promised. 

Jon, with all the sureness of a nearly-7-namesday-old child, didn't believe he would succeed, as he'd been asking near every time he'd seen his father since Robb had started training over a turn ago. 

Still, each day Jon would return to the stables with Uncle Benjen and after a few days of caring for a young greyhaired mare, Benjen helped Jon into the new saddle, and stood back as Jon guided the mare, who Jon had quickly named Sweetness, around the paddock. 

As Jon came to a stop beside Uncle Benjen, a wide smile stretching his lips, raven curls windswept, and the sun beaming down on him, Uncle Benjen had given him a confusing look as he clapped. As Jon prepared to get down, a gust of wind brought the scent of winter roses and sunshine over him, and an odd warmth against his back, but as fast as the sensation came, it was gone, and Uncle Benjen was steadying Jon as he got to his feet.  

The night before Uncle Benjen was slated to return to the Nights Watch dawned gloomy and forbidding. 

It had been a long day of lessons, first Uncle Benjen dragging him away from his bed to spend the early morning for a couple hours of grueling work in the stables. Then after the morning meal, Jon had his lessons with Maester Luwin in the morning, then Old Nan until the evening meal. Usually Jon would spend the hours before nightfall with Robb or Sansa, though the later was becoming rarer as Lady Stark's lessons on the sinful nature of bastards took root. But he was tired of weathering the cutting gaze of Lady Stark and the snide remarks of the Greyjoy Heir. Theon had taken to sticking to Robb like a particularly vile barnacle and Robb, the well meaning idiot, had taken the Ironborn hostage under his wing, and was little to no help in diffusing the older boy's cruel remarks.

So, after the evening meal, Jon had taken to wandering the maze of hallways within Winterfell in order to escape. He had just taken a seat next to one of the air ducts, which carried hot air warmed by the hot springs below Winterfell through the castle, when he heard it.

"-would be furious if she could see how you're treating her son!" Uncle Benjen's voice carried down the vent, and for a second Jon didn't recognize his usually somber uncle's voice, as he'd never heard the man so furious. 

"I have protected Jon the best I can, no thanks to you" Father's voice wasn't raised, but the deepness radiated down the pipe, and Jon's breath caught.

... Were they talking about his mother, Jon wondered, his heart quickening, and he leaned as close as he dared to the hot pipe. 

"You let your Sothron whore treat him like mud-" Uncle Benjen was cut off like a loud banging sound. 

"That is my wife, and the Lady of Winterfell that you're talking about!" fathers voice raised, and Benjen made a derisive sound. 

"Oh please, Ned, everyone knows that Catelyn refused to marry you under the Weirwoods, and therefore she's not a Lady of anything, let alone Winterfell" Benjen said derisively, and father fell silent. 

"... Be that as it may, I am your Lord, and you will keep a civil tongue in your mouth" Father's voice was stone cold, and Jon shivered despite the layer of sweat that was starting to form on his skin from continued contact with the vent. 

"So quick to defend that trout, but a child of the North gets mere crumbs" Benjen's voice was equally cold. 

"Everything I have done since I brought Jon here has been to protect him, you may not like it, but you will respect it and cease your interference" Father ordered, and Benjen scoffed. 

"I'm a Brother of the Nights Watch, I don't have to obey any order you give me. I have returned here for one reason only: Jon. I wanted to ensure you were treating Lya's son how he deserves, and I see now my worst fears are true. Lya would tear your head off herself if she were here, and you know it" Benjen spit, and father fell silent. 

"I love Jon, he is my blood, but not all of us have the luxury of running away from our responsibilities. I am the Warden of the North, my responsibilities extend to more than just Jon. You forget that Catelyn is the daughter of a Lord Paramount, coincidentally the same Lord Paramount that supplies 60% of our crops during the winter, 10% of which goes to the Nights Watch. It is not as simple as punishing Catelyn for her slights against Jon" father's voice was a low growl, and Uncle Benjen scoffed. 

"So why even bring the boy here? Why not send him away? You claim you've done it for Lya, but you know she would never want this for her boy. Or did you do it to ensure he never became a threat? Is that why you refused your dear friend Robert's offer to legitimatize the boy?" Uncle Benjen's words echoed in Jon's mind and he missed what his father said in response.

"-would have killed him!" Father growled, and Jon's eyes widened. 

"You've refused any talk of offering the boy a holding, and you've rejected at least a dozen betrothals with noble girls already, and the boys not even seven! You refuse to send him away, but you've done everything you can to ensure he's got no future in the North!" Uncle Benjen yelled. 

"This conversation is done" Father declared, but there was a heavy bang as Benjen refused to leave. 

"And all of that pales in comparison to the injustice you've dealt the boy by refusing him the right to learn to defend himself. As a boy with no name, no title, no family, all he has is his body and if you don't give him the tools to use it, eventually he'll find other means of using it. It wouldn't be hard, he might have the Stark hair, but the boys already the spitting image of-" Benjen's voice had turned cruel and mocking. 

"ENOUGH!" Father roared, and Benjen fell silent. 

"He won’t be a boy forever, Eddard,” Benjen said coldly. “You think crippling him keeps him safe. But we’ve seen how such mercy ends. I’ll not see what happened to Elia’s children play out again. So choose: your blood, or your whoremonger king" Benjen spat, and there was a loud bang of the door slamming behind the younger Stark brother, then the office fell silent. 

(It's important to note that at 6 years old, Jon didn't know what a whoremonger was, and since Benjen had called Catelyn a whore earlier, he assumed that they were also talking about her here)

Once he was sure no more would be said, Jon stumbled away from the air vent, his skin flushed red from the heat, and his mind spinning from what he had learnt. 

That night, he slept restlessly, and when he woke, he wasn't surprised to see that Uncle Benjen had departed for the Wall ahead of schedule. Jon was disappointed that he hadn't said goodbye before he left, both because Jon would miss him, but also because Jon had so many questions he felt like he could burst. 

After stumbling through his lessons that day, visibly subdued as he struggled with what he had learnt, though everyone else assumed he was merely missing his Uncle, Jon returned to his room, and flopped onto his bed, only to nearly brain himself of something hard that had been placed under his pillows. 

Sitting up, Jon pulled the pillows back and found a wooden box, long and thin, the polished wood and oiled hinges looked expensive, and on the lid of the box was an engraving of a strange and beautiful creature. It was a wolf with large wings, an abnormally long neck, a long spiked tail, and monstrously large teeth. 

A dragonwolf.

Jon wouldn't realize until years later the massive clue his uncle had left for him. 

(For all his Uncle Benjen insisting that as a Brother of the Nights Watch he didn't have to obey the Warden of the North, the Nights Watch still worked out of the North, and as such owed the Warden of the North a certain amount of loyalty. Ned had ordered him not to tell Jon who his parents were, but he never said Benjen couldn't leave clues) 

Opening the box revealed the most beautiful set of weapons that Jon had ever seen, barring the Stark ancestral sword Ice. Within was a double edged long and short sword, and 4 daggers, two of which were slightly smaller than the others.

On top of the sheathed blades was a roll of parchment in his uncle's familiar elegant scrawl.

The note read: your mother once told me that it's impossible to break a rule that hasn't been made. Technically Lord Stark hasn't ordered you not to train on your own, so you're not breaking any rules, but don't tell him I told you that.

A devious smile split Jon's usually somber face, and unknown to him, but this lesson would become a core foundation of who he was. 

(Afterall, no one told him that he couldn't engineer a Northern Revolution, so technically he wouldn't be breaking any rules by doing it)

Chapter Text

In theory, teaching himself how to fight was a great idea. The execution however... Left something to be desired. 

Jon hadn’t bothered with the swords— even the smaller one was far too big for his slight frame— so he focused on mastering daggers instead. But after the third near-miss where he almost sliced off a finger, he managed to pilfer a pair of training daggers from the armory. These were wooden daggers that had been weighted with a core of steel, allowing children to learn without the risk of anything more than bruises, while also allowing them to grow accustomed to the weight and feel of a properly balanced dagger.

From there came the stealthy dawn stalking of the guards’ early morning practice sessions. Jon singled out the men with slighter builds—those who relied on speed and ruthless precision. Their movements reminded him of dancing, fluid and light on their feet, and far easier to imitate than the rigid brutality of Northern brawling. 

(Unknown to Jon, these fighters had come to the North from Essos with the Manderley's, and had travelled to Winterfell with Lord Manderley while he conducted business with Jon's Father. Each of them used a variation of Water Dancing, and were considered elite fighters across both Westeros and Essos) 

Jon quickly noticed many of them fought equally well with either hand. As with all subjects he was curious about but didn’t dare ask his father, Jon went to Old Nan.

"Ambidextrous," Old Nan explained, "is the fancy term coined by the Citadel, but we call them Mirrorhanded, or Scathlamh. Some of the best Northern warriors have been Scathlamh, can you tell me why?" Old Nan asked, and Jon tapped his fingers on the gnarled wood of her table.

"... It's connected to wrestling" Jon decided, and Old Nan gave him a small warm smile.

That wasn't new to Jon, who even at 7 years old had received grappling lessons since he could walk, much to Lady Stark's chagrin. Wrestling was an integral part of Northern warrior culture, so much of Northern combat was tied to it. More than that, it was deeply tied to the Stark family history, ever since one of Jon's ancestors won Bear Island from the Ironborn in a wrestling match and granted the land to the Mormont's.

"Yes. That isn't to say House Stark doesn't have some of the best archers of Westeros, but much like horse-riding, archery is seen as a useful and valuable skill, but doesn't hold the same esteem as the South. Can you tell me why?" Old Nan asked, pouring Jon his tea, and Jon accepted it with a small thank you while he thought. 

Between the thick forests, swamps and mountains that made up the North, no one would risk taking a horse off one of the North's main roads. Most battles took place on foot, making both horses and archery rather obsolete. Horses were merely a means of transportation and livelihood, and while horse riding was a valuable skill, unlike the south, their battles didn't take place on big open fields, so most Northern battles didn't take place on horseback.

None to mention, most horses weren't built to withstand the intense cold for long periods of time. Most commoners preferred oxen, which produced more body heat than even the hardiest horse, so horses remained a status symbol of the Northern Lords. 

"Our forests are too thick for archers, melee weapons are for war, no one takes a war hammer hunting-too heavy-we tend to travel light, no point dragging stones to war only to freeze before you've tasted blood" Jon stated, and Old Nan's thin lips quirked upwards in a half smile. 

"Spoken like a true Northerner" she muttered as she took a sip of her tea, but Jon ignored her. 

"Outside of war, a Northerner is more likely to fight with their hands than pull a blade" Jon stated, and Old Nan nodded firmly. 

"Very few quarrels deserve death, and when you pull a sword that is almost always the outcome. More Northerners dying in petty squabbles means less hands when Winter Comes" Old Nan stated firmly, and Jon nodded in agreement. 

Jon had only seen his father pull his blade twice in his life, and both times had ended in death. 

"So, how did it evolve from wrestling to s-sca-th-lem?" Jon stuttered on the Old Tongue word, and Old Nan patiently walked him through the pronunciation before they continued.

"Northern Warfare is all about efficiency and speed, how to end the conflict as fast as possible. Dual wielding is incredibly difficult, takes years of training, and only the fastest fighters can use it effectively. Melee weapons like war hammers, axes and spears are more popular near the Wall, where skirmishes with the Wildlings are common, but usually occur in small batches. On a battlefield, swords tend to be the weapon of choice because they are more maneuverable" Old Nan explained, and Jon absorbed that. 

"How do you know all this?" Jon asked, and Old Nan cracked a small fond smile. 

"My husband was a Scathlamh-whole lotta good it did him when he caught a sickness, but I've never seen a fighter like him since. He used to tell me that it was like dancing, balance and precision was important, but if you couldn't follow the rhythm, the whole thing fell apart and you would find yourself meeting the gods sooner than you'd planned" she reminisced, and Jon took a small sip of tea. 

"... Not that this means anything... But if someone were to go about trying to become a Scathlamh... Where would they start?" Jon gave her his most innocent look, hunched shoulders, wide dark purple eyes looking up through long lashes, lips open showing the barest glimpse of milk teeth.

Old Nan laughed riotously, knocking her tea cup off the table, and ignored the way Jon's face had turned progressively poutier as she laughed at him.

"Boy, you're about ten years too young, and I about 5 10's too old for you to be giving me looks like that! But if you think the girls are chasing you now, give it ten years, I assure you a look like that will get you anything you want" Old Nan kept laughing, and eventually Jon huffed and stomped out of her hut, begrudgingly thanking her for the tea on his way out. 

She was still laughing when he left! Jon scowled down at the stones as he trudged back into Winterfell.

Regardless of her teasing, Old Nan had started including penmanship lessons for his non dominant hand in their lessons. Jon didn't say anything, but the old woman gave him a knowing look at the bruises and callouses that began to form on his hands shortly after that, but she never said a word to anyone.

With actual knife fighting beyond him, Jon paid careful attention and memorized the stretches and warm up exercises these fighters used, and copied them in his room every night until his limbs felt like pudding. Even then, it would take months before Jon could compete even a fraction of the repetitions the Manderley guards did. 

The Manderley guards didn't remain long, departing with Lord Manderley only 3 moons after Jon had started training himself, but before they departed Jon was able to memorize many of their movements.

Two moons into his training, Jon started to feel the changes in his body, the exercise combined with Jon's increased appetite meant a wiry strength had settled into his limbs. Some of the puppy fat of childhood melting from his frame, doing his exercises hurt less, the training daggers felt more sure in his hands, and his aim was improving. He almost always hit the inner circle of the target he'd 'acquired' from the archery range. Even if he was only twenty paces from the target, Jon refused to ignore the signs of progress. 

There was just one problem...

"must have been a beauty-"

"no wonder the honorable Lord Stark was tempted-"

"-looks anything like her son, you'd need to be an eunuch not to-"

"wouldn't mind some grandchildren with those pretty eyes-"

"the Umber girls said he's as sweet as mulberry wine, as well-" 

"smart as a direwolf, too, the way the Maester and Old Nan go on about him-"

"What are you doing?" Robb asked, his head tilted in confusion as he found Jon crouched in a hidden alcove behind a stone stature of a pair of snarling direwolves, and Jon's hand flashed out, and he yanked his brother into the alcove with him just in time. 

A pair of girls rounded the corner, giggling between themselves, the eldest only a year or two older than Jon and Robb. They were done up in Northern finery, their dark hair braided with bright blue ribbons, and the faintest makeup on their faces. By Northern standards, they were rather extravagant outside of a feast or festival, but as the granddaughters of Lord Manderley, the most affluent Northern Lord aside from House Stark, that wasn't unexpected. 

"Why do you get to ask him?" the smaller girl, only two years younger than her sister, pouted, and the older one smiled smugly. 

"Because I'm older. Besides, grandfather has promised I can choose my own husband, and I want to get Snow's measure" Wynafryd Manderley smirked, and Jon's eyes narrowed on Robb's reddening face as his traitor brother struggled to muffle his laughter. 

"Isn't it superficial to make a bastard the Lord of White Harbor just because he's pretty? Maybe you should ask Robb instead, he is the Heir of Winterfell, much more appropriate for the Heiress of White Harbor, don't you think?" Wylla simpered, and Wynafryd rolled her eyes at her sister's blatant manipulation. 

Suddenly, Robb wasn't laughing anymore. 

"Mother says a woman can forgive a pretty man of a lot of flaws, so even if Snow has the personality of a troll, he'd give me pretty children at least. Not to say Robb isn't cute, but he's very Sothron, and we Manderley's get enough of that from the rest of the North. I'm not sure grandfather would accept such a match" Wynafryd said, and Jon straightened, suddenly much less keen on hiding from the little upstart. 

Who does she think she is, Jon thought with all the injustice of a highly protective seven year old, and it was only Robb's arm around his waist, and the hand against his mouth, that kept Jon from blowing their cover as the girls passed them. 

"-that little-" Jon swore a blue streak as soon as Robb's hand was removed, and Robb gave a small scandalized gasp. 

"Jon!" Robb chastised, and Jon scowled at Robb, struggling against the tight hold the bigger boy had around him. 

"Why did you stop me from pummeling her?" Jon sulked when Robb's grip didn't budge. 

(While Jon had gotten stronger with his training, not only was Robb bigger-it was fairly obvious only one of them had inherited the Stark build-he'd been training longer and Robb had taken to wrestling with ease)

"If there is one lord you don't want to get on the bad side of, it's Lord Manderley. He might look all jolly, but I saw him negotiate trade terms with father, and the man's more kraken than merman. Something tells me he wont take kindly to you roughing up his granddaughters for a lukewarm insult to me" Robb gave a small shrug, and Jon stopped struggling and looked at his brother's tight features. 

"You're not a Sothron, understand me? Anyone that thinks differently can talk to my fists, including you, got it?" Jon scowled, and Robb's lips quirked upwards in a self-deprecating smile. 

"It's okay, Jon, I know what everyone says about me, and I own it. I have mothers coloring, there's no denying it, but beating up little girls isn't going to prove them wrong: only my actions will" Robb explained, and Jon gave a dejected sigh. 

"Why do you have to be so reasonable?" Jon grumbled, and Robb laughed as he finally released Jon's arms.

"Come on, we're late for lessons" Robb hooked an arm around Jon's shoulders and dragged him from the alcove.

(Thankfully, Lord Manderley took his granddaughters with him when he left, which almost made up for the disappointment of no longer being able to spy on the Manderley guards. Almost.)

"The South calls us savages and practitioners of blood magic," Old Nan lectured, "they aren't entirely wrong about the blood, but blood sacrifices to the Gods was no minor matter. A person can only sacrifice that which belongs to them, or have been granted permission by a higher power. The more valuable the blood, the more powerful the sacrifice, the greater the blessing from the gods" Old Nan explained, and Jon furrowed his eyebrows. 

"More valuable? Blood has a value?" Jon asked, and Old Nan nodded seriously. 

"Blood sacrifices have 2 variables: the method and the sacrifice. Deadblood has no value, there is nothing to be gained from the dead. Blood with no life sacrifice holds power, but a lifeblood sacrifice is the most powerful" Old Nan explained, and Jon understood. 

"You mean like when we used to sacrifice criminals to the weirwood" Jon realized, and Old Nan nodded. 

"Yes. A human life will always hold more power than an animal, but remember what I said about a sacrifice needing to belong to you? A hunter can catch an animal and sacrifice it to the gods, but only the Kings of Winter could claim ownership over their people, only they can sacrifice a man to the gods. However, keep in mind that the gods don't always distinguish between the reigning King and those of the bloodline, so theoretically they would accept a sacrifice from you and your siblings as well as your father" Old Nan explained, and Jon blinked down at the table as Old Nan busied herself starting a batch of tea.

"So someone random can't start sacrificing just anyone to the gods?" Jon asked, and Old Nan scoffed. 

"The gods aren't blind, they will strike you down for an insult, and offering an innocent life to the gods is a good way to get your bloodline cursed" Old Nan cautioned, and Jon sighed, his head starting to ache.  

"If life decides the value of the sacrifice, does that mean the sick and elderly are less powerful sacrifices because they would die sooner than someone young?" Jon asked.

"Yes and no. For the most part a human life is equally powerful, but not all men are the same. There is power in belief, Jon, for 8,000 years the Starks were worshipped as Kings of the North, kneeling to the dragons didn't erase that. You have Kingsblood, just as much as your siblings, if not more, depending on who your mother is, you might be free of the stain of Andal blood" Old Nan explained, and Jon scowled. 

"Stain? Robb is not stained" Jon huffed, and Old Nan chuckled. 

"Our people fought for thousands of years, it's not common knowledge, but those of the Clans know that certain... precautions were taken to prevent our gifts from being used against us" Old Nan explained, and Jon frowned. 

"... Like magic?" Jon asked hesitantly, Old Nan had told him stories of wargs, skinchangers and greenseers, and the way she talked had always seemed odd to Jon... As if they weren't stories, but personal experiences...

"Yes. There is a reason Lady Stark's eldest two were born firetouched, it's a miracle Lady Arya escaped it, I suspect the magic will be particularly strong in her" Old Nan predicted, and Jon sat with that. 

"So, what does that mean for Robb?" Jon asked, and Old Nan shrugged. 

"In this? Merely that the Kingsblood is weaker in him, but unless he plans to become a blood magic practitioner, I doubt it will hinder him," Old Nan levelled a severe look at him, prompting him to sit straighter in his seat, "But he will be tested, both by his bannermen and the Wolfsblood, just as every Stark with a drop of magic in their veins. It will be harder on someone with Andal blood, especially those closest to the line of succession, but don't think that makes you immune. It has a way of... purging those who wouldn't make good rulers, pushing them to make bad choices and throw themselves into battle. I loved your uncle Brandon like my own, but I'm not surprised the Wolfsblood led him to ruin" Old Nan's face grew grim and Jon was quiet as she wrestled her grief. 

"So I just... Have to keep Robb from making bad choices? As well as myself and my other siblings-I'm not sure I'm very suited to that" Jon said dubiously, and the older woman laughed. 

"No, you can guide him, but this is a path Robb must walk alone. Don't worry about such things now; it rarely starts acting up before they near manhood" Old Nan reassured him, but Jon had a bad feeling this information was going to bite him in the ass one day.

"How do you know all this?" Jon asked Old Nan, watching while the older woman had poured their tea, her hands steady as the grave despite her advanced age.

"Pour tea?" Old Nan teased, and Jon rolled his eyes. 

"No, you're the only commoner I know of that knows their letters, let alone all the history, geography, and medicine-I know the citadel doesn't allow women, are you from a noble family?" Jon accepted his tea, letting the warmth of the cup seep into his half numb fingers. 

(Old Nan's hut was well furnished for a commonfolk, due to her old age and wisdom she was an honored member of the community, but it wasn't perfect and the sealing on her windows had started peeling. It was particularly chilly this morning-a sign of an approaching Summer Snow-meaning even wrapped in furs with the fire burning, Jon was freezing)

 "I grew up in the Mountain Clans, where they continue to teach anyone with the capacity to learn," Old Nan explained, "its the only place in Westeros, and I imagine Essos as well, where you'll find commonfolk and nobles learning their letters side by side, but my letters are far from the only thing I learnt there" Old Nan leaned back in her chair, and Jon absorbed that. 

A place where everyone was taught together? Why hadn't Jon known about this sooner? Why didn't Winterfell do this?

"Does father know about this? Why don't we do that here? There's lots of kids in Wintertown" Jon frowned, and Old Nan gave him a knowing look.

"Of course your father knows, but the other Lords would riot if he used 'their' taxes to educate 'peasants'. The rest of the North views the Clans actions as queer, but ignores their actions because the Clans are the guardians of knowledge, and assume most of what is taught relates to becoming a Green Man. And to be fair, it is. Why hire a scribe when you can just train your priests and priestesses to read and write? Why allow the Andal maesters into our walls when we can train our own healers?" Old Nan asked, and Jon dissected that. 

"But if all the commonfolk could do those things, wouldn't that be better for the North? We wouldn't have to rely on the South, we could create our own Citadel" Jon said, and Old Nan nodded. 

"I don't think Ned would be opposed, but it would cause tension with the South, they never like it when one of the Realms prospers too much" Old Nan said scornfully, and Jon felt the edge of an idea forming in his mind. 

... What if we didn't tell them? What if we could train commonfolk to be tradesmen, shipwrights, healers, scholars, soldiers, and more? Of course, farming and hunting would always be prevalent among the commonfolk, but what if we could give them options?

(And what about the less... mundane subject? If magic was real, was there a way to find those with magic, and train them regardless of birthright? Wasn't magic just a different kind of power?)

Chapter Text

Six months into his training, Jon’s knifework had improved greatly. One of the town boys had even taught him how to flip the blade, and he could now hit a bullseye on the stolen archery-range target with either hand.

He quickly realized he needed somewhere bigger to practice, and thus began the nightly exhibition to the Godswood.

Entering the godswood had always soothed Jon. He often felt watched, but never with malice. Tonight, dressed in warm training clothes, carrying his wooden target and wearing weapons, that unseen presence felt heavier.

Jon dropped his things at the edge of the clearing and approached the heart tree. He folded himself to his knees before the massive weirwood.

“Old Ones, I ask for guidance and sanctuary as I educate myself from the shadows of your arms. I offer this sacrifice in hope you will welcome me into your house and guard me as your child,” Jon said clearly—unscripted and honest, as all prayers to the Old Gods were meant to be. No scripture. No idols. Only truth.

He slipped the small knife from his boot and steeled himself before dragging the flat of the blade along his forearm. Blood dripped onto the roots, stark crimson against bone-white bark.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Only the faint whistle of wind. No animal cry. No moonlight penetrated through the branches.

Then the branches shifted. Thin cracks of moonlight broke through. Jon’s blood bubbled and sank into the weirwood’s roots, absorbed without a trace.

Reaching for the bandages he'd stored in his tunic, Jon went to press them against his wound, only to inhale sharply. The wound looked partially healed,  looking a week old rather than minutes fresh.

“Thank you,” Jon whispered, bowing his head. He remained kneeling in prayer until his legs numbed.

When he returned to his belongings, a fresh chunk of wood lay among his weapons—thick as his thigh and nearly as tall as he was. The bark of the weirwood cutting was stark white and still flush with life and vitality, waiting to be carved into whatever Jon decided.

How he would smuggle it into the castle, he had no idea, but that was a problem for Future Jon. 

With one more bow to the gods, Jon hung his well-loved target on a nearby tree—not the weirwood, of course—and stepped back fifty paces.

That first night, he hit the target barely half the time and never the inner rim, but he never gave up. By week’s end, he was running drills in the clearing, the movements coming easier beneath the watchful presence of the Old Gods.

Each night he gave the weirwood a blood offering. And each night, the blessings grew. The blessings of the Old Gods were subtle yet abundant. 

The clearing had become comfortably cool, rather than the frigid walk from the castle to the godswood. Each night he returned from the godswood, Jon slept deep and free of nightmares. And each morning Jon woke almost entirely free of the soreness he had come to expect.

Kingsblood indeed…

Around the seventh month of his training, the Dreams began.

At first, Jon thought them nightmares and wondered if he'd done something to displease the Gods to have them revoke their blessing. But soon he recognized them as scenes Old Nan had taught him: battles from the North’s ancient wars. They came colorless, soundless, fragmented but repeated until he memorized every movement.

Later, when he mimicked the moves he’d seen in the godswood, the wind seemed to nip and tug at him, gently correcting his form, as though someone stood just behind him.

Some visions he recognized: the Stark wars with the Warg Kings and Marsh Kings. Others took place far from the North—lands he knew only from books. Some he didn’t recognize at all. Essos, perhaps. Or stranger still.

A few visions were so vivid Jon felt he was there.

He smelled the blood. Felt the bite of the cold. Squinted beneath a blinding sun. Sometimes he Saw as a bodiless spectator, sometimes he stood like a ghost in the chaos; invisible to all those around him. And a rare few times, he encountered the vision through the perspective of one of the figures from his Dream, and could even shift his perspective, as if granted limited control.

The first of these Dreams came three months into his training in the Godswood, and it didn’t take Jon long to realize that these dreams were the Old Gods attempts to teach him certain lessons. The Old Gods didn’t speak per se, but they were able to show him long forgotten secrets of the North. 

Starting with the truth of House Stark's ancestral Valyrian sword: Ice, and the Stark’s connection to the Valyrian Freehold... 

Two men stood on the battlements of Winterfell, the great castle appeared relatively newly built-not young, but not yet ancient- its stone gleaming. 

“Hello, Cousin” said a man wielding a large great sword-Ice, the Stark ancestral weapon-but this man was obviously Valyrian with silver hair and pale purple eyes. He was dressed in dragonhide leathers and Valyrian steel vambraces, but there was something familiar in the man's features… 

“You are no Kin of mine” the Stark King sneered, bearing two short swords, and had the signature Stark raven hair and grey eyes. 

“The Lone Wolf says otherwise” the Valyrian man smirked, and lunged forwards. 

The two chased each other across the rooftops, and just as the Valyrian was about to take the Stark man's head, a shadow flew over them, and a giant raptor swept down and slashed the Valyrian's throat. 

“There is no Lone Wolf, only an Outcast and the coven of dragonfucking abominations he whelped” the Stark King sneered, and Jon realized with a jolt what he was seeing. 

The Lone Wolf was the title of Alaric Stark, the brother of one of the earlier Winter Kings-predating the first Andal Invasion by nearly 1000 years. He was cast out for trying to force himself on his sister. They say he escaped into the sea, but his ship was swallowed by the waves…

But if Jon was understanding what he was hearing… Alaric Stark found his way to Old Valyria, bringing the blood of the Warg Kings to the pre-Valyrian firemages of the region… Creating the first Dragon Lords…

(Later, Jon would realize this common ancestry made First Men and Valyrian magic just similar enough-even with 6000 years of mutation- that Jon was able to inherit both sets of magic…)

A few weeks after the first of these hyperrealistic visions, Jon dreamed of the Hungry Wolf’s conquest of the Andal Invaders.

A man in wolfs fur stood on a sandy coastline, far from the North’s rougher, grey sands of the Stoney Shores, these were soft and powdery, their colour almost golden. In the distance, the sounds of fighting carried on the wind. 

The man looked like what Jon imagined to be a more warlike Ned Stark.

He was huge, easily 7 feet tall and built with thick slabs of muscle, his long face, square jaw and grey eyes signaled him out as a Northman. He wore light leathers, furs discarded due to the warmer climate, and Ice was strapped to his hip, about a dozen smaller blades visible to Jon’s eyes, and likely more that he couldn’t. 

His straight black hair was bound back in a war braid, the likes of which Jon had never seen outside books. The end brushed the middle of his back and was braided with strips of leather and what looked like human bones. On his head, he wore a circlet of snarling direwolves.  

“We’ve breached the walls, Your Grace” another man, this one even bigger than the Stark King with the distinctive build of an Umber, told the man. The words were spoken in the Old Tongue, but Jon understood them perfectly, even if his current understanding of the language wasn’t yet fluent. 

A bloodthirsty grin, the likes of which had never graced Ned Stark’s face, turned the man's face cruel and anticipatory. 

“Ready the men; tonight, the Old Gods will feed well” the King announced, and turned, his eyes passing over Jon. 

For a moment, Jon thought the man could see him, his eyes seeming to linger in Jon's direction, but the moment passed. Jon scrambled to keep up as the scene shifted and the men descended on a castle. 

It looked vaguely familiar to Jon, but it wouldn’t until Jon was older that he would realize they had just breached Hightower Hall. The legendary structure had predated the Andals invasion, but had long since fallen to ruin during the various Wars and been remade into a temple to the Seven. 

“Seven save us” a choked voice cried out, a Septon, wrapped in golden robes cowered at the feet of the Seven’s statues, his fat hands gripping the hilt of an ornate sword with shaking hands.

“The Seven have no more power here” The Stark King grinned savagely as he swaggered forwards. 

The Septon’s face was flushed red in rage, his golden robes marred with bloodspatters, and his arrogance hanging from him even then. Soldiers on both sides filled the room to stand between the King and High Septon. 

“You will burn in the Seven Hells for Eternity for the carnage you have unleashed, Barbarian” the Septon spat, and the King grinned.

“Your blood will feed the Old Gods, your flesh will nourish the land, and your rotting carcass shall swing from the trees as a warning to all who seek to tempt Northern Justice” the King stated, his tone factual and unwavering, his words not merely threats, but a Vow. 

The High Septon’s face turned the color of curdled milk, then the two forces clashed. For the barest second, it looked like an even fight, then a direwolf, tall as a horse and thrice as muscled, leapt above the Northerners to savage a dozen Andal warriors. 

The Northerner’s surge forwards, and the Stark King caught the High Septon’s blade before it could end his suffering early. 

“Tonight… The Old Gods shall feast” The Stark King bore his teeth in a wolfish grin, and knocked the fat Septon out with a single blow. 

Once more, the scene shifted, and Jon was standing in a weirwood grove as a dozen screaming bodies swayed in the branches. Alive, but begging for mercy from their stone gods, but the Old Gods carried their prayers away on the wind, swallowing their pleas greedily. 

“Your Grace, you’ll want to see this” a woman in wolfs fur grinned savagely as she approached the King. 

“This had better be good” The King grunted causally as he carved a strip out of an Andal warrior's back, ignoring the man's screams as he gripped the man's ribs, snapping them like kindling and pulling them and the lungs back to form a blood eagle. A tiny tendril of bone white wood descended from the branches to wrap around the man's neck, and lifted him upwards to join his screaming comrades. 

Ordinarily, all of the men would have long since passed into Death’s embrace, but the magic of the ritual prolonged their death in order to squeeze every drop of blood from the sacrifices.  

“We found the crypt” the woman announced, and the King laughed, the sound deep and darkly delighted. 

“Prepare a shipment back to Winterfell, we wouldn’t want to lose our new friend's generous gift” the King laughed at the choked protests bubbling from the Septon’s mouth.

The fat man's body was stripped of ornamentation, and placed in the perfect spot to watch as each surviving Andal was sacrificed to the North’s ‘barbarian gods’. A blood eagle decorated his back, his stomach cleaved open and his intestines pulled out to brush the ground as the fat man's body swayed in the branches. 

Jon followed the King as he was led to a clearing full of stone crates full of books and weapons encrusted with jewels and odd symbols. 

“The Gods are good to us,” the King grinned at whatever he saw, “prepare a shipment to Winterfell with Rúadhfael” the King’s massive direwolf lift his head at his name, then relaxed, resuming his meal-a dozen of the towns sheep had been gladly offered up to the Kings companion. It’s not like the Andals would be needing them…

The last dream came to Jon the night before what would later be referred to as ‘the incident’. In it the gods taught him of the Stark Kings conquest over the Red Kings… And the true power of the Stark’s direwolves…

Jon stood on a battlefield, two armies, one cloaked in grey wolfs fur, and the other in red, faced each other in a Northern forest.

The Red Men’s army seemed to dwarf the Grey, outnumbering them 10 to 1, but there was no fear on the Stark Kings face as he met the Red Kings in the center. 

“You can’t win,” the Red King grinned savagely, his eyes gleaming hungrily as he looked at the Stark King's crown. “Surrender and I’ll make your death quick” the man laughed, the sound deranged.

“I will burn your House from the North’s histories, Bolton” the Stark King stated evenly.

The Red King snarled angrily, his hand lingering on his sheathed sword, but not even a Bolton would disgrace a Blood Moot.

“The skins of you and your sons will make a lovely rug, and your daughters will make fine bitches for my dogs” the Red King laughed crudely, and the Stark King's eyes flashed with power, but he didn’t offer a threat of his own. 

“I have no need for dogs” the Stark King smiled, and the Red King snarled as both leaders returned to their lines, the Blood Moot ended.

No sooner had both Kings vanished from view, the Stark King to his men, and the Red King retreating behind the walls of his castle, when the two forces clashed together like a great wave.

The Stark lines parted, and Jon watched as a dozen men sat atop direwolf mounts emerged, the Stark King leading the charge. The riders glowed a harsh white light, ice creeping like ivy up their arms and crystalizing in their hair, dusting their cheeks in lattice. 

Behind the Red Men's lines, the air shimmered, and a direwolf appeared, seeming to step out of nothing. Ice speared a man in red through the stomach, and the direwolf ripped the head off the man next to him. 

Screams and cursing filled the Red Men’s ranks as more direwolves appeared. There were less than a dozen beasts in total, but they decimated the enemy ranks. 

“Surrender yourself and your men will be spared” The Stark King’s voice was carried on the wind to the ears of every man within miles, but the Red King didn’t emerge. 

The Red King refused to surrender until every last one of his men were dead. No matter; the Stark army killed every man in their way, and bypassed the thick walls of the castle with the Direwolves odd transportation ability. 

In the end, no less than an hour after the start of the battle, the Stark King stood over the Red King, Ice in hand. 

“Winter Has Come for House Bolton” the Stark King announced, and the sound the man’s head made when the Stark King cut it off was oddly satisfying.

By virtue of being included in Robb's lessons, Jon had spent his entire early education suffering through morning sermons at the Winterfell Sept alongside his siblings, even if he had to suffer through the dirty looks of Septa Mordane. 

Despite Lady Stark's best efforts, very few Northerners had converted to the Faith of the Seven. In fact Jon was certain that it was only in orders of his Father that no enterprising Northerner had attempted to set the building alight.

(Yet)

At half past seven name days, Jon finally put his foot down. 

"I'm not going" Jon told Robb, his chin set in stubborn determination, and Septa Mordane made a scandalized choking sound, her clawlike hand coming down to grip Sansa's shoulder. 

"The Lady was kind enough to ignore your... unnaturalness, and include you in the house of the Gods, despite the very insult your presence gives, and this is how you repay her? Come along, Boy, you're holding us up" Septa Mordane scowled, and Jon met her eyes.

"No. I am a Northerner and I will worship like one, I won't bow to your stone statues" Jon said firmly, and distantly became aware that everything around them had frozen, servants had halted in the halls to watch the proceedings, and several guards were watching him in approval. 

"Boy-" Septa Mordane's face was flushed in anger, but Jon was unshakeable, when suddenly a shadow fell over their group. 

"Move alone, Septa Mordane, the boy has said no and you won't drag a child of the North into your crypt" one of the Stark guards, Jon vaguely recognized him as a third son of a cousin of Lord Cerwyn, stood behind Jon, and Septa Mordane's face froze into an expression of cold rage and arrogance. 

"Lady Stark will hear about this" the Septa promised, then ushered the other Stark children towards the Sept, Robb looked particularly dejected about the turn of events, but knew better than to fight. Lady Stark might not care that Jon had shunned the Faith of the Seven, but Robb was an entirely different story. 

"Thank you" Jon mumbled, shuffling his feet shyly, and the guard, who Jon realized wasn't much older than a boy, winked at him. 

"Don't mention it, Snow. My ancestors would have risen as Others if I had allowed that Sothron cunt to force the Faith of the Unfeeling on any Northern child, let alone one of Stark blood" the guard promised, then melted back into his former post, and a seed of warmth bloomed in Jon's chest. 

Old Nan had promised him that the Old Gods didn't care about his bastardry, but Jon had always found Lady Stark's scorn louder than the quiet acceptance of the Northerners, but maybe Old Nan was right and Jon just hadn't been listening...

"What do you know of the First King?" Old Nan asked.

"They came from the Empire of the Dawn, no one knows his name, but the South thought he might be the Greenhand" Jon stated, and Old Nan scoffed.

"The South would like that wouldn't they? Those Gardener cunts attempted more times than memory can track to claim sovereignty over the North, but accounts claim the Greenhand and the Builder lived at the same time, but the First King came to this land centuries before either lived" Old Nan explained, and Jon looked at her with wide attentive eyes.

No offense to Maester Luwin, but he had never been able to make their history anything other than boring.

"When our ancestors came to this land from the Empire, they brought their marriage ceremonies with them. Eons before that, the Old Gods didn't give a single care for who fucked who, there were no kings, no reason to care for bloodlines or inheritance, so everyone was a bastard in the eyes of the Old Gods. Even now, it is less the act of bastardy which marks infidelity a sin, but the breaking of an Oath before the Weirwoods. Lord Stark broke no such Oath to his Sothron bride" Old Nan's eyes twinkled in mischief, and Jon's throat tightened. 

"W-what do you mean?" Jon asked quietly, and Old Nan set a withered hand atop his on the table. 

"It was a time of war, Ned needed allies, and Hoster Tully needed a match for his daughter. The Tully's follow the Faith of the Seven, they didn't care to besmirch their precious daughter by having her wedded in a 'savage ritual'. So, they were married in a sept, Lady Stark was pregnant when she reached Winterfell, and Ned marched off to war. And he returned to Winterfell with you. The only oaths broken were those between man and the South's stone gods" Old Nan explained, and Jon was silent as he absorbed that.

"... Why are you telling me this?" Jon asked quietly, and Old Nan gave him a knowing look. 

"Everyone knows this story, Jon, if you care to look, you'll find less people care for your bastardy than you think" Old Nan promised, and then smoothly changed the subject to a discussion on the Andal Wars. 

Of course, Jon's luck couldn't hold forever. 

At eight namedays old, just over a year since Jon had started training himself, Jon lost track of time in the Godswood. 

Cocooned by the relative warmth of the Godswood, Jon never noticed the clouds of a summer snowstorm rolling in, but the castle inhabitants sure did. 

A routine sweep by the castle servants discovered a rarely used servants door propped open with a slim piece of wood, completely unnoticeable unless you knew what you were looking for, or happened to stumble across it. 

With rushed movements, the servant removed the wood and bared the door, then hurried on their way; they had many tasks to complete in preparation of the storm rolling in.

Besides, who would be crazy enough to be outside in a snowstorm during the hour of the wolf?

That night, as Jon was preparing to leave the Godswood, something about the clearing felt different. 

He grown accustomed to the gods presence by this point, it was subtle and they didn't speak to him per say, but Jon could feel their presence, like a chill on his skin or the whistle of wind through the trees, an energy always seemed to hover in the clearing, ancient and powerful, yet gentle and protective. 

Tonight, there was a tension hanging in the air that he'd never felt.

Ivy trailed down to cover the entrance into the godswood, trying to bar his way, the wind seemed to blow harder, the sounds of nature had gone silent.

"Something's wrong, but... I can't stay here, someone will notice I'm missing" Jon told the Weirwood, the wind seemed to blow harder, almost howling, now strong enough to lift Jon's curls, but it was the thought of his father discovering his training-and putting a stop to it-that had Jon gently pushing the ivy aside, and exiting the Godswood with one last bow to the great tree. 

It'll be okay, Jon told himself, it's only a short walk to the castle. But by the time Jon had arrived at the door, now barred by the servants in preparation of the coming storm, the storm had washed over Winterfell, swallowing the castle, and one little boy outside of its walls, in a cloud of white.

Chapter Text

Catelyn had never thought she would marry for love.

As a daughter of House Tully, she had always known that her marriage would be brokered to whomever offered House Tully the best alliance. She had accepted this fact a long time ago, and it didn't bother her much.

As a child, she had entertained thoughts of growing to love her future husband, but all such thoughts had been firmly drained from her, first by her father, by her intended, Brandon Stark, then, the nail in the coffin, Eddard Stark. 

Cat had watched her mother endure miscarriage after miscarriage. Catelyn, as a dutiful eldest daughter, had always assisted her mother through her labors since she was 8 namedays, and comforted her after each loss. They never got easier, no matter how many babes Lady Minisa Whent-Tully lost, her grief remained as prevalent as ever. 

"Why do you keep trying? Tell father that you can't do this anymore" Catelyn had begged her mother one day, and her mother, beautiful and shattered, her face still grey from blood loss and her eyes red from grief, cupped Catelyn's face in her hands. 

"My Darling, we've taught you about our words: Family, Duty, Honor. This is my Duty, I must give your father a son, the Seven wills it" she'd said, and Catelyn clutched her mother’s hand tight in hers. 

"Father loves you, he wouldn't want you to die just to get a son" Catelyn said, certain that her words were true in the way only a child could be, and her mother gave her a tight smile, full of love and pain.

Her father was an ambitious man, he had a deep hunger for power and recognition. He wanted respect for the Riverlands, and Catelyn had idolized him for years as a child. 

But at 10 namedays old, that was put to an end.

"At least she was able to do one thing right before she left me" Catelyn had overheard her father say, his attention hadn't strayed to the still bloody body of his wife, nor his daughters tears stained face. Instead he stood beside the basinet that held the last piece of her mother: her brother. The Heir of the Riverlands. The child Hoster Tully had paid for with the blood of Catelyn's mother. A son. Unlike her or her younger sister Lysa.

The Lady Tully had finally given Hoster Tully a son, it had just cost her her life to do it. 

The loss of her mother, and her fathers callous words, were a lesson that Catelyn had taken to heart.

As a Noble woman of soon-to-be marriageable age, her value lay in her womb; Catelyn couldn't escape her fate as a woman. She could runaway, bringing Shame to her family, disgrace all the sacrifices her mother had made for her, and end up destitute and alone.

Or, she could marry well and risk her life on the birthing bed, a gamble she would likely have to take regardless. Whether they be rich or poor it was a woman's sacred duty to bring life into the world, the teachings of the Seven had taught her this. 

Her mother, who Catelyn was certain was beloved by her father-cold as his heart was, she was certain he loved her mother-had tried to shelter her from the truth: love didn't matter, only legacy. Catelyn might very well love her future husband, and he might love her, but Legacy would always come before Love.

Daughters were useless, Catelyn would give her husband sons or die trying.

But then surely giving her husband a son would be enough...

(It wasn't)

Then were was Brandon Stark. 

To the North he was a hero: handsome, charming, an excellent warrior...

To her, he meant a future of a cold marriage intercepted with sporadic bedroom visits, a litany of bastards, and constant disrespect in what would be her seat of power.

She knew at that first meeting that there would be no love between them, at most she hoped for cordiality and mutual respect. She would give her husband sons, manage his Household and they would avoid each other the rest of the time. That had been fine with her, better to guard her heart then, than to suffer betrayal like her mother.

But Brandon wasn't the fate the Gods had in mind for her, and Catelyn had married Eddard Stark, now Warden of the North, with little expectation that things would be different. 

... But Eddard-Ned-was different... He'd promised her a future full of everything she'd always tried to convince herself that she didn't want, and when she'd lain under him the night after their wedding, she had believed him. 

(She hated him for that most of all)

As most political matches made during times of war, the courtship had been nonexistent and the wedding rushed. 

Catelyn had been too overwhelmed at the time to pay attention to the details.

Later, Catelyn would kick herself for her inattention, but it was her father’s shortsightedness that had doomed her marriage before it had even begun. 

To a man like Hoster Tully, the thought that the Northern Bannermen might not recognize a wedding unless it was performed under their gods, hadn't registered.

Hoster Tully led his realm with blackmail and intimidation, there wasn’t a Riverlord alive that didn’t want the man dead. The idea that Ned’s bannermen weren’t just subordinates, but friends and allies, that they would question Ned’s decisions… Hadn’t occurred to him. 

When the marriage was just a political union between two High Houses, Lord Tully had no problem capitulating to the Stark’s demands for two wedding ceremonies, as long as his daughter was wedded by a Septon before the consummation, he didn’t care. 

But then Brandon died, the Rebellion started, and Catelyn was set to marry Ned Stark before he rode off to war. 

By the time the negotiations were done, the wedding had to be rushed. It wasn’t the grand production she had dreamed of as a child, but standing across from Ned, she’d felt a glimmer of hope for the first time since her mothers death.

It wasn't love at first sight for either of them, Catelyn could tell there was another woman who had claimed his heart. But in those days leading up to their rushed wedding, she was certain enough of his honorable character to know she had his duty.

In the short time they'd known each other, they had planted the seeds of love between them, and Catelyn had already been halfway to infatuated with the stern Northman. She'd been secure in the knowledge that soon love would follow. The ceremony might have been disappointing and lackluster, but the man across from her more than made up for that.

Ideally, they would have travelled to Winterfell and wedding under the Old Gods to fully seal their union before consummating their marriage.

But the war changed things.

Ned had been expected to meet up with Robert Baratheon’s by then, the negotiations and wedding had delayed him by weeks, so he definitely didn’t have time to travel to Winterfell and then back to the South. Even the closest weirwood tree in the Riverlands was a several days ride away, which was time they didn't have.

Hoster had known that, so had made the negotiations with that in mind. They would be wed in a Sept, and were to consummate the marriage in Riverrun.

At the time, she hadn’t been too worried about the consequences of such an action. They hadn’t had a choice, after the death of his father and brother, only Ned and his younger brother Benjen were left, and men frequently died at war.

They had to take the risk of conceiving while they could, and if Ned survived the Rebellion, they would marry under her husband's gods with no issue. 

But that’s not what happened. They consummated the marriage, and Ned rode out. By the time Ned returned to Winterfell, with a dark haired bastard son in hand, Catelyn had already given birth to their first child, a firetouched son.

The bastards presence changed things. 

Her decision not to marry Ned under the Old Gods was half done in spite and half in strategy. 

"You can't be serious" Ned's face was thunderous, his bannermen behind him doubly so, but Catelyn was unshaken. 

"I am" Catelyn smiled pleasantly.

"Your father-" Ned started, and Catelyn's eyes flashed. 

"Has no bearing on a martial dispute between a Lord Paramount and his Lady Wife. My Lord Father saw me married under the light of the Seven, and, as such, no longer holds dominion over me. You, as my Lord Husband, do. So, if you would like to order me to marry you under the Old Gods I would, of course, obey" Catelyn demurred, and the entire party of Northmen fell into a shocked horrified silence. 

Catelyn had not been idle in her pregnancy, she had taken to the lessons of her Northern handmaidens provided by her Lord Husbands very well and knew that to force someone to marry under a weirwood was sacrilege.

"You swore an oath to me, Eddard Stark, but as I can see that doesn't mean much to you, I would understand if you decide to set me aside. I'm sure my Lord Father would be perfectly understanding and welcome me and my bastard son with welcome arms" Catelyn lied through her teeth with a cheery smile, and all the Northmen winced. 

Ned might think she was being spiteful and cruel, but her actions were not baseless. 

In the eyes of the North, her Robb and the boy were both bastards. If Catelyn were to marry Ned under the Old Gods, it would protect her standing in the North and help her future children, but it would damn Robb. By insisting on a second ceremony after Robb's birth, Ned was affectively declaring Robb a bastard in the eyes of his gods, placing him on equal standing with Ned's baseborn son.

Any son born after him would have a better claim to Winterfell, opening her children to a succession crisis better left avoided, and if Ned insisted of honoring the inheritance of one 'bastard' what was to stop the boy from usurping Robb's birthright? 

The boy might be a babe now, but boys became men, and in her experience men couldn't be trusted. 

Also, at that point any promises to love and cherish her husband would have been a bold faced lie. To the North, lying before the weirwood would be a greater insult than not marrying under their stupid tree to begin with. 

"Catelyn, please see reason" Ned asked quietly, and a small part of her soul that was ruled by feminine rage cherished the wounded look in her husbands eyes. 

"I will not marry under your false gods" Catelyn declared, and the room erupted in yelling, effectively ending the discussion and allowing Catelyn to leave while her Lord Husband tended to his enraged bannermen. 

Mayhap her husband had thought her bluffing, that when her temper cooled that she would change her mind, but Catelyn never did. 

Maybe if she had shared her concerns with him, he would have understood, but Catelyn wasn't interested in hearing his empty promises. She had eventually come to forgive her husband his transgression, even come to love him, and he her, but she never forgot the broken promises he made to her, so she remained quiet.

Most of the Northern Lords would have understood her reasons for not remarrying, if there was one thing the North understood it was loyalty to their own. They didn’t like her, didn’t approve of their match, but they respected her husband enough to eventually accept her as Lady Stark, weirwood ceremony or not.

It would have to be enough.

"Who was she?" Catelyn asked only once, and Ned had refused to answer, but his eyes told Catelyn everything she needed to know. 

Pain. Loss. Greif. Love. All for another woman and coming from the man that promised to love and cherish her, to treat her not just as a broodmare, but as a partner to stand beside him... She had been prepared to accept this kind of mistreatment from Brandon Stark, but Ned had given her hope.

This was a betrayal that Catelyn could not and would not accept. If that made her spiteful and wicked, so be it. 

Despite this, she had tried to love the boy, gods know she tried.

She had allowed her husbands bastard to grow beside her Robb, had allowed them to share a nursery, servants and toys, had watched the little brat wrap the castle inhabitants around his little finger, while maids whispered about the color of her sons hair, the blue of his eyes. They never outright suggested that they preferred the bastard, but she could see it.

It had started as an all encompassing need to stop seeing the preference the Northern servants seemed to hold for the boy, instead she surrounded herself and her son with Riverland servants. Catelyn had inherited her mothers Household staff after her death, whom she had brought to Winterfell as was her right as a Noble Lady, but in the years preceding, she had slowly started to bring in more workers from her homeland.

But it wasn't enough.  

A visit to the Vale to visit her sister after the birth of her darling daughter Sansa had been the last straw. 

"She's the spitting image of you, Dove" her good friend Petyr, who was in the Eyrie conducting some sort of business and had called on Cat after hearing she was in town, complimented her darling Sansa, and Catelyn afford her old friend a small smile. 

"Thank you, Petry" for the first time in year Catelyn finally felt the weight of the bastards presence lift from her shoulder, then- 

"I've heard your boy is quite the little warrior" Petry stated slyly, and Catelyn's teeth clenched, but she forced herself to relax. 

The bastard had already proven to be a corrupting influence of her sweet son, prompting him to attack poor Marjorie, and of course Ned had blamed the poor girl and sent her back to Riverrun with barely a cursory examination from the Maester.   

But hearing that news of the incident had spread all the way to Gulltown-

At that moment, Catelyn decided that she didn't care what it took; she would create distance between her son and the bastard. She would not allow him to steal her sons birthright or poison his mind.

The boy had to go, he was a danger to Robb, and if her husband couldn't see that... She would carve out distance between him and Robb with bloody hands if she had to. After all, if the bastard was out of sight, no one would be comparing him to her son. 

Despite her best efforts, the next few years proved that any attempts to separate the two boys ended in failure. 

She had him removed from the Family Rooms? 

They shifted to spending all their time between lessons together. 

She removed the boy from lessons and family meals? 

A temporary victory, but even then her son proved to be slippery. 

She tried to keep Robb too busy to consort with bastards? 

He hid in the godswood to escape her grasp, and Catelyn knew better than to ask a Northern servant to remove the Heir of the North from the godswood.

(At least after the first time)

By the time the boys were 8 namedays old, Catelyn had all but given up.

She had given her husband another daughter, blessedly Northern-looking Arya, and another son, Brandon, who had the same brownish red hair as Robb, and greenish blue eyes. 

She should have felt secure in her marriage, but all she felt was tired.

She felt like she was going mad-She hated what her paranoia and anger had turned her into, and had taken to spending more and more time in the Sept. 

"Is it too much to ask to be able to close my eyes without being plagued by the future? He might be a boy now, but men are ruled by their greed and lust, he'll turn on Robb one day and nothing I've done has worked," she sobbed at the base of the statues of the Seven within the Winterfell Sept, blessedly alone so no one could witness her breakdown, "I just wish he would die," even saying the words she didn't truly believe them, but she was tired and angry. 

Even still, the next day, when screams shook the castle, and a servant ran towards the Maester's study carrying the half frozen corpse of Jon Snow, Catelyn felt neither joy nor justice nor relief. 

She merely felt self loathing, and promised herself and the gods that if the boy lived she would finally stop.

Come what may, she wouldn't stand between the boy and her children ever again if only the boy lived... 

Chapter Text

Based on the comments I received on the last chapter I wanted to clarify a few things here instead of replying individually.

1. I wanted to clarify that I don’t think that Catelyn's treatment of Jon is justified. I think her anger at the situation is justified, but like I said her actions are not. I tried to show that her reasons are more complex than simply hating Jon because she’s evil, but also that her perception is warped by her own prejudice and paranoia. She thinks all bastards are untrustworthy therefore Jon’s betrayal is inevitable, and any actions she takes are in protection of her children. This won’t be the last time I use her POV, so if you stick around you will get to see her growth but this chapter was only meant to show her starting point, and shouldn’t be used as an accurate representation of what her character will be like in the future. This was only chapter 6, and the first chapter in her POV, there is still a lot more room for growth. That said, she's not going to be perfect in this story, she will make mistakes and you as the reader you might read her side of the story and believe she's irredeemable and a horrible person, or you might read it and sympathize with her. This is entirely up to you, all I'm trying to do is offer two perspective for her actions beyond: she's an evil bitch that hates Jon for no reason that we often see in these stories. She can be either good or evil, its entirely up to your interpretation of her actions.  

2. My comment about bastards in this world often betraying their trueborn kin wasn’t meant to imply that I don’t think most these bastards disloyalty isn’t justified: it absolutely is. But this was meant more about how blood doesn’t stop people in this world from betraying each other (see: Ramsey Snow/any of the Blackfyre's) but this isn’t limited to bastards (see: Cregan Stark’s uncle) which is something that Catelyn isn’t seeing because she has a prejudice against bastards. With time she will come to see that, but she’s not there yet. I want to reiterate that this is not a Catelyn bashing fic, but she isn't perfect and she'll likely never be Jon's biggest fan.

3. While I appreciate that everyone coming here is a fan of the original’s, please keep in mind that this is a fanfic. There will be changes made and pointing out that ‘such and such didn’t happen in the books or show’ or that I 'they didn't like/you should have done ____ differently' is not helpful. My reasons for Riverrun not having a weirwood are relevant to the plot and will be coming soon, but those won’t be the last changes I make to canon so if that’s not what you’re interested in this isn’t the story for you. Please keep your comments constructive or I will turn them off. That said, I do welcome constructive criticism. Someone mentioned that it didn’t make sense that Hostor would allow Petyr back in Riverrun. I agree, I didn’t even think about that when I wrote that in and I appreciate the feedback. I've changed it to Catelyn visiting Lysa in the Vale and Petyr *coincidentally* being there for business when he drops in. Since I'd never given any indication that the events of Lysa's pregnancy hadn't happened, this comment falls under constructive feedback. However, if I'd stated previously that those events hadn't happened and I received comments that they didn't agree with my decision to change that, those comments are no longer constructive. I love hearing feedback from you guys but at the end of the day I'm writing this story for fun and seeing negative comments gives me zero motivation to continue this story. 

I want to say a huge thank you to all the people who left me positive or constructive comments. You really help remind me why I enjoy doing this and have encouraged me to continue this story. Thank you for reading and I hope if you decide to stick around that you continue to enjoy seeing my vision for this story come to life. <3 <3 <3

Chapter Text

Jon didn’t know where he was.

Awareness seeped into him slowly. His memories were still hazy, but he knew he’d lost consciousness from the cold-and every Northerner knew that was as good as a death sentence. He’d found an alcove to shield himself from the worst of the wind and snow, but it hadn’t been enough.

For a time, he’d been wrapped in warmth, so complete and gentle he’d been sure he was dying. But as his senses crept back, he felt the rough texture of wood beneath him. Then something sparked under his skin. A soft golden light pulsed inside his chest in time with his heartbeat, sending streaks of color through his body. Blues, greens, reds, yellows, purples, oranges-every shade imaginable danced beneath his skin.

“What is your name?” The question came from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Jon Snow, he answered-or thought he did. No sound passed his lips, but the words filled the air.

“Wrong.” Phantom wind tore through him, nearly extinguishing the light.

“…What? If that’s not my name, then what is?”

“His name… is Vaegon Targaryen.” A woman’s voice rippled through the trees like wind chimes.

The faint glow let Jon finally see where he was. He sat nestled in the heart of a weirwood. Bone-white limbs, thick as his own body, encircled him like a shield, holding the cold at bay. Inside the hollow, smaller branches curled around him, anchoring him in place-but one by one they crumbled to ash. Jon slipped through the widening gaps.

The fall was slow. A creeping cold seeped into his veins, climbing toward his heart. His inner flame guttered… then died. The ground dropped out from beneath him, and Jon fell-

-Something caught him. 

Heat flared within him. The flame inside him blazed to life, fire coursing through his veins, no longer a spark but a wildfire, it bathed him in warmth and illuminating his surroundings. 

Jon hung suspended over a vast Void, endless Nothing stretching in every direction. Above him, the roots of the largest weirwood he had ever seen writhed and twisted.

And the roots… For every healthy one, ten were charred husks. Others were withered and gray. Some were crudely severed, dripping blood like fresh wounds; others bulged with pustules that oozed black tar.

For a long moment, Jon dangled there, held by some unseen force. Then spiderweb-thin lines of scarlet light spiraled around his limbs, their ends reaching toward one root near the tree’s heart—alive, powerful, pulsing like a great vein.

The threads connected.

A jolt tore through him, and suddenly he was rising. Something resisted, pulling him back toward the Void—but with a sharp, violent tug, Jon wrenched free.

Then-

He was standing in his father’s study.

The shape of the room was the same: the long stone walls, the heavy timber beams overhead, the single narrow window set deep into the northern wall. The familiar scent of parchment and cold air lingered, but muted, as if filtered through memory instead of lungs.

The Ironwood desk stood where it always had, maps spread across it. Its surface was scarred from generations of Stark Lords-and Kings-past use.

Bookshelves lined the walls, their edges slightly blurred, while the books themselves looked too sharp, too real. Ned Stark’s chair was in its place behind the desk, but its shadow stretched unnaturally long across the floor.

The fire in the hearth was frozen mid-flicker, its light unmoving, casting no warmth.

The miniature model of the North stood near the wall, just as Jon remembered.

It was carved from pale, age-smoothed wood, every detail painstaking and precise. It had been a gift-no one remembered from who-to one of the many King Brandon Stark’s some 5000 years ago. Despite the impossibility, it had retained its luster over the years, and if one looked closely, they would notice certain rivers and roads that hadn’t existed then decorated the map…

Mountain ranges rose as jagged ridges, rivers cut thin glimmering lines through the grain, and each holdfast stood no larger than a thumb. Winterfell dominated the center, its towers perfectly shaped, the godswood marked by a tiny carved weirwood.

But now a faint red glow pulsed beneath the wood, threading through the land like veins. The light gathered most strongly under Winterfell, thudding gently like a heartbeat.

Jon turned to the man standing beside him-

-it wasn’t his father.

“Stunning, isn’t it? Even diminished, this land still has its charms.” The man’s voice was a smooth baritone, almost musical. He extended a single finger toward the model, and the wood rippled like water. Keeps rose where ruins should have stood. Roads carved themselves across the land. Rivers brightened and pulsed as they linked every corner of the North in a living network of trade and travel. Beneath it all, the roots of thousands of weirwoods spread outward—nurturing the soil, softening the worst of winter, and feeding power into the rare few who carried a spark within them.

Jon stared, wide-eyed, as a vision of the North-that-was unfolded before him. The man watched his reaction with a small, knowing smile.

It was eerie how much he resembled Jon’s father—and yet how entirely he didn’t.

He had the Stark height, the Stark build, the dark hair and long, somber face… but where the Stark’s eyes were steel-grey, this man’s eyes were molten silver, shimmering like quicksilver in the light.

“Hello, Descendant” the man said in the Ancient Tongue. The words rolled like old stone shifting. Jon blinked, more lost than ever.

“Hello,” Jon replied in the same tongue. It came out awkward, uneven.

The man winced. “Your pronunciation is dreadful. If you survive this, see that you fix it.”

Jon glared despite himself. “…Who are you?”

A hint of a smile touched the stranger’s mouth.

“I’ve been called many things. History knows me as the First King and the Emerald Prince,” His silver eyes caught the light as though they held fire behind them. “But you may call me Saeryn.”

Jon felt the floor fall away beneath him. 

“…How may I serve you… Your Grace?”

Saeryn snorted softly.

“Spare me titles. I am King of naught but dust. Now I am just an old man looking to pass some wisdom down to his descendent" 

He lifted a hand. The model of the North shimmered, its carved ridges and rivers running like melting wax. The land reshaped itself—endless forests stretching to every horizon, wide rivers winding through untouched valleys, mountains rising like the bones of the earth.

Groups of humans moved along the land, nomadic, until they came across a golden figure, and knelt. 

“Once, there was an Age of Gods,” Saeryn began. “For millennia they ruled the world—warring among themselves, shaping the land, calling new life into being: plants, beasts… and men.”
His voice grew quieter. “Then the Maiden-Made-of-Light grew jealous of mankind’s joy. She desired a child of her own, and so she conceived a son with the Lion of Night.”

“The God-on-Earth,” Jon breathed.

Saeryn inclined his head. “For ten thousand years he reigned. They say the God-on-Earth walked among men and shared his Blessing, carving slivers of divinity from his very soul to grant them his Great Gift. But when there was nothing left to teach, he ascended to join the rest of his immortal kin, leaving his son—the Pearl Emperor—to rule in his stead.”

The model rippled again. The forests and rivers dissolved, replaced by a golden city blazing with color and light. Towers spiraled upward in impossible arcs, their tips brushing the sky.

Jon stared. “What happened?”

“Man happened,” Saeryn said bitterly. “Greed took root. My uncle—the one who named himself the Bloodstone Emperor—turned to black sorcery. He murdered my mother, seized the throne, and sought my death as well.” His jaw tightened. “But the God-Above shielded me. I was barely more than a boy when I fled, leading as many as I could away from the Empire.”

The golden city darkened. Shadows crawled across its streets like vermin. Color bled away as rot spread like spilled ink. Jon watched, horrified, as the dead rose in waves to consume everything in their path. 

“His reign of terror was only beginning,” Saeryn said. “Death walked the streets. Darkness swallowed the sky, and the Great Empire of the Dawn was swallowed by eternal darkness”

Jon’s stomach twisted, remembering Old Nan's tales of Walkers and Wights. The tales had given him nightmares as a child, the mere notion that they weren’t fiction sent a shiver of fear down Jon’s spine.

“The Long Night… that actually happened?”

“Yes,” Saeryn said, eyes distant as a tear slid down the king’s cheek, catching the light like liquid moonlight. “After he consumed my mother’s heart, the Gods turned against Man. They cursed the Bloodstone Emperor with an endless hunger. After he destroyed the Empire, he came west… and sought to do the same to this land.”

Before Jon’s eyes, the model shifted back to resemble the North-though not the one Jon was familiar with. A grotesque figure appeared, its blue skin rotting, open sores leaking black blood. It towered over a young man, dark-haired, eyes the color of ice, standing resolute against the horror.

“The Builder?” Jon whispered.

Saeryn nodded, a small, almost tender smile curving his lips.

“One of the best of my line,” Saeryn said, voice heavy with memory, “he was a gifted Ice Mage and Craftsman. The Wall he created… an abomination, yet it served its purpose.” He sighed. “After Night swallowed the world, it could only be lifted by the Lightbringer. When it was lifted, the magic returned—but never the same. You could tap into it, if you knew how, but it was a shadow of its former self.”

Jon frowned. “Why come here?”

Saeryn shrugged. “After my uncle’s deeds, the magic fractured. The Maiden-Made-of-Light revoked our access to the Divine Gift: spells failed, rituals backfired, gods shunned us. We needed a natural source of power. That is why I came to this land—the weirwoods are a Source of magic.”

Jon frowned further. “I thought you tried to set them on fire?”

Saeryn made a sheepish face. “A misunderstanding. It was a confusing time. It took years to learn how to harness the magic of this new land. It never occurred to me that the power would be divided.”

“Divided?” Jon asked.

The king held up a glowing sphere, swirling with four distinct colors that blended seamlessly into gold. “Divine Magic is the balance of four elements acting as one: Fire, Earth, Air, and Water. When combined, they are impervious to that which makes it whole, but natural magic is scattered, and that brings complications.”

Jon tilted his head. “What kind of complications?”

Saeryn’s face darkened. “Magic is an ecosystem. It can adapt… to a point. Once, each of the four landmasses held dominion over a Source: Earth for Westeros, Fire for Essos, Wind for Sothoryos, and Water for Ulthos. When two of them fell, the balance shifted—Westeros absorbed Wind, Essos took Water. They balance each other, but they are also each other’s weakness. The trees and the Flames are the arteries of natural magic, while the leylines—veins, if you will—carry it across the world. Damage a vein, it repairs. Damage an artery… the consequences ripple far and wide.”

He waved his hand. The model rippled, reshaping into a view of Westeros and Essos. Instead of keeps and villages, there were only forests, mountains, and rivers. Thousands of weirwoods glowed softly green; dozens of volcanoes glimmered red, though none matched the brilliance of the fourteen points encircling Valyria.

“Water?” Jon asked, surprised.

“The elements are symbolic,” Saeryn said. “Earth offers stability, Sun nourishes, Water nurtures, Wind connects it all.”

Jon’s eyes widened as the pieces clicked together. “Fire and Blood… Valyria’s connection to dragons and blood magic. But if Water represents blood magic…”

“Correct,” Saeryn said, nodding. “The weirwoods and the Fourteen Flames are two sides of the same coin. When one grows too strong, the land corrects the imbalance. The Andal wars damaged the weirwoods irreparably. The land corrected itself—causing the Doom—but the Valyrians meddled with magic they should not have.”

The model rippled again, reforming into a perfect rendering of one of the great Valyrian Freehold cities, moments before the Doom. Jon’s breath caught.

Tiny figures moved through the streets- Dragonlords, Jon realized. Each belonged to one of the forty ruling houses permitted dragon imagery, and all were clad in robes far more revealing than he was used to, cut and draped to flaunt the body as much as the wealth beneath. Gold and jewels clung to fabric and skin, dragons embroidered across their clothing, coiled around jeweled headpieces, dangled from chains, and appeared as miniature figures that molded to various parts of their bodies-scales, wings, and flames rendered in every color imaginable

Unlike the Targaryens, who confined their dragons to the Dragonpit, these dragons soared freely through the city. The architecture—unbelievably elaborate, with dragon motifs at every turn—was designed to accommodate them. Buildings were scaled to allow even medium-sized dragons to enter, the walls rippling and stone melting aside as they passed. For dragons too large to fit inside, towers bristled with landing perches along every façade, and the roofs were shaped as resting platforms. The weight alone should have brought the structures crashing down, yet the smooth black stones held firm, unshaken.

In the distance, the fourteen peaks of the Flames belched black smoke. Most of those who watched seemed merely irritated, not terrified—as if the ominous signs of destruction were a minor inconvenience rather than a herald of doom.

Bile rose in Jon’s throat, his stomach twisting. “They overcorrected,” he whispered.

“The Fourteen Flames stored power for centuries, until they erupted, destroying most of the Valyrian population. Dragons delayed the worst, but the Dance ended that.”

Jon’s eyes followed the model as the Flames erupted in a tower of fire. The ground shuddered from the force, splitting and cracking. Noxious fumes poured from the volcanoes, choking dragons, young and ancient alike.

Not one dragon tried to flee.

They surged toward the city, toward their Riders, attempting to shield them with their immense bodies, but even their strength was meaningless against this.

“Yes. Left alone, the magic would have recovered. The Fates would have guided their Chosen to revive the dragons and the weirwoods, and perhaps in a thousand years, magic would return.” Saeryn’s grim expression did not bode well. “But shortly after the Dance, the Bloodstone Emperor stirred from his sleep… and no Chosen appeared. The land struck him down, but at a cost. It had to draw on reserves it did not possess, cannibalizing the southern weirwoods to survive.”

Jon’s jaw dropped. “That’s what caused the Gods’ Blight?!”

Everything else he had learned paled beside this. Every Northerner knew the story: the Blight had wiped out nearly every weirwood south of the Neck that had survived the Andal Wars. Maesters had long theorized about its cause—no other plants or animals were affected, and the devastation seemed to strike without source. One day the trees were fine; the next, hundreds of Hearttrees had rotted from within. It had nearly sparked a War of Faith between the North and the Faith of the Seven, who claimed the Seven had struck down the “barbarian gods” and revealed the North’s corruption.

Even centuries later, the ripples remained, making the Manderleys’ position as the only followers of the Seven in the North precarious at best.

“Yes,” Saeryn continued, voice heavy, “and because of it, barely any magic survives south of the Neck. But even that was not enough. The weirwoods are dying, and the land has been drawing power from the people for generations. Truly, it is a testament to who you are that you have any magic at all.”

Jon swallowed hard. “Why me?”

Saeryn fixed him with a sharp, almost chiding gaze. “Don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out.”

Jon looked down, voice trembling. “…I’m not Ned Stark’s son.”

The man’s hand rested gently on his shoulder. “No.”

Jon blinked, tears pricking at his eyes.

Suspecting he was the child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark was one thing, but to have the First King confirm it? Was he even a bastard? The Hearttree had called him Targaryen, not Blackfyre—but Old Nan had always said the Old Gods did not care for bastardry. If his parents had married, had his mother truly loved his father—or had she been forced into vows? Was he a product of rape?

“Why? Why lie to me?” Jon demanded.

The King shrugged. “The Stag King would have killed you.”

Jon slumped, acknowledging the truth in that. He understood why Ned Stark had lied to protect him. Everyone knew the story of Elia Martell’s murdered children—Jon’s half-siblings—and the callous way Robert Baratheon had reacted to their mutilated bodies. That Ned Stark would risk his own reputation to shield Jon made sense. But why keep the truth from Jon? Was he meant to learn it only when older? Would he ever be told? Why keep him at Winterfell, knowing the King’s wrath could destroy the entire Stark family?

“So… I’m a Targaryen?” Jon asked quietly.

“You are as much a Targaryen as a Stark,” Saeryn replied. “The Andals believed bloodlines pass through the man. In the Empire, strength alone wouldn’t stop a woman from turning you into a stoat if you angered her.” His words were dry, almost glib and Jon laughed despite himself.

“So… I can pull magic from two Sources. But… how does that help me? There are no volcanoes in the North” Jon said.

Saeryn smirked. “You’re right,” He tapped the top of the model, reforming the North once more, but this time it depicted a subterranean view “there are four.”

Beneath the surface of the North, four pools of magma glowed. Jon didn’t need the King to tell him where three of them were.

“The Neck. Winterfell. And The Gift,” Jon breathed.

Saeryn pointed to a distant landmass off the coast of the North. “Skagos as well.”

Jon reeled. Everyone knew of the hot springs of Winterfell that warmed the castle, but no evidence of volcano activity had ever been discovered. Maester's had dismissed claims that there was a volcano-dormant or active-beneath Winterfell ages ago. 

“They have lain dormant since the Long Night,” Saeryn said, voice low and deliberate, “but with the Fourteen unavailable, their power is stirring—as it did after the fall of Sothoryos and Ulthos. For the first time since the Fall of the Dawn, all four types of magic are poised to converge in one place.”

Jon gaped. “Did you say… one of these volcanoes is beneath Winterfell?”

Saeryn snorted.

“Yes, but don’t fret. No damage will come to Winterfell; as Sources of magic in its purest form, volcanoes are more than mere destruction,” Saeryn lectured. “They nourish the land, make it fertile. The bogs of the Neck never fully freeze. The soil of the Gift never truly hardens. Even Winterfell’s springs kept you from freezing to death.”

“I drew on their power?” Jon asked, astonished.

The King nodded. “And now you understand why I tell you all this.”

Jon’s voice faltered. “Why me?”

Saeryn smiled, eyes glinting. “Isn’t it obvious? The magic is weak, but not gone. All it would take to revive it is a spark—and you, Vaegon Targaryen, are that spark.”

"...What" 

“Come now,” the man said with a wink. “I may be dead, but I still have a few tricks. I know you plan a Northern Restoration. All I ask is that you include the land’s magic in those plans. And,” his eyes twinkled, “I suspect there are a few… shortcuts that could speed those plans tenfold.”

Jon swallowed, speechless.

“…I’m listening.”

Chapter Text

“The Old Tongue has no written form—not like you’re thinking. Common and Valyria use letters, the First Men had runes, many of which carry multiple meanings. Our time together is short. I cannot always reach you in dreams without having your soul teetering on the edge, so you’ll have to learn the meanings the old-fashioned way.” Saeryn grinned. “The Earthsingers needed no words; the Language of Power is native to this land. The Empire’s teachings were all oral—that is the source of the Old Tongue. We brought it here from the Empire.”

He led Jon through hallways that shifted and twisted, until they arrived at a vast library. But instead of books, rows of stone tablets rested behind glass cases, and crystals glimmered along every shelf.

“The Old Tongue comes from the Empire of the Dawn? Is that what they speak in Yi Ti?” Jon asked.

Saeryn waved a hand. “A variant. Ten thousand years have made the two nearly indistinguishable.”

“When the God-On-Earth found Man, they were scattered and unorganized. Knowledge passed by word alone, and it wasn’t long before misunderstanding brought near catastrophe. About a century into the Empire, a mistranslation caused a sickness that nearly wiped out the population. The God-On-Earth had since mastered storing sound and memory in crystal. After the plague, he preserved his lessons this way, sharing them directly with learners. Since then, all knowledge has been recorded, stored, and transmitted through these Memory Crystals.”

Jon’s eyes roamed the thousands of glowing crystals in awe. “All of these…”

Saeryn’s expression darkened. “So much was lost during our escape. I brought what I could, reconstructed what I could—but without understanding the runes, these are useless to you.”

“How am I supposed to learn it?” Jon asked.

The King tapped his nose knowingly. “The King’s Vault lies beneath the Crypts. You will find Memory Crystals there, along with magical artifacts, weapons, and what later Kings have left. No one since the Kneeler has entered; he sealed it when he chose to bow to the Dragon King, waiting for the day the North would be free of their tyranny.” Saeryn’s lips twisted in irony. “For all his Sight, I doubt he foresaw that the one who would free us would also carry the Blood of Dragons.” He chortled, and Jon crossed his arms, huffing.

“You’re saying Torrhen the Kneeler was a Greenseer?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Saeryn nodded. “He saw the carnage the dragons would bring. To preserve our House while awaiting the Chosen, kneeling was the only way. Many Kings of the North spoke the Andal tongue—those books will tide you over until you can find the Wellspring of Knowledge.”

Jon blinked, the edges of his vision darkening. “Wait—”

Saeryn gripped his shoulders, drawing their faces close. “Find the Vault, Descendent.”

And then Jon woke.

Jon awoke alone.

His memories of the dream clung to him with perfect clarity—far clearer than any dream had a right to be. His body felt strangely alert, as though he’d slept only minutes. Yet Saeryn had said days likely passed while Jon wandered with him.

He blinked, sitting up. Through the window he could see the sun had long since vanished. Any sentries Lord Stark had posted had either retired or were outside.

Except-

"Idiot boy!" Old Nan snapped in the Old Tongue, and Jon ducked behind his hands as the older woman raised her cane to smack him on the shoulder. 

The commotion sent the door flying open. Two Stark guards stared inside. One of which took one look at Jon being pelted by Old Nan and traitorously closed the door. The other fled—no doubt to fetch Lord Stark.

"I'm sorry! Please, it was an accident!" Jon protested as Old Nan thwacked him again.

"Foolish boy, sneaking out of the castle to play soldier in a Summer Snow-You think snow is a game? You’ll learn quickly that it bites harder than you do, pup!" Old Nan scolded, and Jon shrunk as the door slammed open and Lord Stark strode into the room. 

"Jon-" Ned started, but Old Nan wasn't finished. 

"If you ever do something so stupid again-"  Old Nan grumbled, and Jon Jon deployed his best wolf-pup expression.

"I'm sorry" Jon demurred, and the old woman gave an exasperated huff. 

Old Nan huffed, flustered. "Honestly, children these days! Tell the boy to stop hiding his beauty and suddenly he's weaponizing it against me! The disrespect! I'm going back to the mountains, these kids..." Old Nan was still grumbling as she left Jon's room. 

Jon peeked up at Lord Stark, who wore the polite neutrality of a man witnessing a force of nature and deciding it was wisest not to interfere.

"I hadn't realized your lessons in the Old Tongue had progressed so well" Lord Stark commented, coming closer to sit on the edge of Jon's bed.

"Old Nan says an 'idle mind is a hearth gone cold - home only to ghosts and regrets'" Jon slouched back against the pillows as the Lord of Winterfell leveled a stern look at the boy. 

"Since you seem well enough to be trading proverbs with our Elders," Ned started, and Jon shrunk beneath the wolfs gaze being levelled at him, "perhaps you’d like to tell me what possessed you to disobey my orders to practice swordwork alone in the middle of a gods-damned Summer Snow?!" Lord Stark demanded.

Jon summoned every ounce of innocent-child charm he possessed. “Well… technically you never said I couldn’t—” Jon started. 

Ned closed his eyes, exhaling slowly as a vein in his forehead jumped. “Did Benjen—no, never mind.” He raised a hand. “I’m telling you now”

Jon smiled innocently, making sure to widen his eyes and bat his lashes with false innocence. 

"Of course, Father, I promise that I won't practice sword work in any snow storms" Jon beamed, and the Lord of Winterfell was stupefied as he looked at Jon.

"You're not going to stop, are you?" Lord Stark seemed to age 10 years in that moment and Jon refused to feel guilty. 

Jon tilted his head with feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. I agreed to obey your commands.”

“Of course,” Ned muttered. “And if you are discovered practicing archery. Or alchemy. Or blackmailing half the Northern court—that will simply be coincidence?” 

Jon’s mask cracked.

"Why don't you want me to learn? What could you possibly gain by leaving me defenseless? Do you believe Lady Stark? Do you think I'm going to-" Jon whispered, his words trailing off as big purple eyes looked tearfully up at his 'father'.

Ned froze-then wilted.

“You are not defenseless,” he said softly. “I will never let anything—” He cut himself off, drawing a steadying breath. “Jon, I never meant for you to think I don’t trust you. I know you’d never harm Robb. I just… wanted to protect you. Your mother…” His voice faltered. “She ran headlong into danger. Part of me wonders if she had learned to fear the world—just a little—”

He stopped, as though realizing how much he’d revealed.

“I’m going to face danger regardless,” Jon said gently. “Unless you mean to send me away from Robb, I’ll always be in danger.”

Ned’s shoulders sagged. The fight drained out of him. “Very well,” he sighed. “I see now that trying to protect you this way is hopeless. You’re as stubborn as your mother” the older man said ruefully, and Jon grinned brightly.

“Does that mean I can—?” Jon vibrated with excitement. 

“Yes,” Ned said, resigned. “You may join Robb and Theon for sword lessons.”

He barely finished the sentence before Jon launched himself into his arms, knocking a surprised grunt from the Lord of Winterfell.

Jon's first official sword lesson commenced the next day. 

Maester Luwin had frowned at the slight fever Jon still carried, but it seemed to be his new normal; the higher temperature did not appear to affect him. Old Nan cast a suspicious eye at Jon’s innocent smile to the old maester, but Jon revealed nothing. 

(Maester Luwin cared about the Stark's, but Jon wasn't about to risk his life on the likelihood that loyalty extended above his loyalty to the Citadel. Magic was not something they tolerated lightly, if at all)

Ser Rodrik, Master-at-Arms, had taken Jon aside before the lesson to gauge his skill. He was pleasantly surprised to find Jon already competent, at least for his age. 

“No amount of practicing with ghosts can replace a flesh-and-blood teacher,” he said grimly, “but you’ve done well, boy. Go join the others.” Ser Rodrik commanded.

Jon practically bounced over to Robb, who was equally excited, and Theon, who was not.

Theon Greyjoy was four years older than him and Robb, he'd been 10 when he came here as a 'foster' after the Ironborn Rebellion. He'd never liked Jon. He'd never reacted physically to Jon, but he was the single nastiest person Jon had ever met. 

Yet he was clever, and once Robb had heard Theon threatening him, the older boy had thought better of it. Now, he contented himself with snide remarks about Jon’s “womanly constitution” and “pretty face.” Once, he had threatened that Jon should stay away from the coasts lest the Ironborn claim him for a salt wife.

(After Old Nan told him what a salt wife was, Jon had nearly taken the other boys eye the next time he'd seen him, and after a short conversation with Lord Stark, the Greyjoy Heir never made such comments again, but the passive aggressiveness stayed)

Jon could never understand how Lord Stark tolerated the Ironborn’s perversions. In his eyes, the Ironborn tradition of reaving and taking salt wives was only one step from slavery. Every maiden had the right to refuse under both the Old Gods and the Faith of the Seven, yet the Ironborn came onto their lands and enslaved people regardless. For all that the Ironborn didn't sell them for profit they weren't exactly free. Jon had never been afraid to say so to both Theon and Lord Stark.

"So when a noble woman is abducted by a Prince, it's worth going to war, but when it's just a commoner-Its tradition" Jon had said snidely, and that comment was the closest Lord Stark had ever come to striking Jon.

Since then, Jon and Theon’s rivalry had only grown, sharpened by the constant fighting over Robb’s attention.

("You don't have anything to worry about, stupid," Robb had ruffled his hair, "Theon is my friend, but you're my baby brother" the older had teased. 

"Don't call me a baby!" Jon protested, but the tension in his heart had unfurled just a little. 

"How could I ever forsake someone as cute and defenseless as you!" Robb cooed mockingly, squishing Jon's cheeks together, and laughing even as Jon sank his teeth into the meat of his palm)

“Greyjoy,” Jon growled.

“Snow,” Theon spat, sneering down at him. “Finally come to join the real boys?”

“Someone’s gotta show you how it’s done,” Jon said, bloodlust threading his smile. Robb shifted uncomfortably between them.

“Ladies, you’re both pretty—obviously Jon is prettier—” Robb began.

“Hey!” Jon interrupted.

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends!” Robb laughed, and the two boys scowled at each other, violence in their eyes.

Your dead meat, Theon mouthed over Robb's head when the other boy was looking away, and the snarl that slipped from Jon's lips was particularly lupine. 

You first, Jon mouthed back, dark purple eyes flashing with a lupine intensity. Despite trying to look unaffected, the other boy was deeply unsettled by the bloodlust in the boy's dark purple eyes, which burned as if they contained a fire behind them.

Ser Rodrik called Robb forwards first, and after walking the boy through a mock fight using the weighted swords. They were similar in theory to Jon's stolen weighted knives, but much more painful due to the higher levels of steel.

Then it was Jon and Theon's turn. 

It didn't go well. 

For Theon, that is, Jon was having the time of his life.

Jon was wild, grinning with every swing, every dodge, every advantage he found. Ser Rodrik had to pull him off Theon, chuckling despite himself.

"Okay okay, break it up" Ser Rodrik choked back a laugh as he yanked the wild Stark pup off the Ironborn Heir, ignoring the way the boy shot him a proud bloodthirsty smile.

The three boys were swiftly dismissed- Jon and Robb to lessons, and Theon to Maester Luwin.

“Old gods give me strength,” Rodrik muttered under his breath. “That one’s going to be a handful when he’s older.”

Contrary to his belief, Jon was already a handful—he just didn’t realize it yet.

Chapter Text

At eight namedays old, Jon was keenly aware of his unusual position.

Despite bastards not being seen as poorly in the North, very few Lords raised them alongside their trueborn children. Most might provide a monthly stipend, maybe a tutor to teach them their letters, a particularly magnanimous Lord might even offer their bastard a position in their household. 

But Jon wasn't just raised along his trueborn siblings, he was raised as a trueborn. 

Though removed from the Family Wing, he attended all of Robb’s lessons, including those about estate management and war strategy. He trained beside him, dined at their table, shared their hearth, and allowed a degree of familiarity with his 'Lord Father' and Noble 'siblings' that just wasn't seen outside Dorne… Or perhaps the Mountain Clans, though few knew of that.

Speaking of estate management... 

A familiar model had been moved from Lord Stark’s office to Maester Luwin’s teaching chamber. The old maester was setting up small figurines of each house banner. Major houses were larger, with their bannermen arrayed around them. Unlike Saeryn’s magical models, this one didn’t show every path and road, yet it rendered the North startlingly realistically.

(Almost too realistic for human hands)

Robb, Jon, Theon, and Sansa stood at the table. Arya was not yet two, too young for lessons like these, and Bran, a year younger, was still in the nursery.

“Now,” Maester Luwin said, pointing at a flag with a bear on it off the coast of Sea Dragon Point, “what is the main trade of each Northern house?”

Jon answered when Robb remained silent, “The Mormonts deal mostly in fish and animal pelts—particularly bear. Hides, meat, fats, though they trade the fats most. Their position makes shipments difficult.”

Robb frowned. “What do you mean by their position?”

Jon pointed first to the Iron Islands, then the Wall. “Bear Island is buffeted by raiders from the Iron Islands and the Wildlings. Any ship risks pillage or wreck in the rough waters. Their supplies are constantly limited. They rely on bear hunting for food and warmth, trading the fats to the rest of the North. Useful for candle making, cosmetics, and waterproofing and cooking. Their population is small, limited men for trading voyages-one or two a year, less if the seas are rough or numbers fall." Jon explained.

Sansa frowned. “Why doesn’t Father help them?”

Maester Luwin smiled. “"I'm sure if asked, he would, but my time in the North has shown me the Northerners are a proud people. They will manage on their own, but if things proved truly dire, they would petition Lord Stark for assistance" Luwin explained. 

"But isn't it their people who suffer?" Sansa protested, and Jon shook his head. 

"Maybe in the South, but no Northern House would starve their people to keep their pride. If they did, they wouldn't remain a Lord long" Jon's lip quirked, and Maester Luwin gave him a chastising look. 

"Jon, that is-" the maester scolded lightly, and Jon shook his head. 

“Sugarcoating it doesn’t make it less true,” Jon said. “A lord’s duty to his people is secondary to his loyalty to the Lord Paramount. Placing honor, greed, or glory above his people—trueborn or bastard—is a violation of their Vows.”

“…That may be true, but most lords don’t swear their Vows before a weirwood—” Luwin began.

Jon’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

“The traditional Vows still exist, but—”

“A Vow is only binding before a Heart Tree. A man who would starve his subjects won’t care for mortal words.” Jon crossed his arms. Robb watched the exchange in fascination.

“I don’t make the rules, Jon,” Luwin sighed. Jon slouched, seething.

“When did this start? Old Nan never told me,” Jon said.

Robb cracked a grin at Jon's pouty expression. "Not even the gracious Old Nan knows everything" Robb teased, and Jon rolled his eyes. 

“It began to fall out of practice during your great-grandfather’s rule. Since the rebellion, few houses swear their Vows upon a Heart Tree,” Luwin explained, and Jon huffed.

“Moving on,” Robb said, pointing to the Manderly merman. “Their main trade is with Essos.” Robb stated, and Maester Luwin looked relieved to have the conversation shifted.

“True,” Luwin nodded. “But their immense wealth comes from their ports. White Harbor channels most of the North’s economy—taxes, port fees, hiring ships, buying and selling merchandise. They also facilitate trade between the South and the Northern Houses, of which they charge a heavy fee. They have a lucrative silver industry with some of the best silversmiths in all of Westeros, and they control the only Northern mint" Maester Luwin listed, and the three of them looked at the maester in stunned silence, though Jon had already known this. 

"Okay, how do you know all this-Wait, let me guess? Old Nan?" Robb asked and Jon nodded, rejoining them by the table, though Jon's indignation wasn't gone-merely postponed. 

“Of course. What do you think we discuss in our Old Tongue lessons? Old Nan knows more about the North's history than anyone, and that history was usually deeply linked to their trade”  Jon explained, and Robb made a face of envy.

"You get to learn the Old Tongue and gossip with Old Nan about the North's history while I have to repeat the same sermons until my ears bleed-" Robb complained. 

"Robb Stark" Catelyn Stark's voice was sharp as shattered glass as she stood in the doorway with Lord Stark. 

"Ah, sorry, Mother" Robb grumbled, and the Lady's face tightened as she approached the table. 

"As the future Lord of Winterfell, you will have dealings with the South, which is deeply rooted in the Faith. It's important that you understand and respect the Faith in order to foster good dealings with the Lords of the South" Lady Stark scolded her son, who seemed to wilt under her stern eye.

"I understand, Mother" Robb accepted with a weary sigh, and the Lady of Winterfell looked at Maester Luwin. 

"I apologize for interrupting your lesson, Luwin, I was merely looking to steal Sansa for a little lesson of our own" Lady Stark smiled at her eldest daughter.

Jon caught the look of faint disappointment in his sister's eye before she pasted a pleased smile on her face. 

Despite the 'unladylike' subject, Jon knew his sister was sharper than most. She had a mind for politics, understood the motivations of people better than most Lords, and had been genuinely interested in their lessons. But she didn't want to disappoint her mother, so she primly brushed her skirts down, and allowed her mother to lead her from the room. 

(Over the years, Jon would make a note of seeking her out after the lesson to share what she'd missed. He would look the other way when another jacket materialized in Jon's closet, usually decorated with Sansa's incredible embroidery, which she would deny gifting him until the breath left her body) 

The lesson progressed from there, with either Luwin or Jon explaining the trades of each of the major Northern Houses.

"And that concludes the major trade exports of the North's main 15 Houses: Stark, Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Bolton, Flint, Hornwood, Tallhart, Ryswell, Dustin, Locke, Mormont, Glover, Cerwyn, and Reed. Each of whom have between 5 and 30 minor houses" Maester Luwin stated, ushering the three boys back towards the desks, where the maester had laid out a series of ledgers and legal documents. 

"What's this?" Robb frowned, picking up a very fancy document titled The Crown Charter of Taxation, Tariffs, and Tributes in fancy red ink. 

"This," Maester Luwin took the charter, "is today's lesson. Who do the Manderley's pay taxes to?" Maester Luwin asked, and Theon frowned. 

"The Starks, right? They're Lord Paramount, all the smaller Houses pay them" Theon stated, and Maester Luwin nodded. 

"And who do the Starks pay?" the maester asked and Robb's eyes lit up in understanding. 

"We pay the Crown" Robb stated, and the maester nodded. 

"Yes, and this payment occurs in three ways. The first is taxation, the Crown receives a portion of a kingdom's liquid earnings from trade, this can be paid yearly, quarterly, monthly. Either way a Crown representative will arrive to collect at the end of the year. The North, due to their geographical position and the poor road condition, pays their taxes yearly via a direct deposit through the Iron Bank. The second is tariffs, the crown charges a tariff on any trade that occurs between Westeros regions, trade to Essos is only tariffed once, while trade between the Realms is tariffed twice. This is why it's often cheaper to buy certain items from Essos, despite the longer voyage. Different products require different tariffs; there is a premium rate for luxury goods, such as silks, dyes, precious metals and stones. Lastly, tributes: the Crownlands is poor in resources, but they receive a portion of anything mined, grown or produced in each kingdom. This is either used by the Crown, or sold either via their ports to Essos or back to other regions of Westeros" Maester Luwin lectured, and the three boys processed that. 

While Jon had known the North paid taxes to the Crown, Old Nan hadn't gone over the particulars, being better versed in the internal economy of the North rather than the Seven Kingdoms economy. 

"Who decides the taxes and tariff rates, or how much tribute is given?" Robb asked, his eyes narrowed, and Maester Luwin gave him a knowing look. 

"When the Baratheon's claimed the Iron Throne, those were the thoughts on each of the Lord Paramount's minds. This is the agreement that was made when deciding that Robert Baratheon would be the realms chosen King. Previously, each of these things were whatever the Targaryen King deemed sufficient, which was the cause of unending strife between the Realms" the look of horror on each of the three boys' faces made the maester laugh. 

"But Father helped craft a new agreement?" Robb demanded, and Maester Luwin nodded. 

"Lord Stark was particularly concerned about tributes; the hassle of transporting goods that far South has always been the North's greatest struggle. A tribute is only given if there was enough of a product compared to the population of the realm. This is why each kingdom maintains an updated census. Each city, town, and village must submit a yearly census to both their Lord Paramount and the Crown. Each person is designated an amount of each product, and then whatever was left over, a percentage is given to the crown as tribute. Each region can choose to forgo tribute by increasing their taxes. For example, the North grows a series of hardier vegetables in the Glass Gardens. A Targaryen King could have demanded a portion of his choosing, even if it meant the Northerners starved. Now, Lord Stark can grow as much as the Gardens are capable of to feed the North, merely increasing his taxes to compensate" Maester Luwin explained, and Jon's mind was buzzing. 

Jon knew that the North had massive veins of silver, not just the Manderley mines. Old Nan claimed the mountains were rife with untapped riches, but the Clans never attempted to profit off them. The Manderley's were extremely particular about the amount of silver they mined each year... Were they only ever mining enough silver to be just under the tribute threshold because otherwise it wasn’t worth the effort? Mining in the North wasn't for the weak, and they probably received better gains by using the silver for their silversmithing than selling it raw. 

... Did this count as tax evasion? Were they defrauding the Stag King? Jon was liking the Manderley's better and better...

Chapter Text

Ned knew a good father didn’t have favorites.

His father had clearly favored Brandon. Rickon Stark had loved all his children, but Brandon was the first to his heart.

Benjen had suffered the most for his father’s inattention, as the youngest and third son. Most lords would have rejoiced at a son’s birth, but Ned's father was a shrewd man. By the time Benjen had been born Father had gotten his Heir, his Diplomat. What he needed were daughters he could barter with; he got that with Lyanna, who had been as beautiful as she was fiery. 

But Benjen’s gender-and the loss of their mother-had changed those plans. 

He had likely planned to marry Lyanna in the North, as much to appease his bannermen as for her benefit. Rickon had known that not many Sothron Lords would care for her spirited deposition. 

(Once, Ned had thought Robert to be one such man and had suggested the match to his father. A bitter mistake that Ned would carry until the last of his days…)

Perhaps it was unfair of Ned, but as a father himself, he could not imagine selling one of his precious children for all the gold in the Westerlands. Ned wasn't a fool; he knew Robert aimed to marry Sansa to his eldest son. Catelyn was eagerly anticipating their daughter becoming Queen. Still, Ned hesitated until he could measure the boy himself. He would not risk another runaway Stark bride. If the prince proved worthy and Sansa approved… then, perhaps, it could be done.

For one reason or another, Rickon had used his children as chess pieces to achieve what he claimed was best for the North.

“Better relations with the South mean fewer empty bellies when Winter comes,” his father had once said, and Ned had not understood the weight of the decision until he was responsible for preparing the North for what promised to be the longest winter in living memory.

Did it make him a good father—or a bad Lord Paramount—that he would starve the North before sacrificing one of his children? He’d never been able to answer that question.

“We could always do neither,” Jon would say one day, rolling his eyes at his father’s melodrama. The cheek on this one! Ned would complain, but the memory of Jon’s mischievous grin—so like Lyanna’s—always made him forget to be mad.

Regardless, Ned didn't have a favorite, he'd loved each of his children from first breath.

... But holding Vaegon Targaryen, soon to be Jon Stark Snow, in his arms as the Silent Sisters prepared Lyanna, and the other Northerner who'd accompanied him South, bodies for transportation to the North...

It was the first, but not the last, time Ned felt maybe his father had the right idea about the love a father had for their first born.

It took them 3 days to reach Starfall, and Ashara was waiting for them when they did.

She was cloaked in mourning black, her gown hinting at the swell of her recently ended pregnancy. Before Ned could offer condolences, she whisked him and Jon into her rooms—an very inappropriate breach of protocol, given his marriage—but his protests died on his lips when he saw the swaddled form in the cradle.

“Her name is Elena,” Ashara said, brushing her fingertips along her daughter’s cheek. Her face glowed with affection. Ned looked at the babe, trying to see who her father was, but Elena was truly a reflection of her mother.

Only a few days old, the infant was clearly her mothers daughter: pale skin, wisps of dark hair, eyes somewhere between Ashara’s violet and Jon’s indigo—though newborn eyes often changed with age.

“She’s beautiful,” Ned murmured, but his gaze was drawn to Ashara herself.

She had shed her mourning cloak, standing in a deep purple gown. The twisted fabric-held up by a clasp behind her neck -clutched her bosom, wrapped around her hips, flowing down her legs, leaving arms, back, and midriff bare, adorned with jewels and gold.

“Do you love her?” Ashara asked, hair spilling over her shoulders. Ned could not deny he was tempted. A dead man could be tempted by Ashara Dayne.

“I made a vow,” Ned admitted solemnly.

One dark brow lifted. Her eyes darted to where Vaegon—Jon—lay sleeping.

“Yes, I know how you are about honor,” she snorted. “The rest of Westeros is sure to believe your lie. That tells me all I need about their intelligence.” She rolled her eyes scornfully.

“What are you—” Ned began.

“Come now, Ned. You know Arthur could never keep a secret from me,” Ashara teased, batting her lashes. 

Fear clogged Ned’s throat.

“Ash—”

She raised a hand, gaze softening. “Calm yourself, my love. I am irate with Rhaegar for setting aside my friend, but I would never hold the sins of the father against a babe.”

Ned felt ashamed that he had doubted her good nature. 

"I'm sorry, Ash, I just... I promised Lya I-" Ned choked back tears, and grief filled her own eyes. 

“I understand,” she said, holding his hands. “I made a promise of my own.” The words were whispered, yet Ned tucked them away in his mind.

“I’m sorry about Arthur,” he murmured, uncertain how she could meet his eyes after her brother’s death.

(That Howland had been the one to actually do the deed mattered little to Ned, and he knew it would mean less to Ashara)

"Men die in battle, Ned" Ashara turned away, so Ned missed the look of guilt on her face. 

“…I should go,” Ned said. Ashara’s indecision shifted to resolve.

“I’m leaving with my daughter,” she revealed.

“Where?”

Ashara gave a sad smile. “No, Ned. I am faking my death. Soon after you leave, all of Starfall will see me throw myself from the Palestone Sword. They'll find my body at the bottom, and by the time they realize anything is amiss, decomposition will explain any questions that might arise" Ashara shrugged, and Ned looked at her in shock.

"How? You are... Not easily mistaken" Ned flushed.

Ashara gave him a coy mysterious smile. "Come now, Darling, yours is not the only bloodline known for their... exceptionalism" she leaned her body against his, their curves aligning as perfectly now as they did years before. 

Ned had heard rumors of the Rhyonish water magic, whispers of enchanters and illusionists, but he'd always dismissed those as tall tales. 

Ashara had never given any indication she held such talents, nor that she believed in them... For such magic to be capable of disguising the body of a grown woman for days...

(Or similarly two children)

“…I’ll let you keep your secrets,” Ned said, gently moving her back. Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but she regained composure, gazing at the sleeping babes.

"It is fortunate you came to me before returning to Winterfell" Ashara ran her gaze along his features as if memorizing his face.

“Why is that?”

“Is it not obvious?” she smirked, amethyst eyes glinting. “Your bastard will need a mother—and you need a way to explain those stunning purple eyes.”

Ned nearly choked on disbelief. “I won’t dishonor you—”

She pressed a finger to his lips."Ned, even if you didn't sire my child, I still bore a bastard-which is not a sin, mind you," she scowled, "and if my lie can help keep your head attached to your neck, I'm glad to help an old friend in need" Ashara shrugged.

“And the fact this will upset Catelyn… merely coincidence?”

“Allow a dead woman one last guilty pleasure?” Ashara teased. Ned closed his eyes, collecting himself.

... Catelyn was going to be furious regardless, and Ashara did have a point about Jon's eyes…

“Thank you,” he whispered. Softness touched her features.

"Of course" Ashara leaned in, and Ned allowed him the guilty pleasure of holding her in his arms one last time. 

(Regardless of the fact Ned never actually broke his Vow to his Lady Wife, in the years to come he would always feel he deserved her ire for how close he came in that moment)

The moment broke with a hesitant knock. Ashara stepped back, taking a piece of his heart with her.

“Enter,” she called. A young Dornish servant appeared.

“My Lady, the Princess—” The servant froze at the sight of Ned. Ashara smiled, mischievous but gentle. That easy liquid smile when she was trying to get away with something but genuinely didn't want Ned to know. 

“Is Princess Arianna well?” Ashara asked.

The servant nodded, tension lining her face that no amount of acting on Ashara's part could hide that they were up to something. 

A look at Jon reminded Ned that he was in no position to judge. 

“She has arrived with her attendants. I’ve placed her in the Solar.” the servant bowed and quickly backed from the room. 

"... I won't ask" Ned promised, and some of the tension faded from Ashara's face, but they both felt that their time together was quickly coming to an end. 

"Goodbye, Ned" Ashara whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, then her eyes darted towards the doorway. A Dayne guardsman stood at attention just outside the room, his eyes away.

"Please see Lord Stark out" Ashara requested, and there were so many words Ned wished to say, but none that could change what had to be. Ashara would leave with her daughter, and Ned would return North with Jon to face his Lady Wife's displeasure. 

"Goodbye, Ashara" Ned cleared his throat, and followed the guard out. 

Midway out, a panicked servant came to collect Ned's guild, but he'd assured the guard he knew the way. He'd been to Starfall a handful of times with Jon Arryn during the time he shadowed the Lord of the Eyrie while he conducted business.

(Ned would never tell another living soul, but when he exited Starfall, he passed the Solar, where he caught the barest glimpse of a young Dornish girl.

It could have been any Dornish girl, had her face not been seared into Ned's mind after having seen her mutilated body placed at the foot of his best friend merely a moon ago. 

As a servant hurriedly closed the doors to the Solar, Ned caught the barest glint of silver hair in a nearly identical cradle to the one Jon had previously rested in) 

Eight years later, and Ned had never felt as powerless as he had that day; after the death of his sister and the loss of his first love... He'd never known a despair so deep. 

... Until one of his personal servants, Holland, one of his fathers most trusted attendants, threw the door of his solar open. The Summer sun had barely started to peek above the horizon, but the look of fear on such a seasoned servant as Holland had Ned feeling like he'd been plunged into the Long Night. 

"My Lord, come quickly, it's Jon" Holland's face was tight with fear and grief, and Ned hardly remembered the journey to Luwin's chambers, but the sight of Jon's face, once pale skin blue and black with frostbite, would stay with Ned until his death. 

"My Lord, I-I'm so sorry," Clarise, one of the younger maids, dropped into a kowtow, her form shaking as she pressed her forehead to the cold stone floors. 

"What happened" Ned's voice was unrecognizable to even himself, and the servant shook with fear. 

"I-I found him outside, My Lord, I-I have no idea-He must have slipped out before we bared the doors for the storm" the young girl cried, and later Ned would feel terrible for scaring the girl, but at that moment Ned couldn't be bothered. 

"Get out. All of you. Anyone not necessary to treat my son out. Now" Ned demanded, his voice the quiet menace he'd become known for on the battlefield, and the room cleared. 

"My Lord-" Luwin started, his face apologetic, but Ned refused to hear it. 

"Save him" Ned ordered, and Luwin didn't argue, and got to work, ignoring the Lord of Winterfell who stood sentry over him as he worked.

Every moment Ned expected to see his son's chest stop moving, but as Luwin placed warm waterskins on top of Jon's swaddled body, every patch of skin wrapped in bandages, soaked in one of Old Nan's herbal remedies.

For a moment, Jon's breath stilled, rattling in his chest, then his eyes fluttered, and Ned caught sight of his sons eyes, glazed and blown wide in confusion and pain, but the iris', normally a dark indigo, they glowed like the fire contained within his soul was burning brighter than his body could handle, turning the color lilac. 

"By the Gods" Luwin gasped, watching in amazement as veins of fire pulsed under Jon's skin, and the few patches not covered in blackened flesh, healed before their eyes. 

"... If you mention this to the Citadel, you'll be dead before nightfall" Ned told the aged maester, who, to his credit, didn't flinch. 

"I love the boy as you do" Luwin assured him, but Ned wasn't swayed until the man swore upon the Gods Old and New that he wouldn't tell anyone what he'd seen. 

Over a dozen servants and guards had seen the state of Jon's skin, there was only so much Old Nan's recipes could cure, but as Jon walked away from the incident a week later, not a scar or bruise in sight, not one of them breathed a word of the unusualness.  

The North protects their own.

It took a week of avoidance for Ned to notice the change in Jon. 

At first, he'd attributed it to the near brush with death, but Jon remained as mischievous and rambunctious as usual, jumping into his sword lessons with an enthusiasm that made Ned's chest hurt. 

(He'd really been a fool; Benjen had been right, denying Jon an education wouldn't keep Jon safe, it would only make him resentful and seek that education elsewhere)  

"Copper star for your thoughts?" Cat asked, and Ned looked at his wife as they prepared for bed, her scarlet hair, normally up in a modified Sothron updo that incorporated Northern braids-a trend that had become popular among the Northern Ladies-now hung down her back. Ned could see it was streaked with grey-Ned's fault he knew-but she looked as beautiful as the day they met. 

She might not have been his first love, but Ned knew she would be his last. 

"Jon" Ned studied her expression, and was pleased by the attempt she made at not looking away. 

Her shift in behavior towards Jon had been the old silver lining in these entire cursed affairs; she didn't care for Jon, but at least now she was trying. 

"He's avoiding you" Cat acknowledged, and Ned frowned in thought. 

"I can't imagine why; I've given him what he wants" Ned said, and Cat was silent for several seconds as she wrestled with her inner conflict. 

"... He hasn't called you Father since he woke" she finally revealed, and with a jolt Ned realized she was right. 

... Why? What could have possibly scared his fearless son into retreating? Was he worried Ned would change his mind about the lessons? 

"I'm not sure what's changed, but something about his accident has made him question his position as your son" Cat shut down any further conversation as she rolled over, her back to Ned, but one of her hands hesitantly reaching back to grip hers. 

"... Thank you" Ned murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of her shoulder, and laid back to join her in sleep. 

Her efforts weren't perfect, but they were appreciated. It would have to be enough for now. 

The next day, Ned joined the boys training, and all three young boys looked at him wide eyed as he and Ser Rodrik shared a small spar.

(Thankfully for his pride, Ned won, even if it had been a tad close)

The lesson passed quickly, and after a look from him, Ser Rodrik successfully distracted Robb and Theon while Ned approached Jon.

"Can we talk?" Ned asked, and for the barest second Jon hesitated. 

"... Okay" Jon followed Ned as the Lord of Winterfell led him into the Godswood. 

"I heard this is where you've been sneaking off to," Ned gave Jon a gentle chastisement, and the boy turned wide innocent eyes on his father, "the gods deserve your respect" but Jon didn't look chastised, his eyes on the spiraling branches of the weirwood. 

"They were okay with it" Jon stated, and something about the certainty in the boys voice derailed any thoughts Ned might have had of punishing him. 

"... They tell you that?" Ned asked. 

"Not with words" Jon smiled, and a heavy air seemed to settle in the clearing, a soft wind blowing through to toy with Jon's curls, then dancing back before Ned could finish questioning if he'd imagined it. 

...

"Okay" Ned accepted, outwardly calm, but reeling inside. 

"... Really?" Jon's eyes widened, and Ned laughed as the boy blushed. 

"I love you, you know that right?" Ned asked, and the boy's eyes turned glassy as Ned ran gentle fingers through his hair.

"... I know" Jon smiled brightly, but Jon would need another decade or so before he'd be able to fool Ned. 

"What causes you doubt?" Ned asked, refusing to back down, and Jon was silent for several minutes while he thought. 

"... Why did you bring me to Winterfell? You promised my mother you would protect me, but you could have had me raised elsewhere. Was it because you loved my mother?" Jon asked, and pain pierced Ned's heart. 

 "I loved your mother, but I love you more," Jon's eyes snapped towards Ned's, shock and disbelief in his indigo eyes, "your mother asked me to protect you, but I chose to love you" Ned stated, and that was the step that shattered the ice.

Jon threw himself against Ned's waist, arms latching onto his fathers waist with the strength of a thousand men, as his shoulders shook with sobs, his breathing quickly grew ragged as the boy only grew more and more hysterical.  

"I love you too, I love this family so much, please don't ever send me away-Your the only family I'll ever want, I promise! I'll never ask you who my mother is, I'll never search out my other relatives!" Jon sobbed, and Ned's eyes widened in horror. 

"Jon!" Ned scolded, but it was too late, a Vow given before a weirwood was binding, even for a child. 

"It's okay" Jon smiled through his tears, but Ned had a horrible feeling he'd just irrecoverably failed his child. 

(A certain study hiding a Dornish girl and a silver haired baby flashed in his mind, but without knowing it, Jon had just closed himself to the possibility of ever seeking them out.)

Chapter Text

"Your mother asked me to protect you, but I chose to love you" Lord Stark-his father's- words tore through the fragile barrier Jon had erected around his heart, and shone a light on the fear that had lived behind Jon’s heart since he learnt he wasn’t truly Ned Stark’s son.

If he wasn’t his son, did that mean Ned wasn’t his father? Did the bonds of parenthood transcend blood; Ned Stark had cared for him as a son, had raised him beyond what his mother could have ever expected from him. 

And if Jon wasn’t his son… Did that mean Robb wasn’t his brother? Or Sansa and Arya his sisters? Jon had barely seen baby Bran more than a handful of times, but the thought that the adorable little menace wasn’t Jon’s… It tore new wounds in his heart that made him wish he was a bastard after all- At least he wouldn’t be an orphan, and his only blood siblings dead.

(Did Jon really have a right to stand beside Robb, when they weren’t even brothers…) 

These worries haunted him, and despite thinking he’d hidden these fears from his father, Jon was still a child. 

His father knew something was wrong, and he'd cornered Jon to settle the worries that had begun to plague his mind. 

... Now would probably be a good time to tell his father he knew who his parents were... But what if Ned was only saying all this because he thought Jon didn't know he wasn't his son? Would he tell his siblings? Would they still see him as their brother? 

The words died in his throat, and shame and guilt tasted bitter on his tongue.

One small meltdown-and an impulsive Vow, not that it mattered since most his Targaryen family was dead anyway-later, his father finally managed to calm him enough that Jon could speak without tripping over his words. 

"Can I ask what lead to this? Did someone say something to you?" his fathers grey eyes were stormy and warmth filled Jon better than any volcano ever could. 

His father did love him, Jon knew that now... Maybe not enough to attempt to put Jon on the Iron Throne, but if King Robert came to Winterfell demanding Jon's head, his father would protect him.

And honestly what has the South ever done for Jon?

Saeryn had shown him visions of the events leading up to the Rebellion, and learning his true identity didn't change anything for Jon.

The Mad King had still killed Jon's Uncle Brandon and Grandfather, his mother and father had still runaway together-like idiots-and sent the entire Realm into war. The fall of House Targaryen and loss of the Iron Throne was their own fault, and truthfully the only actions Jon truly held against the Usurper was the death of Elia Martell and Jon's half siblings, and the fact Robert had done all that for a throne that he didn't even want. Robert Baratheon was a horrible king, and an even worse father; Jon had no doubt his little monsters would be just as bad as him.  

The South could keep their stupid throne, they deserved the Whoremonger. If Jon's Uncle and Aunt wanted to fight for the stupid thing, they could go right on ahead without him.

Jon had a family already: the Starks.

And he was going to prove to them that bastard or Targaryen, Jon belonged here. 

He was a Stark, his loyalty was to the North, and he was going to make the North strong enough that they would never have to kneel again. 

His Father might had sworn an oath, he was honor bound to stop Jon if he learnt that Jon was planning treason against the Crown, but what his Father didn't know... Couldn't be stopped. After all, his Father had never told him that he couldn't Rebel against the Crown...

"I had a dream while I was sick... But I realize now that I was so consumed by what other family I might have that I was ignoring the one I had here" Jon smiled weakly, and his fathers eyes softened as he pulled Jon into a gentle embrace. 

"You'll always have a home here, Jon, I promise" his Father pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Jon melted into a puddle of goo. 

"Father-" Jon protested weakly, and his fathers smile turned wicked and mischievous, and suddenly Jon was airborne as his father threw him up into the air, only to catch him as Jon shrieked. 

"Now no more avoiding me or your siblings, or your brother might stage a rebellion" Ned teased, and Jon hadn't realized he'd been avoiding Robb as well...

"Okay" Jon agreed, and they hugged tightly one last time before Ned sent Jon back to his lessons. 

"Find the vault he says, discover the secrets of magic he says, learn the language of First Men runes with no teacher he says" Jon grumbled to himself as he trudged past what felt like the 10 billionth statue of some long dead Winter King and his direwolf. 

If Jon ever saw Saeyrn again, he'd tell him to shove his advise where the sun didn't shine.

It had been a month since Jon woke up from his coma, and while he was making good progress with his sword lessons, all Jon had found in the Crypts was spiders and a new appreciation for soap.

The only silver lining to the situation was Jon had plenty of time to practice the exercises Saeryn had taught him. 

Tethering himself to life via blood magic had allowed Jon to-at least temporarily-connect to the power of the volcano deep below Winterfell, pulling himself back enough that his body managed to rebound. This left Jon in a state of limbo for several days, during which a his mind would be open to visitors, provided they knew how and had a blood connection with him. Usually, Saeryn had told him, 10,000 years was too distant for a connection to form, but the First King had a few tricks up his sleeve.  

The Winterfell volcano was the smallest of the North's four volcanoes, but it was more than big enough to sustain a single magic user, it was simply a manner of consciously forming that connection. Venturing closer to the source made it easier for Jon to sense it, but it took weeks before Jon was able to psychically reach out and touch it, and even longer before Jon could hold it. 

A month in, Jon was able to grab the power source with his mind and hold it for a few minutes, but doing so exhausted him.

Finally, after admitting (temporary) defeat, Jon slunk back into the castle, his exhaustion weighing him down, which is the only reason Robb was able to catch him unaware.

“I knew it!” Robb’s expression was livid as he waited in the secret passageway, nearly sending Jon into an early grave as his heart attempted to crawl up his throat. 

“Robb! Don’t do that!” Jon gripped his chest, but instead of teasing Jon for his ‘delicate constitution’, his brother was visibly irate. 

“You’re still sneaking out. Why?” Robb demanded, and Jon swallowed nervously. 

For the first time since he’d embraced his mother’s ‘malicious compliance’ mindset, Jon was faced with a dilemma. Saeryn had told him not to tell anyone about his dream… But this was Robb… Didn’t he have as much a right to the Vault as him? Or more?

(If that were true, why did Saeryn come to you, an evil little voice cooed in his mind, but Jon firmly banished such thoughts) 

"I was just going for a walk-" Jon blinked innocently, and Robb stomped his foot in frustration, and turned on his heel, marching away from Jon. 

"If your going to lie to my face-" Robb scowled, and Jon huffed, following Robb's longer strides with mild difficulty. 

"Robb, I'm not-" Jon protested, and Robb suddenly turned around, getting in Jon's face. 

"You are not going to stand there and tell me you've been 'going for a walk' in the hour of the wolf every night for the last month and expect me to believe that? Now tell me: where were you" Robb demanded, and Jon remained silent.

"... I-" Jon started, but Robb cut him off.

"I thought we didn't have secrets from each other" Robb face tightened with hurt, and Jon flinched. 

"We don't!" Jon insisted, and Robb turned his face away when Jon tried to meet his eyes. 

"... Keep your secrets, Snow, but don't come crying to me when they bite you in the ass" Robb stormed off, leaving Jon stupefied. 

What had just happened?

The next day, Robb refused to talk to him, and it was slowly driving Jon mental. 

"What did you do?" Sansa asked, the two of them were sequestered in one of the drawing rooms, she had her embroidery spread out of her lap, while Jon paced like a caged wolf and ranted about Robb's slighting him. 

"I didn't-" Jon protested, and Sansa gave him a stern look, her icy blue eyes peeling back the layers of Jon's protests to look straight through him. 

"I'm not Robb, I won't tolerate your foolishness. Either tell me what you did, and I will help you fix it, or leave" Sansa sniffed haughtily, and Jon slouched onto the couch across from her. 

"... Robb caught me sneaking back in-" Jon mumbled, and Sansa's back straightened, her eyes glacial as she glared at him. 

"Robb knew you were sneaking out?" Sansa demanded, scandalized, and Jon realized he'd erred. 

"No, this was after-" Jon started, and this just made it worse, Sansa threw her embroidery to the side and stood to place both her hands on her hips. In that moment, the nearly 6 nameday old girl was a nearly perfect imitation of her mother the time Jon had left a barrel of fish under the alter in the Sept. 

"You are telling me that after nearly dying because you were sneaking out without telling anyone, Robb caught you sneaking out without telling anyone again, and you can't figure out why he's mad?" Sansa demanded, and Jon squirmed. 

"... He didn't seem angry I was sneaking out, only that I wouldn't tell him why" Jon mumbled, and Sansa threw her hands up in exasperation. 

"Of course he is! This entire castle thought the two of you were inseparable, you've acted as each others shadow my entire life, you've circled Robb like a territorial shark since Theon arrived, and everyone knows if you tell one something, the other will know before the sun falls. But then it turns out you've been keeping this massive secret for nearly a year, but none of us can even be angry at you because we're too relieved you didn't die!" Sansa shouted, and Jon shrunk in his seat, the heavy stone of guilt settling in his stomach.

"I-" Jon started, and Sansa raised a hand to silence him. 

"I can understand why you didn't tell me or Father, but Robb? He thought he knew everything about you, and finding out he doesn't? That crushed him; your not the only one with insecurities" Sansa scolded him, her pale face flushed with anger. 

"... So will you help me?" Jon asked. 

"Nope" Sansa smiled viciously, picking up her embroidery and striding from the room gracefully. 

Jon might have deserved that... 

Ironically, it was Lady Stark that forced the two of them back together. 

"You will attend your lessons with Jon" Lady Stark demanded, the two of them stood in the Winterfell Library, where Lady Stark had cornered the other boy after discovering he'd skipped his morning lessons. 

Jon was standing behind a bookshelf, caught between fear at being caught eavesdropping on what was sure to be a private conversating, and indignation because he hadn't done anything wrong. Jon was entirely within his rights to spend time in the library, it was their fault for having this conversation in a place others could overhear-granted, only the Stark's (and Jon) were allowed access to this part of the library, but it was the crux of the matter that counted. 

"But, Mother-" Robb protested, the beginning of a sulk on his face, but Lady Stark levelled a stern look at him, and Robb's back straightened instinctively. 

"You will be Lord of Winterfell one day, there will be many occasions where you will have to do things you don't want to do, or work with people you don't like. You will not allow your own hurt feelings to keep you from performing your Duty; and that means you will attend all your lessons, regardless of who will be there, and show Maester Luwin the respect he's due by participating in his lessons to your full potential" Lady Stark scolded, and Robb wilted before her ire. 

"... Yes, Mother" Robb grumbled, and she narrowed her eyes at him. 

"Do not mumble, its unbefitting of a young Lord," she sighed, and her demeanor softened as she touched Robb's cheek, and Jon could see the reflection of tears in his eyes from his hiding spot, "I understand your hurt, darling, but I know your heart is too good to hold onto this anger for long. I won't tell you your feelings aren't justified, but you need to decide if your willing to let this transgression destroy your relationship with the boy, or make steps towards repairing the rift. Regardless, you must do something because ignoring the problem won't solve it" Lady Stark pulled Robb into a soft embrace, kissing his forehead, and Jon slipped away.

Robb's eyes caught the shifting shadows on the ground, but Jon had slipped through a secret passageway before the other boy could catch a glimpse of his damp face. 

Chapter Text

Hi guys, 

I just wanted to clarify that this story isn't being abandoned. For some reason Ao3 posted one of my unfinished chapters, it had a bunch of my brainstorming and plotting for later in the story, so if any of you guys say that *surprise* lol. Those were all rough ideas, so they might not happen in this story, but sorry about the spoilers. But definitely not being abandoned, as some of you saw I have a ton of plans for this story. 

Thanks for reading and sorry for the false alarm,

Specter_Scriptus 

Chapter Text

A truce seemed to have settled between them after Lady Stark's lecture, but no matter how many overtures Jon made, Robb remained distant.

In the meantime, Jon had returned to searching for the Vault.

For the past week, he had felt a trail of power, cold as the winds of winter, carrying the scent of old blood and dust. He had followed it like a bloodhound, and it had led him here.

Staring at the door, Jon couldn’t help but be unimpressed. The crumbling dark grey stone blended almost seamlessly with the rest of the Crypt, if not for the faint crumbs of magic tracing a path beneath it.

Pressing his hands to the wall, he searched for a loose stone—and jumped when a rough edge sliced his finger. Drops of red vanished into the stone, and Jon froze.

It was like the weirwood, he realized. Reaching for the knife in his boot, he sliced a shallow cut into his forearm, letting the blood flow onto the stones. A loud grinding echoed as the stones shifted, folding inward to reveal an opening.

Bracing himself, Jon stepped into the darkness. Light flared as the door closed behind him, possibly sealing him inside forever.

At first glance, the room seemed no larger than Lord Stark’s office, lined with shelves packed with crystal spheres and old books. But a closer look revealed gaps leading to dozens of hidden passages-unfolding like honeycomb-each a chamber for a King of Winter. The cavern had to be at least thrice the size of the Great Hall.

The witchlight glowed from crystal torches inlaid with First Men runes, casting the space in an eerie, shifting light. Jon had never seen them in person, but Old Nan had told him stories of the Greenery, where the Green Men had rested amid similar torches.

It was said Winterfell had been lit by the same torches, but before Torrhen the Kneeler had marched South to meet the Dragon King, he'd had the castle stripped of the most valuable and dangerous First Men relics, including the witchlight.

Besides the shelves, the only furniture in the first room was a table at its center. It was unlike any stone Jon had seen: perfectly smooth, inky black, and almost absorbing the torchlight. A hand-shaped divot marred the surface, smooth except for a pattern of tiny pinholes.

Jon cast a wary glance at the table. There was no turning back. Placing his hand in the divot, sharp pain stabbed through him. Hundreds of tiny needles punctured his skin, hooking beneath it and drinking his blood.

Seconds stretched like hours, but the pulling sensation eventually ceased. The needles retracted, yet his hand remained affixed as the table rippled like water.

“What is it with magic? It’s always blood,” Jon groaned, woozy from the loss, before gathering himself to study the changes in the table.

Unlike Lord Stark’s model—or even the version Saeryn had conjured in his dream—the table’s surface remained smooth, free of the markers and figurines theirs had contained.. Looking into it was like peering through a mirror into another world: a perfect rendering of Planetos.

Jon had learned of the four main continents: Westeros, Essos, Sothoryos, and Ulthos. Westeros and Essos were well-known; Sothoryos was mostly a mystery, and nothing was known of Ulthos beyond its existence. Both had once held great empires, now reduced to ruins.

On the map, Jon saw the ruin clearly. Connecting Westeros and Essos were thousands of gold and silver lines, each leading to a bright dot of light—red, blue, yellow, orange, green, and purple. In Sothoryos and Ulthos, the lines were black, strangling the land, with Yeen and Ossaryth—the former capitals—pulsing ominously.

Westeros and Essos were not spared.

In Westeros, the lights were mostly segregated by Realm, meanwhile Essos-with the exception of YiTi which appeared almost exclusively yellow- displayed a blended magic: purple, blue, red, and orange being the most prevalent. Of greatest concern were the black lights: fourteen scattered along the Valyrian Peninsula, three in the Shadowed Lands—Asshai, Stygai, and another unknown—and two in Westeros: Oldtown and Pyke.

Jon turned his attention to Westeros, the surface rippling under his mental command. Unlike Sothorys and Ulthos, the black spiderwebs were not widespread in Essos. But in Westeros, they dominated the Reach, Vale, and Riverlands.

(Areas where the Faith of the Seven was strongest, Jon would later realize)

The green lights were the weirwoods, Jon realized. Unlike the Fourteen Flames, the dead weirwood's weren't black, which was a relief, but a dark grey. 

Between the Neck and the Wall, there were about 200 green lights, connected by gold strings, with about 20 or so grey lights; silver strings loosely connected these. The further South Jon looked, the more grey and silver he saw. 

The entire rest of Westeros combined had only 22, ironically Dorne had the most with 8 despite being the furthest south. The Iron Islands, Westerlands, and Crownlands all had 1, the Vale and the Reach had 2,  the Stormlands 3, and the Riverlands had 4.

Something told Jon that these other magic Sources came from foreign lands, but the weirwoods were the native power here. Most of the Realm had culled them not realizing what they were doing. 

(Or maybe they had)

Dorne glowed with two dozen blue lights, and the Stormlands a few more. The Westerlands held 26 orange, while green filled the North, with a few scattered elsewhere. Red lights marked volcanic locations: four of them were where Saeryn claimed lay the North's volcanos, five more were in the Red Mountains separating Dorne and the Stormlands, three circled what Jon believed was King's Landing-the Three Hills were volcanos-another off the coast of Kings Landing-that had to be Dragonstone. The final two were beyond the Wall, one of them was so dim Jon could barely see it.

Jon had no idea what the orange lights signified, but the Rhoynar were said to be water mages, which meant the blue lights probably signified some sort of water source that acted as the weirwoods did to the North. Jon had never heard of such a thing, so the Dornish had either lost the knowledge of how to harness the power, or had managed to keep it a secret from the rest of the Realm.

Besides the black lights, the Wall concerned Jon most.

It fed on the land’s magic like a leech. Beyond it, magic flowed thick as molasses-there were so many gold lines that Jon could barely see anything underneath. Within the North, only trickles passed through. 

Why would Brandon the Builder do this? Jon couldn't fathom the amount of magic it took to power the Wall, and for what? Yes, it kept out the Night King and Others, but the amount of magic it consumed was untenable; eventually the land would run dry and then not only would the Wall fall, but the North would be so weakened that it wouldn't matter. Stripped of their ability to harness magic, the North had become reliant on mortal armies, and any mortal army would be fodder for the Others. 

Hovering above Winterfell, Jon noticed something extraordinary: a single copper line connected both the Weirwood and the sleeping Winterfell volcano to a white light pulsing softly.

“That’s me,” Jon realized with a jolt, stepping back in fright.

As soon as his hand left the divot, the table returned to black perfection, erasing the map and magical sources—but not what Jon had learned.

The map showed the magic of the land, but not just the natural magic sources like the weirwood and volcanos, but the people who had formed connections to those sources. Jon had forged a connection in blood and magic to both the Winterfell Heart Tree and Volcano, and this proved it.

The Faith could never know. The Andals would have hunted every magic source and user into extinction. They still might, if they ever found this place. 

Telling Robb about this place was out of the question. It wasn't a matter of trust-Jon would gladly lay his life down from his brother-but this was about more than just him. 

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead; if Jon told a single soul about this place it wouldn't be a matter of if they told someone else, merely when. Even a Vow wouldn't be enough, a Vow didn't keep someone from breaking their word, merely punished them in the aftermath. That would be less than helpful if the Faith purged the last of the magic from the land

It wasn't worth the risk.

Robb wasn't the only one with a Duty anymore, and so long as Jon lived he would dedicate himself to protecting magic and its people. Even from his family.

Over the following weeks, Jon explored the Vault further. Magical objects were sealed in ice, so cold that even brushing them blackened his fingers—he might have lost them without his connection to the Winterfell volcano. More memory crystals than he could fathom, chests full of gold, uncut gemstones as big as his fist, weirwood staffs, jewelry, and carvings, all marked with First Men runes.

Seeing them reminded Jon of the weirwood limb the Old Gods had given Jon after his first blood sacrifice all those months ago. Was this what it was for? Would Jon one day be able to make a magical weapon? What would it do…

Crates of Valyrian steel weapons and armor, tossed aside as if they weren't priceless-

-And to the Kings of Winter, they might not have been, Jon realized. 

The Doom had taken to the secrets to making Valyrian steel, but that was only 500 years ago. The Freehold was established by Alaric Stark 6000 years old-at least the dragonlord variety, there had existed a native population there for thousands of years before that. The Stark's since had had 5500 years to accumulate a massive collection of the stuff-assuming their shared ancestry didn’t mean they could make it themselves.

The Doom had claimed the secrets of making Valyrian steel, but that had been only 500 years ago. The Freehold-founded by Alaric Stark some 6,000 years ago-at least the dragonlord lines-had been built atop lands inhabited by a native population for millennia before that. Since then, the Starks had 5,500 years to amass a vast collection of Valyrian steel-assuming the ability came from the Valyrian’s native magic and not their shared Stark ancestry meaning the Stark’s couldn’t forge it themselves.

(Of course, Jon wasn’t just a Stark…)

Before the Doom Valyrian Steel was valuable; yes, but not priceless. 

One section in particular seemed to hold more books than he could hope to read in his lifetime. Many of these weren't written in Common. Jon recognized the odd Valyrian word in some of them, but it was the dragonhide covering that truly gave away what Jon was looking at: Valyrian texts predating the Doom.

Others, Jon had no clue.

Some were simple papyrus scrolls from the East, stone tablets with foreign symbols, others elaborate books embossed with gold and gems, scraps of paper with burned edges, books bound in what Jon thought might be human skin-

It was while searching these shelves that Jon realized what he was looking at. 

A red banner with a grey direwolf, jaws locked on the throat of a man bearing a seven pointed star on his forehead, the man's face twisted gruesomely in agony.

Every Northern child knew this sigil, but Jon had seen this particular flag in his Dreams; this was the personalized banner of Theon the Hungry Wolf. 

The Scourge of the Andals. 

The Spear of the North. 

The Bloody Fang of Winterfell. 

Winter's Wrath. 

The Bloodroot King. 

The North had weathered many Andal invasions, but the closest they had ever gotten was the rule of Edric Stark, the Crying Wolf. 

Edric had attempted to make peace with the Andals over a dozen times before he'd been poisoned by the High Septon on one such attempt; the High Septon thought the death of the King of the North would destabilize the North enough that they would breach their last defense. 

Instead; it won the North the war. 

After Edric's death, Theon became the King of the North, and there was no more peace talks. 

The Hungry Wolf had driven the Andals out, burning and pillaging their septs, slaughtering their armies, feeding the weirwoods with their blood and leaving their bodies to rot in the trees as a warning to their brethren. The Faith of the Seven was on its last legs when he'd fallen in battle. The Northern troops returned home with their loot, and it took 200 years for the Faith to recover enough for another attempt. 

To the South, he was a monster, but every Northern child had grown up on the tales of his heroics. 

The Andals hated magic, but before the Doom there was a superstition that said any burned knowledge was an offering to the Fire Mages of Valyria, so instead they would keep it hidden. Rumor had it that they had brought the books with them when they fled from the growing power of the Valyrian Freehold, and what had survived the Northern pillages, or the post-Doom burnings, now rested in the depths of the Citadel.

The Hungry Wolf was said to have found several of these cashes-the very crates Jon remembered from his Dreams-and now Jon was looking at the proof. 

... Learning all those languages was going to be a pain..

Time seemed to flash by. 

Jon became consumed by his lessons, little else seemed to register for weeks as he pushed himself harder and harder. 

He flourished under Ser Rodrick's tutelage, quickly outpacing both Robb and Theon-much to the older boy's jealousy-with the sword, though he'd gained a great dislike for holding a shield. The bulky thing merely slowed him down and Jon inevitably would throw it aside and finish the match without, regardless of his trainer's chastisement. Eventually, Ser Rodrick had given up, and altered Jon's training so that Jon would be fast enough that he wouldn't need a shield.

(Unknowingly, his father had also commissioned the blacksmiths to create armor that would protect Jon without sacrificing his mobility, but it would be years before such armor would be presented to him) 

Jon wasn't the only one excelling in these lessons.

Theon was clearly a gifted archer, and Robb outmatched them both when it came to grappling or the spear, though he also was excellent with the sword, just not to the same extent as Jon. 

Recently, Jon had taken to dual wielding with vigor, much to Ser Rodrick and his fathers disapproval. At first, fighting with two knives, then a small sword and a knife, then two small swords. Each step forward was a trial of error and tears of frustration, but Jon never gave up. 

He wouldn't allow his new magical studies to diminish his weaponry training-Jon would be the best swordsman of the North and a Mage. He was determined that he would do both or die trying.

"Keep your arms up" Ser Rodrick barked, swinging at Jon with a mace, which Jon rolled neatly under, slashing a mock cut to the back of the man's knees with his training dagger, and tapping the training sword against his lower back, the trajectory aimed to sever the man's spine if this had been a real battle. 

"Not bad," his trainer admitted begrudgingly, and Jon grinned as he rose to his feet, only to find himself flat on his back with Ser Rodrick's blade at his chest. "But neither were immediately fatal; never underestimate a wounded opponent" the older man warned, then reached a hand down to hoist Jon to his feet. 

"Not fair" Jon wheezed, and the Master-At-Arms scuffed Jon over the back of the head. 

"There's no such thing as fairness in a fight to the death-Before or after, yes, there will be time for honor and mercy, but once blades are drawn, only survival matters" Ser Rodrick scolded, and Jon nodded in understanding. 

"Lets go again" Jon demanded, even though his entire body ached in pain and it felt like a harsh breeze could knock him down. 

"A broken sword is useless; the cracks might be mended, but the weakness remains. If you push yourself to exhaustion today, you'll collapse when it matters most. Go rest, you need it" Ser Rodrick took the training weapons from Jon's hands, and Jon sighed. 

"... Okay" Jon grumbled, and trudged back towards the castle for a much needed wash. 

From the alcoves above the courtyard, a pair of blue eyes watched, and the Heir of Winterfell remained conflicted over the separation that dug holes in his heart. He wished to cross the distance that separated him from his brother, but pride and stubbornness tightened its grip on him. After all, Jon seemed unaffected by their conflict, so why should he be? 

Five turns since Jon found the Vault, nearly seven since his coma, and days before until his ninth nameday, Jon was shaken from his stupor. 

Jon had tried everything he could think of short of bringing Robb to the Vault-which even if Jon was willing to do, he was fairly certain the door would eat Robb before allowing someone with Andal blood within-but the problem was that Jon had no proof that his dream wasn't just that: a dream. 

He could bring him one of the books or weapons, but that didn't mean anything, Jon could have found it in any of the forgotten rooms of Winterfell, he had no way of proving he wasn't losing his mind until he learnt magic, but it was proving... More difficult than he'd expected. 

Most of the magic contained in the Vault was out of reach for him until he learnt the Runes-which he still had no idea how he was supposed to do-or Valyrian-which was a work in process. So he'd been limited to herbalism-with a touch of blood magic-and the three magic skills known to the North: Greenseeing, Skinchanging and Warging. 

Herbalism had actually been going surprisingly well; between Old Nan's knowledge and the journals of various Green Men and Winter Kings, Jon had recreated dozens of herbal remedies that had faded to history. What separated his concoctions from others was the act in infusing his creations with magic, which had been a trial to discover, but it was a quiet form of magic and merely enhanced the effects that could be achieved without magic.  

As for the others...

Jon had to accept that he didn't have a drop of Greensight, the closest he'd been able to get was the discovery of a Físreacht draught, a concoction that promised to give the drinker visions, but it was a pale imitation of what the Greenseers were said to be capable of. 

The books he'd read on Skinchanging suggested the process involved the ritualistic skinning of an animal in order to assimilate that animal's shape. Not only was that much too advanced for him, he wasn't sure the world's current magic could support that level of magical transformation. The journals he'd found hadn't mentioned a successful Skinchanging since the Doom.

(Whatever the Valyrian's had done was still affecting the magic of the world, and he wasn't sure how to fix that...)

That left him with warging, which Jon was almost certain he was capable of. 

The books claimed that Jon's ability to sense magic was directly tied to warging, but it had been months of practice and Jon still couldn't figure out how to forge a connection between his mind and an animal. He could sense the connection, even hold it for increasingly long periods of time, but he couldn't figure out how to project his mind into that of an animal. Every time he tried the connection seemed to slip through his fingers like water.

A few days before his nameday, Robb caught him sneaking back into the castle again during what was meant to be his lessons with Old Nan-but Jon had forgotten the book he'd meant to bring to her, and had thought to make a quick stop on his way-

"I cannot fucking believe this-Your still sneaking out?!" Robb demanded.

Seriously, this was becoming embarrassing.

”I’m not-“ Jon protested, and Robb lost it.

”You are! You lied about training in the Godswood and nearly died over it! Now you’re still sneaking around at night-and during the day-and I know it’s not the Godswood because I checked!” Robb shouted.

“Robb-" Jon started, and the redhead threw his hands up in frustration. 

”Whatever! I don’t know why I even bother-It’s not like you’ll tell me the truth anyway!” Robb sneered.

”Robb-“ Jon protested.

”No, don’t talk to me! I hate you!” Robb spat.

Jon's world tilted on its axis, his vision seemed to blur and fracture like shattered glass, his hearing flickered-Jon didn't want to be here anymore-He wanted-Robb-Why couldn't he see-

Distantly, there were surprised yells as ravens flooded from the maesters tower, the swarm squawking and shrieking as they fled, horses neighed in panic, and dogs howled-

-Much more distantly, something else howled-

"Jon!" a sharp pain in his cheek shook Jon out of it, sending him back into his body, and looking into the wide blue eyes of Robb.

Well... Jon had figured out how to warg... And he'd also found that proof he needed...

Chapter Text

Almost as fast as it had begun, the conflict between Jon and Robb vanished.

Robb seemed almost more thrilled than Jon over his growing warging abilities, and he understood why Jon had hidden his magic training from him.

“I would’ve thought you mad if I hadn’t seen it myself” the redhead admitted ruefully. Jon nearly strangled the Heir of Winterfell in a hug when Robb offered a sheepish apology for their months-long fight.

“No, you were right,” Jon cried, much to Robb’s alarm. “You’re going to be my Lord. I shouldn’t have lied.” Jon blubbered miserably, and Robb patted his arms in awkward panic.

“I’m not just your future Lord, Jon,” Robb said, earnest and awkward. “I’m your brother. Only a fool thinks his brother won’t have secrets. I—Seven hells, Jon, stop crying—”

Jon choked back a laugh, wiping his eyes. “I’ll try to include you. Truly. But there are things I’ll have to keep from you. To keep you safe.”

Robb frowned in protest. “I’m your big brother. You don’t have to—”

Jon lifted his chin stubbornly. “There are things the Heir of Winterfell needs plausible deniability for. But I want you to know that my loyalty has-and always will-be to you and our family" Jon swore vehemently. 

Robb's eyes swam with tears, and the older boy dragged Jon into a fierce hug. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Robb muttered.

“No,” Jon agreed cheerfully, “but you have me anyway.” And then he ruined the solemnity of the moment by dragging a wet stripe of saliva up Robb’s cheek.

The Heir of Winterfell tackled him to the floor.

As Jon grew older, his days became more structured, mirroring his siblings'.

He woke at sunrise to tend his mare in the stables—an elegant grey beauty “just as pretty as her rider,” Uncle Benjen had teased when gifting her for Jon’s eighth nameday.

After washing up, he joined the Starks to break his fast, then spent the morning in Maester Luwin’s lessons. Combat training filled his early afternoons, followed by Old Nan’s Old Tongue lessons. And after supper, any free time he had was devoured by study in the Vault.

On the morn of his nameday, Jon joined his family in their private quarters. Robb’s seat was conspicuously empty. Jon tried not to feel the sting of it. Perhaps the rift wasn’t as mended as he’d believed.

Sensing Jon’s disappointment,  his father had insisted on presenting Jon with his present right then and there. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed those blades of yours,” Ned said mildly. Jon attempted innocence; Ned gave him a look that might wither oak.

Jon grinned innocently, but internally Jon was relieved that he had moved the box that once held said weapons to the Vault, instead choosing to hang the weapons proudly on his wall. His father would not have been happy with his Uncle for the major clue he'd given Jon-

"I'm not sure-" Jon widened his eyes guilelessly, and his Father rolled his eyes fondly.

“I knew it was you who taught Arya that expression.”

Jon swallowed a laugh.

“You’re reaching an age where you’ll soon be allowed to use those weapons—because I trust you haven’t yet.” Ned’s tone made it very clear he did not trust that at all. Jon widened his eyes. Ned ignored him.

“You’ll need these.” He handed Jon a cloth-wrapped bundle.

Jon unwrapped it—and froze.

Sheaths. But not common ones.

The leather's quality was impeccable, reinforced and oiled, with buckles he could adjust as he grew and dyed a dull black so the sun wouldn't catch them. Daggers sheaths made for stealth, not display. The straps adjustable so Jon could wear them at any point on his arms or legs.

And the sword harness—Old Gods save him.

It was a back sheath, fitted to sit against his spine like an extra bone, the hilt of the longer sword guarding the nape of his neck. It was fitted so it wouldn’t impact his mobility. A dual opening allowed two blades to slide in, one hidden entirely behind the other. A trick sheath. A killer’s sheath.

Assassin’s sheaths.

"Eddard" Lady Stark's expression was tight like cooled wax, but his Father didn't look at his wife. 

“I can’t have your uncle replacing me as your favorite,” Ned murmured, leaning down to kiss Jon’s brow. Jon’s throat tightened.

“Thank you,” he whispered, hugging his father fiercely. Ned held him, strong and steady.

"I hope they never see battle," Ned said lowly, meant only for Jon’s ears “but if danger ever comes for you—and I fear it might—men will expect you to have one blade. They won’t expect the second.” Ned trailed off, and Jon understood what he meant. 

The tension was broken the instant Arya barreled into him, flinging herself forward with all the reckless faith of a child certain that Jon would catch her-which he did. 

Jon caught her without missing a step—he’d long since learned that Arya Stark did not merely run at people; she launched herself like a stone from a sling.

“Careful, little wolf,” he murmured, shifting her onto his hip.

Arya, already a terror at three-and-a-half namedays—mud on her hem, a scrape healing purple on her knee—shoved a small, lumpy parcel into his free hand. “My turn!”

She was grinning fiercely, dark eyes bright with pride, her thin arms looped tight around his neck. Jon worked at the wrapping with his teeth and uncovered a winter rose cloak pin, its petals a deep and impossible blue, preserved beneath a thin sheen of clear wax. Luwin’s handiwork, no doubt, but the choosing of the flower itself… that was Arya’s.

Unknown to either of them, the flower held the faint traces of Arya's wild unrefined magic.

Jon had grown quite adept at feeling magic, his own, others, and the natural magic around them. Even if the rest of his studies were just starting to progress, Jon was able to feel the tiny sparks of Arya's love and devotion in her gift. Most of the grunt work had been done by Luwin, but Arya had personally selected the flower, and her intent behind gifting it to Jon had unknowingly enchanted the bloom, ensuring the flower would never wilt beneath the wax so long as she lived.

“I love it,” Jon said, and meant it with every part of him.

He pressed a kiss to her cheek; Arya shrieked as though grievously wronged, squirming in his arms, but she couldn’t hide the way her face lit up when he fixed the clasp at his collar for all to see.

“It’s your favorite,” she said, chin lifting with unmistakable Stark pride. “I did best”

“You did,” Jon agreed, and Arya beamed like a small sun.

Jon wasn't surprised when neither Lady Stark nor Sansa presented him with a gift, though his Father looked vaguely disapproving. 

(Later that night, Jon found a new grey cloak embroidered with the rudimentary branches of a weirwood tree in his closet, looking remarkably like the garment Sansa had been working on when she'd read him the riot act all those weeks ago. The quality was nothing compared to the works of art she'd one day be known for-the stitches were uneven, the pattern a little lopsided. But for a girl of six namedays who’d only taken up needlework in the last year, it was impressive.

Jon didn't mention anything, but if the last honeybun magically appeared on Sansa's plate the next night, she didn't say anything either.)

After breaking their fast, Jon was surprised to be dismissed from his lessons, and had just decided to spend the time visiting Old Nan, when he was ambushed. 

Robb wrapped both arms around his waist in a sudden tackle, rope quickly binding Jon's wrists behind his back. Suddenly, the world flipped as Robb hauled him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Hey!" Jon complained, and Robb laughed, the action causing his brothers stupidly pointy shoulders to dig into Jon's ribs, and took off towards the stables. 

“You know the rules!” Robb laughed, “I’m stealing you for the day—no fighting!”

Jon grumbled but didn’t resist.

The Claimright was a tradition as old as the North, it was originally a courting ritual. If an individual-regardless of sex-Claimed something, and the Claim was accepted, the Claimer would get holding rights for a predetermined amount of time. Of course, Claiming a person, especially if the Claim was rejected, was sacrilegious to the Old Gods-no better than the Ironborn's salt wives or slavery-but Robb wasn't claiming Jon, just his time.

Robb had declared his parameters, and by not fighting, Jon was agreeing to give Robb his time until the sun set on Jon's nameday. 

That didn't mean Jon had to like being hauled through Winterfell like a sack of flour over his brother's shoulder for all and sundry to see. But fighting it would be Rejecting Robb's Claim, and Jon was rather curious about what he had planned. 

Robb finally let him down once they reached the stables, where Sweetness—Jon’s pale grey beauty—and Fang, Robb’s temperamental black mount, stood waiting, already saddled for a day’s ride into the Wolfswood.

“Was that really necessary?” Jon’s face was still red—only partly from being upside down so long. The wolf whistles and crude jokes that had followed them through the courtyard had been mortifying. Robb just grinned.

“Relax. We’re brothers. They were only jesting.”

Jon swatted his shoulder. Robb wasn’t entirely wrong. If the castle folk knew he and Robb were only cousins by blood—and that Jon had Targaryen blood—the jokes would’ve landed differently. Considering their age, Father might have taken their heads for the insinuation. Between brothers, it was harmless enough.

Ugh, even the thought of doing that with Robb turned his stomach, even years later, in the throes of early manhood, that never changed—to his enormous relief. Whatever Targaryen impulses he’d inherited, they didn’t include that one. He'd never developed inappropriate reactions to any of his 'cousins'. He could recognize that they would all grow into strikingly attractive people, but that was the extent of it.

“Alright,” Jon said, rolling his eyes as he mounted Sweetness in one smooth motion, “where are we going?”

Robb clambered into Fang’s saddle with less grace, huffing. “How are you so good at that?”

“I ride every morning. You should try it sometime,” Jon teased.

Robb groaned. “Daily rides, lessons from both Luwin and Old Nan, half the castle wrapped around your finger, a prodigy with weapons and secretly a warg out of the old tales—this is why my mother thinks you’ll usurp my claim.”

Jon might’ve taken offense if Robb hadn’t sounded so fond—and if Jon’s magic didn’t let him feel the utter lack of malice behind the words.

“Guess that just means you’ll have to keep up,” Jon said with a wicked grin.

He nudged Sweetness forward, darting into the Wolfswood with a burst of speed. Behind him, Robb swore and spurred Fang after him, laughter trailing them both as they raced beneath the trees.

"I'm glad to see you and Robb have repaired things" Father told him that night, visiting Jon's room-as he'd taken to doing each night since Jon's coma-as Jon turned down for sleep. 

(He didn't always stay asleep, but his Father didn't need to know that-)

"Me too" Jon admitted, and his fathers grey eyes seemed to see through him, to the knot of turmoil and insecurity that had taken root in his heart these past few months. 

"I know this experience has wounded you, but try not to take it to heart" his Father ran a hand through Jon's curls, and Jon's eyes darted away to rest on the swords his Uncle Benjen had gifted him all those years ago, now hung on the wall awaiting his Father's blessing for Jon to start training with live steel.

His fathers words unearthed a deep insecurity inside him, though he's sure his father wasn't aware of the depth.

Robb had thrown him aside once, would he do it again? Was he keeping Jon close now that he knew of his magic because he feared him-

No, Jon decided firmly, I can't dwell on those fears, Jon would know if Robb had been lying to him, he had to believe his brother was sincere, or it would drive Jon down a path of darkness he refused to travel. 

"He turned away from me for months-Wouldn't speak to me-Look at me-Acknowledge me-" Jon's breath caught on a suppressed cry, and his fathers large hands enveloped him. 

"You have always looked up to Robb, I understand that seeing that he is not infallible has hurt you; I was once the same with my own older brother, and I know Benjen has experienced it from me. Robb allowed his own insecurities to guild him, but you are both still young yet. Have faith that your brother has learned from his follies and won't repeat his actions" his Father pressed a kiss to Jon's brow, and left him to sleep, but Jon's mind wouldn't allow him to rest. 

Had Jon not known of his magic, had not been given a purpose outside his place beside Robb, this experience would have shaken Jon deeply-It still had. He might have become obsessed with his place in the world, determined to find a Duty that differentiated him from Robb, if his father wouldn't give him a Name or Holding, Jon might have even allowed this to drive him to the Wall-had he never learned it wasn't the honorable pursuit he thought-But things had changed. 

Jon was not powerless any longer. He had a purpose, a duty. He would pursue it, serve the North, and prove to the Starks that he could not—and should not—be cast aside.

Chapter Text

After Jon's nameday had passed, the North seemed to fall on Winter Town ahead of the Turning Festival. 

Most of the known world followed a similar calendar; 12 months of 28 days, time measured by a single moon cycle, but different realms measured the new year at different points. 

The YiTi measured it by the blossoming of their Heart Flower, some sort of tree flower that only bloomed once a year, while the Isle of Naath used the migration of their butterflies, and most the Free Cities marked the Doom, and their subsequent freedom from the Valyrian Freehold, as the New Year. Before the Conquest, the North had measured a year by the anniversary of the Long Night, and afterwards the anniversary of Aegon's Coronation marked the first day of the new year. Despite overthrowing the Targaryen's, the Crown had kept this system in place for simplicity sake. Plus the date had ironically also lined up with the end of the Rebellion...

Jon was born the third day of the 12th month of 283 AC, while Robb was born on the four and tenth day of the 8th month, so a few weeks after Jon's nameday, Westeros would celebrate the coming of the year 293AC.

The North wasn't known for their festivities, but while the South threw extravagant balls and tourney's, the North celebrated the turning of the year with the Turning Festival. Winter Town usually saw a gathering of upwards of 20,000 visitors in the last month of the year, but this year had seen a large uptick in the number of people visiting Winter Town; Northerners from all over the North had been arriving in droves since Jon's nameday on the 3rd.

The end of the coming year would mark the 10th anniversary of the new Royal Family, and unrest seemed to be building by the day. Most of the North was extremely unhappy by their unchanged circumstances; the new King was supposedly the best friend of their Lord, but what had the Stags done differently to the Dragons? How had they thanked the North for all their sacrifices? The new King had never so much as visited the North.

Most people were using the gathering to voice their dissent, and for the rest of the month Jon barely saw his Father outside meals. 

The last week of 292 marked the Winter Town Turning Festival, the Stark children, Jon and Theon were released from their lessons, and took to spending most their time in town. The increased free time since the Festival had been a blessing and a curse; Jon had been excited to meet many new people and seemed to make a favorable impression, but... Might have accidentally sparked a rebellion... or two...

2 Years Ago

Despite growing up in Winterfell, Jon could count the times he'd been to Winter Town on both hands, and still have fingers to spare. With the exception of servants, he'd actually conversed with the commonfolk even less than that. 

It was a jarring reminder that bastard or not; Jon was a nobleman's son, and had certain privileges that few commonfolk could dream of. For years, he had felt lesser than his trueborn siblings, and thought himself akin to the commoners of Winter Town. 

Shortly after his seventh nameday, it had only taken Old Nan a single afternoon to erase those notions.

Later, Jon would regret ever letting himself complain—even in the quiet of his own mind—about being dragged away from the chance to watch the Manderley guards’ afternoon drills. He didn’t know it then, but he would come to be grateful—deeply, fiercely—that Old Nan had pushed him, sometimes with a shove rather than a nudge, to befriend the village children.

It was that insistence that brought him to a small circle of people who, save for his own kin, would become the dearest companions of his life…

Of all the Northern cities, of which Winter Town barely counted as a city, the commoners here led relatively cushy lives. 

Between the castle and the Wolfswood; jobs and food were abundant, so they rarely starved, the proximity to Winterfell protected them from predators both beast and man.

They were currently in an unusually Long Summer, which had started sometime in the beginning of Robert's Rebellion, and had been going strong for just over 7 years, and showed no signs of stopping. It promised a similarly long-and brutal-winter, and the North was already preparing.

At peacetime, Winter Town had a population of roughly 5000, on a typical winter that would swell to 20,000, but a possibly 10 year winter? They were expecting Winter Town would have to adapt to at least 50,000; Lord Stark would never turn them away, so preparations had begun after year 5. 

More than that, Winterfell's hot springs gave them access to two things that few other places in Westeros, and especially the North, could boast: warmth and clean water.

Winter Town was possibly the cleanest city in Westeros for two reasons; the hot springs gave them unlimited access to clean warm water, and the Glass Gardens collected the human waste that would have otherwise filled the streets, to repurpose it into fertilizer. 

This also made Winter Town the healthiest city in the North, sicknesses rarely spread here, and Maester Luwin had written more than a dozen papers on the discovered benefits of cleanliness. This was ignored by most of the South, who either didn't care, didn't believe, or didn't want to spend the coin to better the lives of the 'peasants'. 

Suffice to say; if Winter Town was the only Northern town Jon had reference for, he might have gone his entire life not realizing how privileged he was. 

But Winter Town wasn't the only town, merely the closest to the castle. 

There was about a dozen smaller towns and villages within a days ride of Winterfell, and these didn't fare nearly as well, and today Old Nan was dragging him along to one such town. 

"You are not are hard up as you think, boy" Old Nan scolded him gently, and as Jon sat atop his horse, in clean clothes, with food in his belly, looking at the dirty, thin faces starring at him. He'd never felt so much like a Lordling in his life, and he hated it. 

"I understand" Jon murmured, and stepped down from Sweetness-not yet his in name-in a smooth move that had quickly become second nature to him, but seemed to startle those closest to him. 

Sweetness nuzzled her face into Jon's shoulder, and Jon ran a gentle hand along her neck, pulling a small pouch of oats, and Sweetness ate from his palm, the brush of her lips wet against his skin, but Jon merely pressed their foreheads together. For a second, Jon's mind wandered, and unknowing to him, the edges of his mind brushed against Sweetness-   

"Jon" Old Nan's voice pulled him back, and Jon realized he'd amassed a bit of a crowd, Old Nan and some of the older commoners were looking at him as if Jon had done something amazing. 

"Sorry" Jon wiped his hand on his breaches, and approached a group of five children around his age, their eyes watched him warily, but Jon wasn't dissuaded. 

"You a noble?" one of the boys, a painfully thin blonde boy with Northern grey eyes, stormy and old beyond his years, seemed to be the ringleader of the group.

(Years later, Jon would realize the reason he gravitated towards that group, and not the dozens of other children in the town square, was his latent ability to sense magic. On some level, Jon could sense each of these kids- three boys and two girls-had embers of magic clinging to them, even if he hadn't realized what he was feeling) 

The boy, Jon realized, for all his small stature, was the strongest, and the others gravitated towards him. 

"No," Jon laughed, and something in the boys expression grew defensive, so Jon offered him his hand, "the names Jon Snow, I'm no more noble than you" the boy seemed to contemplate not shaking Jon's hand, but grudgingly reached across.

A small shock jolted them both, windfire they both had assumed, though the boy seemed deeply unsettled for some reason. His eyes widened, and he released Jon's hand as soon as it was polite. 

"... Torwyn Blackbane" the boy mumbled, and the other children seemed to look between the two of them as if confused. 

"Its good to meet you," Jon looked over at Old Nan, who was chatting with some of the village elders and seemed amused at Jon's clumsy attempts to make friends, "would you mind if I joined you for the day so my guardian will stop mocking me?" Jon sighed, and Torwyn's lips quirked upwards in a half smile. 

"What's in it for me?" Torwyn challenged, and Jon grinned, and pulled out a small coin purse which contained his weekly allowance-likely more coin than most these kids had seen at once in their lives-and Torwyn's eyes shone. 

"I'll buy you all a midday meal" Jon promised, and just like that, Jon was accepted into their group like he'd always been there. 

He's sure at first it was simply hunger, but as the day wore on, and Jon charmed each of them with mocking quips about the most insufferable Nobles, and took no offense when they teased his own noble blood, their attitudes towards him seemed to thaw. 

And if Jon returned on a near weekly basis to blow his allowance on filling his new friends bellies-likely the largest meal any of them had seen that week-if he taught them to read and write Common-speak the Old Tongue-fight-and later use magic- well, that was no ones business but his own.

(And, in turn, if each of those children secretly swore an undying loyalty to Jon over the following year... Well, Jon was going to need all the allies he could get over the coming years...)

The first day of the Festival, Jon dragged Robb-and a persistent Theon-along to meet his friends, who seemed to bear down on Robb like a bloodhound, and refused to be dissuaded by Jon's reassurances that they had solved their issues.

"We've heard lots about you" Torwyn glowered up at Robb, the sight almost hilarious as Robb had nearly a foot of height on the other boy, but Jon knew Torwyn was a nasty scraper and it would not go well for Robb-honorable, naive, gullible Robb- if things came to blows.

Jon hadn't had to tell his friends he had magic, they had simply known, in fact they seemed more surprised that Jon hadn't known he was a warg.

("Your eyes went all weird when we first met" Torwyn explained, and Jon was suprised. 

He'd met his friends months before his meeting with Saeryn-he'd had no idea magic was real beyond Old Nan's stories-so to hear that they had seen him do it on their first meeting... 

"You couldn't have mentioned something sooner" Jon huffed, and Torwyn grinned.

"Where's the fun in that?" the older boy laughed.)

Since that conversation, his friends had been learning alongside him-all five of them were wargs. The five of them had slowly but steadily been improving, which Jon remained stuck, but in the weeks since Jon had finally slipped into his first true warg, his abilities had grown in leaps and bounds.

Most wargs bonded with a single kind of creature-most commonly birds, rats, cats, horses, or dogs. Wulfric had a clear affinity for horses. Rosa preferred cats—Jon had a gnawing suspicion she’d take a shadowcat as a Companion one day, and the thought terrified him. Soren and Sigrid, the twins, shared a gift for ravens. Torwyn connected most easily with rats and fought much like them—quick, vicious, unpredictable. The tricks Jon had taught him had only made him fiercer, not calmer.

(Jon had created a monster. He was so proud.)

Jon himself preferred dogs, but unlike the others, he’d found no difficulty slipping into any beast. Insects were useless; their minds burned out almost instantly. But mammals—even unfamiliar ones—worked in a pinch.

His sensing ability-a precursor to a warg’s battle-sense, the gift that let some fight blind while their companion ranged far from their side-had sharpened as well. Normally, a warg didn’t learn to split their vision until much later in life. Jon, however, had been using it unknowingly throughout his combat drills, becoming nearly untouchable, stepping and dodging with uncanny precision, as if he truly had eyes in the back of his head.

As for his siblings-Robb, Arya, and Bran were unquestionably wargs. Sansa’s magic was present but faint; Jon couldn’t get a clean enough read to say whether she shared the gift or not.

All skinchangers were wargs, but not all wargs became skinchangers. Claiming a Skin required a deeper instinct, something older and more primal. Jon hadn’t researched it much beyond confirming that he, Torwyn, and Arya were all skinchangers.

The one time he’d held Bran, the babe’s magic had struck him like a breath of everglade—fresh, ancient, and wild. Jon was certain he was a budding greenseer.

"I can't say the same" Robb smiled his best courtier smile, his eyes seemed to be attempting to skin Torwyn alive, and Jon heaved a heavy sigh as the two glared at each other. 

"Come on-" Jon complained, and Rosa, small and slight with wavy black hair and icy blue eyes, laughed and placed a hand on Jon's arm. 

"You can't blame us for being protective, Hun, we've all been looking forwards to tearing a stripe out of this brother of yours" Rosa smiled wolfishly, and Jon rolled his eyes and watched as his best friend and brother circled each other like pit vipers. 

"He's my brother-" "as if blood means we'll allow you to-" "not be lectured by a-" "what? a peasant? Tell me how you really feel Baby Lord Stark-" "Watch your-" "If you ever hurt him again-" "I won't!" "Good!" the two glowered at each other, and Jon debated on if he should attempt to separate them.

"If you two are done," Jon glowered at them, "I would actually like to see the Festival" Jon huffed, and was horrified when both their mouths turned mocking. 

"As the Princess commands-"

"That frown’s too small for such a fine face-"

They looked at each other in surprise, and Jon was horrified to see a truce seeming to settle between them. 

"Ugh!" Jon turned on his heels and marched away amid laughter at his back. 

Jon’s decision to offer the Winter Town heart tree a sacrifice on the festival’s first day had been impulsive. If he had breathed a word of it to Robb or Torwyn, they would have told him it was a terrible idea. But Jon couldn’t bring himself to regret it… even if the result had been rather messy.

He had already decided that the best way to repair the North’s fading magic was to revive the old rites. Jon might have Kingsblood, but he was only one person; the best way to fuel the weirwoods was to reintroduce blood sacrifices, and the Festival was the perfect occasion.

Normally, blood sacrifices weren't a matter to be taken lightly; there were very few times that just anyone could offer a sacrifice to the Old Gods.

The symbolism of welcoming the New Year, regardless of which calendar one followed, carried a lot of weight. There was also powerful magic in a People coming together in a Gathering, and this was the largest Gathering the North had seen in years. 

If there was ever a time in Jon's life-at least up to that point-that was ripe for a Sacrifice, now was it. 

Since Jon was short of any criminals to be sacrificed-much as Jon itched to slit Torwyn's drunkard fathers throat he didn't think it would go over well with his Father- and he couldn't very well go around sacrificing livestock-the meat couldn’t be eaten afterward, and Ned Stark would demand proof that such waste would be worthwhile-Jon would have to settle for a Gathering.

It was a calculated risk.

He’d be painting a clear target on his back by highlighting a closer connection with the Old Gods, inviting questions and scrutiny. But that gnawing urgency beneath his skin, the one that had plagued him since seeing the Map, whispered that if he didn’t begin rebuilding the North now… something terrible would follow.

“What’s the long face for?” Rosa nudged him, drawing him from his thoughts. The Winter Town square was full of small clusters of revelers, all gathered around the heart tree at its center-half the height of Winterfell’s, bark leaning sickly gray, its red sap thin as tears, half its branches broken. A wounded thing.

Most weirwoods stood in large forests, but if any trees had surrounded this one: they were long gone. A knee high perimeter of stones had been made to encircle the tree, fifty feet across, though anyone could approach.   

“In my blood, I’m afraid,” Jon said wryly. Rosa’s lips twitched.

“You wear it well,” she teased.

Jon’s stomach fluttered; his cheeks warmed, to her great amusement.

“I’m going to offer my respects,” he murmured.

Rosa's eyes darted from Jon to the tree, then back to him, her eyes widening. "Jon, don't-" her hand missed his arm by a hair, and Jon slipped through the crowd like a ghost, coming to a stop at the base of the tree, and dropping into a reverent kneel.

Jon felt eyes on his back, the weight heavy but inattentive until Jon pulled out his dagger. 

Alarm slid through the crowd like a dagger between the ribs when Jon pulled out a blade so close to the weirwood-had Jon been anyone else he might have been dragged bodily away-the tension built swiftly, then dispersed into confusion as Jon brought the blade against his own flesh, slicing his palm, rather than the holy tree. 

Jon placed his bloody palm against the almost-grey bark of the Heart Tree, and, harnessing every drop of the tiny current of power that ran through him, he spoke: "Old Ones, accept this sacrifice on this day of Gathering, as we welcome the turning of the year anew. Let my strength flow into you, vein to root, spirit to shadow so that you might guard us in the coming year. Long may you endure" Jon's words flowed from his mouth in the Old Tongue, to the shocked murmuring of many in the crowd Jon's diction was perfect-take that Saeryn-

For a moment, nothing changed. 

Conversations restarted, now discussing the Stark bastards actions, the crowd starting to look away, heads turned away-

Then a sharp ripple of wind swept through the square, carrying the scent of blood and wet earth. The heart tree shivered. Its bark brightened, paling to bone-white. Red sap welled and trickled down its face. The branches creaked, stretching upward—

Jon’s palm burned, but he held fast. He trusted the Old Gods not to harm him; they had sheltered him during his coma. They would not betray him now.

“Jon,” Robb hissed behind him, glancing nervously at the staring crowd as an unseen wind lifted his clothes and hair. Robb and his friends formed a loose shield around him- not a single hair moved on their heads even as they stood not five paces from Jon-trying uselessly to block the onlookers’ view. It was far too late for that.

Red sap seeped down the tree’s carved face to coat Jon’s fingers. A surge of power rushed back into him, and with his sharpened magic senses, he felt the click as his copper thread of power lashed itself to a second weirwood. The feedback hit him so hard stars burst behind his eyes.

Suddenly, the tree released him. The wind caught him, steadying him as he staggered upright.

A weight seemed to hang in the air, Jon realized the crowd of Northerner's had taken a knee as they looked at him, watching with awed eyes as the wind kissed Jon's cheeks in thanks, before the presence of the Old Gods faded once more. 

When wind vanished as fast as it came, and the weirwood ceased growing.

Jon knew that even that show of power had to have been difficult, even with his-and Robb's-Kingsblood sacrifices, the magic was thin and weak. It must have taken every drop they had to show themselves like this, but they'd done it for him. 

They wanted Jon to succeed, they knew he needed to make a spectacle to convince the other Northerners, but even he hadn't been expecting this.  

As Jon was ushered back to Winterfell, a close observer might have noticed his normally indigo eyes were just a touch lighter.

Jon had scarcely recovered from the toll of the sacrifice when he was summoned to a meeting with his father and the other Northern lords.

Ned sat in the carved stone throne of the Lords of Winterfell-Jon had seen his father sit that chair innumerable times, but never had he occupied it in the full authority it carried. His father looked different upon it. Broader. Older. Colder. This was not the quiet man who mended toys or tucked blankets around sleepy children. This was the Warden of the North.

For the first time, Jon saw the weight that title demanded.

He swallowed, standing alone before him on the flagstones. The room felt too large. Too watchful. The stone direwolves along the walls seemed to stare with carved judgment. The Lords lining the edges of the room-all 13 High Lords of the North-watched the proceedings. 

The moment he'd stepped into Lord Stark’s solar, Jon felt it—the shift. The way eyes lingered on him too long. Some held awe. Some held wariness. A few glimmered with the sharp, hungry look of men imagining the power they might seize if they could only get their hands around his throat… or his allegiance.

Jon had expected this. Revealing his connection to the Old Gods was always going to stir the pot. Some of these men would rather see him dead. Others would crown him in Robb’s stead. Still others would send him far, far away, just to quiet their own unease.

Their stares pressed against him like a physical weight.

Jon did not flinch. “Yes, Father.”

A ripple went through the gathered lords.

Lord Stark finally spoke, calm but iron-edged. “Jon. Did the Old Gods ask this of you?”

Jon’s voice was firmer this time. “I do not speak with them, but they share what they need with me”

“And why make a spectacle of it?” Ned asked, exhaustion threading beneath the steel. “The Old Gods require no audience. You could have waited.”

Jon clasped his hands behind his back, steady and unbowed. “I wanted the truth made plain"

“And what truth is that?” Lord Cerwyn demanded from the side, his beard bristling. “That the Old Gods favor you over the trueborn heir?”

“Careful,” cautioned Lord Manderley from beside him, though his eyes never left Jon.

Jon didn’t so much as blink.

“The Old Gods favor the North,” Jon said evenly. “And we’ve grown too complacent to hear them.”

Manderley leaned forward again. “Tell us, then. What exactly did you do? And why?”

Jon drew a steady breath. “I offered my strength. My blood. The weirwoods are fading. Their magic is thin. I acted to preserve it. To preserve the North.”

A murmur ran through the lords. Some nodded slowly. Others stiffened, hands tightening on their belts.

Lord Flint grunted. “And what of Robb? What place does your brother hold if you take this path?”

Jon’s gaze flicked to his Father, imploring him to believe Jon spoke the truth: “Robb is the heir. He will rule Winterfell, lead the armies, make the judgments of law. I do not aim to take anything from him, merely support him in a different capacity.”

"No ambition of your own?" Lord Bolton asked, his unnerving gaze on the wine in his goblet. 

"Lord Bolton" Ned intoned warningly, but those eerie blue eyes stayed locked on Jon.

"I did not say that," Jon disagreed, "merely that none of them include being Lord of Winterfell" Jon stated.

Lord Mormont spoke next, his gravelly voice carrying unease. “All who witnessed your offering felt your power. It’s all the commonfolk speak of. They call you Snowkissed.”

“They felt the gods. I only offered them a conduit.” Jon said quietly.

“Aye,” Glover murmured, “but the gods felt you first.”

“You say you know what the gods need,” Umber squinted, “so what is it you think the gods need, lad?”

Jon leaned forward, gaze sharp. “They need us to remember them. To honor them properly. To feed the weirwoods again. If we do not, the North will weaken. That is the truth. And I will do it.”

Barbrey Dustin’s voice was dry, incredulous. “Blood sacrifice.”

Jon’s eyes blazed. “Yes. But not of innocents. Criminals, volunteers… offerings like today. Gatherings. Festivals. Anything less will starve the trees. Anything less will doom the North.”

Glover rubbed his face. “Gods help us. The boy speaks like a greenseer from the Age of Heroes.”

“Aye,” Umber muttered. “And maybe that’s the bloody point.”

Ned’s eyes were sharp on Jon. “These rites died for a reason.”

Jon met his father’s gaze evenly. “They died because we forgot. If they stay dead, the North will wither. I will not allow that, but I am only one person. For this to work, it must start with all of you”

Silence fell heavy over the room.

Glover was the one to break it, voice low. “If the North is in danger, pretending otherwise won’t save us.”

Even Umber grunted. “Can’t deny what we saw. The Gods chose the boy.”

Jon swallowed, lifting his chin.

“They did not choose me,” he said. “They chose the North. I am merely the first to listen”

Over the next few days, the tale of how the Old Gods had eagerly accepted Jon’s offering-and the power that had answered him-spread through the town like wildfire. By nightfall, all fifty thousand Northerners gathered in Winter Town for the festival had heard it.

Some dismissed it as drunken gossip. But as Jon returned to the heart tree each morning and repeated his offering—much to his father’s deepening disapproval—no one could deny the evidence before their eyes. The once-wilting tree now seemed almost to glow with life, its bark bright and full, its branches stretching higher. By the second day it had grown a handspan; by the third it had risen nearly a foot.

By then, others had begun offering their own sacrifices. None were favored as Jon was, but the wind seemed to kiss their cheeks in gentle acknowledgment, and that alone was enough to stir awe.

“Your son is blessed by the Old Gods,” nobles and commoners alike told his father, who accepted the words with a conflicted, tight-lipped nod.

At first, Jon hadn’t understood the look on his father’s face. True, the lords had raised questions about whether Jon’s closeness with the gods was a challenge to Robb’s claim, but he had dismissed those worries. Surely his father did not think him as a genuine threat to his brother…

Then, on the fifth day of the festival, someone burned down the Winterfell sept...

Chapter Text

The next day, Torwyn met him at their spot in the Wolfswood just after sunrise.

"That was quite the show" Torwyn slouched against a tree, his face turned down to cast shadows across his expression, but it couldn't hide the bruises. 

The other boy was two years older than Jon, but half a foot shorter and several stones lighter, his hair was the color of pale gold, making him stand out from most Northerners. Like Jon, his features were more delicate than the typical bold hard lines Northerners were known for. Instead of a long face, square jaw and deepset eyes, Torwyn and Jon were all cheekbones, pouty mouths, and large eyes. At least Torwyn's were grey, but Jon knew the other boy had endured more harassment than Jon would likely see in his life-

(Not bloody likely)

'We've got cocksucker lips, best keep your teeth sharp' Torwyn had once told him, his grey eyes gleaming with bloodlust, and Jon realized he'd finally met someone who matched his crazy. They'd been inseparable ever since.

Robb was inconsolable for weeks after finding out about Torwyn, but Jon had berated him for being jealous over Jon's friends when Theon bloody Greyjoy stuck to Robb's side all the time. Robb had begrudgingly given up, but would hold onto a petty rivalry with the other boy for years to come.

"Show me" Jon's tone left no room for arguments.

Torwyn hesitated before stepping into the sunlight. His grey eyes, darkened with bruises, met Jon’s steady gaze. Both Torwyn's eyes were black and swollen, his lip was split, a cut on his cheek, his temple, bruises around his neck, peeking out from under his tunic-

He took a deep breath, calming the fire that surged inside him.

Torwyn waited, having a seat on a fallen log while Jon wrestled with some bloodlust of his own. 

"Say the word, and I'll kill your father" Jon told his friend as he slathered bruise cream and healing ointment on Torwyn's face, feeding sparks of magic into them in order to boost their properties.

The magic came easier than ever, Jon's connection to the magic had been deeper and easier since connecting with the Winter Town weirwood, and Jon was able to differentiate the threads tying him to both weirwoods and the mostly-sleeping Winterfell Volcano.

"And end up in a whorehouse? No thanks" Torwyn barked a laugh, wincing as the action pulled on his injured ribs. 

"I can protect you" Jon promised, and pulled on the two threads of the weirwoods to consciously make his eyes flicker white, a new trick he'd been learning. 

"I can't live under your shadow forever" Torwyn grimaced as Jon wrapped Blood Silk bandages around his ribs, the magic forcibly aligning any loose rib fragments and accelerating the healing process.

"Not my shadow, my Second" Jon promised, and Torwyn looked at him with wide eyes. 

"... You would choose me as your Second? What about your siblings?" Torwyn's voice wavered, and Jon shrugged. 

"My place is by their side for now, but Robb’s future is here, while mine lies beyond the walls, carrying out his will and strengthening the North," Jon said, nodding vaguely toward Winterfell. "We’ll walk different lanes—separate, but never apart. Each of my siblings must follow their own path." Jon stated, and Torwyn contemplated Jon's answer. 

"... It would be a shame to hide that pretty face by making you travel alone" Torwyn admitted, and Jon rolled his eyes as he righted the other boys clothes. 

"I couldn't ask for a better companion" Jon smiled, and Torwyn made an annoyed face at him. 

"Must you use that face to charm everyone you meet? I'm already yours, this is just excessive" the blonde complained, and Jon laughed, his smile stretched wide as the older boy groused. 

"So, what did you think of my show?" Jon asked, humming innocently, and Torwyn gave him a pointed look. 

"You put yourself at serious risk, Jon. If the Faith Militant finds out, they could-" Torwyn worried, and Jon placed his hands over the other boys. 

"Torwyn, the Faith Militant would be extremely remiss in coming for me here. I'm safe, I promise" Jon's eyes flickered with power, seeming to almost pulse, the color wavering, lightening, a circle of gold spreading along his iris, then-

Jon blinked, and it was like nothing had ever happened.

"Whatever may come, I'll stand with you" Torwyn promised, his eyes rolling back as he warged, and suddenly over two dozen rats crawled out of the woodwork, their eyes eerily focused on Jon as they awaited a command from the other Warg. 

Yesterday, Torwyn could have summoned maybe 5 or 6 rats, Jon realized, healing the Winter Town weirwood isn't just helping Jon, its healing the North...

To make matters worse, the Old Gods seemed to have a sense of humor, because when the rubble was finally cleared, a tiny weirwood sapling was discovered growing in the ashes of the ruined sept.

Lady Stark-who had been inching toward something resembling civility with Jon-became nearly intolerable after what she called the disrespect shown to her faith. And, shockingly, she blamed Jon.

(Truthfully, Jon understood her plight, but she acted as if Jon had personally lit the Sept alight... He hadn't, just to be clear...)

Jon could tolerate her anger. What worried him was Sansa. She had begun to mimic her mother’s coldness, placing a polite, painful distance between them—one that Jon feared might never be bridged again.

The conversation they had the day the sapling was found... Hadn't gone especially well...

The day after the fire, Sansa found Jon in the gallery overlooking the training yard. Her steps were light, precise—too practiced for a girl her age. The faint smell of ash lingered in the air, carried on a soft wind drifting up from the courtyard below.

“Jon,” she said, voice stiff but polite. “Mother says we’re to stay away town today...Its not safe right now...”

Jon kept his gaze on the yard, the rhythmic clatter of wooden swords and shields below filling the space between them.

Since the Sept burned, the change in the magic had become impossible to ignore, Jon could feel the faint pulsing of the magic in the earth as sure as he could feel the warmth of the sun on his skin. “I wasn’t planning on going,” he said quietly, his tone calm, neutral, though his mind raced with thought.

“Oh.”

Silence stretched thin and tense.

“You’ve been avoiding me” Jon said finally, not accusing, simply stating the truth.

Sansa’s fingers twisted in her sleeves. The soft fabric rustled quietly under her hands. “Mother says it’s improper to be seen with you right now. After the sept…” Her voice faltered, a tremor barely noticeable.

Jon turned to her. “Do you believe me responsible?”

Shame, uncertainty, and then stubborn resolve passed across her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think you did it personally, but… Jon, everyone saw the Old Gods answer your prayer ... And the Sept burning was one thing, but the sapling… Mother is furious, and people are whispering. Septa Mordone says it’s blasphemy.”

It hurt more than he expected, but he wasn’t surprised. Sansa was still young, only six namedays old, and she idolized her mother. When Lady Stark had grown tolerant of his presence over the last several months, Sansa had allowed herself to grow closer to Jon-but now, with her mother convinced he was an heretic of the Seven and about to bring the fury of the Faith Militant down on her family, she was distancing herself once more.

Jon knew his sister was caught between them and... he couldn't bring himself to regret a thing.

Jon’s lips curved into a faint, unrepentant smile “Most of the North knows what I did was right. They saw the Heart Tree flourish. They’ve seen what the Old Gods can do when we honor them”

Sansa’s voice rose. “Right? How can you say that is right? The sept—people pray there! You—you've incited violence against the gods! Your changing, Jon, your... dangerous” Sansa's outrage wilted, and she simply looked lost.

“I am changing,” Jon said evenly. “And yes, I’m dangerous—but only to those who would see the North weakened, afraid, powerless. I will not hide what I did. I will not apologize for the Old Gods answering me. And most of the North agrees.”

“You don’t understand!” Sansa snapped, stepping closer. “You’re dividing the North! What will the South think of us disrespecting the Seven? This could bring more trouble than you know!”

Jon shook his head slowly, calm and unwavering. “The North isn’t divided—it’s waking. People are remembering what they’ve forgotten... Whatever price I must pay... Will be worth it to see the North healed. If the South comes seeking blood... I'll face their scorn with Northern Judgment”

Sansa took an instinctive step back at the look on his face. The clang of swords below cut through the silence.

Sansa hesitated, torn between lingering and obeying her mother’s commands. “I… I should go,” she whispered, stepping back, her skirts swishing against the stone floor. Her gaze lingered on him one last time, a mixture of awe, fear, and unspoken questions.

Jon didn’t stop her.

When she vanished around the corner, Jon exhaled quietly. Shoulders squared, chest tight—not with regret, but with awareness.

He turned back to the yard, the clang of swords still ringing, the tang of ash lingering in the air, the faint warmth of the morning sun brushing his face. He felt the weight of the North behind him, the silent support of the people who had seen what he had done, and the quiet, electric hum of the Old Gods’ power still thrumming beneath his skin.

For a moment, the world felt impossibly large-and impossibly lonely-the weight of what had passed pressing silently on his heart.

He did not regret what he had done. He could not.

Jon had to believe Sansa would come around, but he couldn't allow fears of disappointing her stop him from making the moves necessary to strengthen the North.

(Years later, Jon would look back on this moment with new eyes. Sansa had always struggled with her place in the new North he and his siblings were carving out, she'd always felt more isolated than even Jon-her bastard brother as far as she knew. This experience, and the ones that would follow it, would set her on her path. It would take time, but a direwolf always found their way home...)

Time might repair his relationship with Sansa—but it would never change what he believed: The North must come first.

Of course, the current political situation wasn't quite as simple as Jon made it out to be... 

"Jon, while I appreciate your devotion to the Old Gods, your actions have... Upset the balance" his father looked deeply uncomfortable to be having this conversation with Jon, and Jon shared his sentiments. 

"... What balance was that? I wasn't aware the North openly acknowledged a second Faith" Jon crossed his arms over his chest, and Lady Stark's expression tightened in displeasure, turning her usually pretty face severe. 

"The North is apart of the Seven Kingdoms-the rest of whom follow the Faith of the Seven. Your actions have sparked a Rebellion against the Faith, you-" Lady Stark seemed to visibly collect herself, biting back whatever insult itched at her, partially due to the hard stare Father was giving her. 

"Cat, if you need a moment to yourself-" Father's words implied an offer, but his tone was an order for Lady Stark to see herself out. 

"Thank you, Husband" Lady Stark demurred, and swept from the room with more force than was likely polite. 

Once she was gone, some of the tension seemed to drain from his Father, and Jon felt a touch of guilt for foisting this mess on the man-but its not like Jon had done any of this on purpose- and even if he had... It was working. 

It was the last day of the Festival, and nearly every Northerner above the age of five had offered a blood sacrifice to the Winter Town Heart Tree. Firecircles had started popping up, commoners and nobles alike mingling for the first time-probably in their lives-singing, dancing, and drinking together... The Heart Tree had grown nearly 5 feet and its broken limbs were regrowing slowly but surely. With a sufficient sacrifice tonight-which his Father had agreed to-Jon was certain it would be enough to restore the Heart Tree to its former glory and wake the sleeping leyline beneath it. The Winter Town leyline was the only silver line within several days ride of Winterfell, it was the only one within Jon's grasp at this age-Jon couldn't exactly leave Winterfell for several days at a time, his Father would send guards after him- and this was the best chance he was ever going to get to wake it-

"Jon, do you realize what your done?" his Father asked, and Jon nodded, all humor and playfulness fading as he shared a serious look with his father. 

"I know you don't understand, but this is important. The Winter Town Heart Tree was fading, many others are as well, and restarting the sacrifices-" Jon started, and his Fathers eyes narrowed on him.

"You mean to tell me you knew all that would happen?" Father demanded, and Jon shifted guiltily. 

"Ah, well, not to that extent, but I knew there would be a visible reaction" Jon acknowledged, and his Father sighed tiredly, slouching backways in his chair as he contemplated the situation

"... What's done cannot be undone, and I'm not even sure I would if I could... My decision to build the Sept has only weakened Catelyn's position as Lady Stark, and has cast your siblings in a poor light... I understood her reasons so raising them under both religions, but in light of what's happened... I won't rebuild, not after such a clear sign from the Gods... But the South is not going to like this" Father groused, and Jon gave him a sympathetic smile. 

"Robb is still young, you have time to repair his reputation" Jon said, and his Father's eyes sharpened on Jon. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" Ned asked, and Jon looked at his Father. 

"... You can't have missed it? Most of the Northern Lords don't respect Robb, he'll have a hell of a time proving himself to them- especially if you happen to pass when he's still untested. My actions have... Might have worsened that, an unfortunate side effect" Jon winced, and Ned rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

"... And what do you suggest?" his Father didn't seem to expect an answer out of Jon, but he offered one anyway. 

"He needs deeper roots in the North, turning away from the Seven and developing strong bonds with other Northern Heirs would help-right now his only friends are his bastard brother and the Ironborn heir," Jon grimaced "to many that's a worse sin than following the Seven. Beneath his Sothron looks, Robb is everything a Northern Heir should be: a good fighter, a devoted son, a charismatic leader, he's personable; he makes friends with everyone," Jon groused on the last one, "he's cunning without being greedy or cruel, and well-mannered without being pretentious, you just need to get his future peers to see that as well" Jon advised, and for a long moment his Father studied him in shock. 

"... You've thought deeply on this" Father stated, and Jon nodded. 

"I've decided that I'm going to be the Rodrick to his Torrhen," Jon stated, referring to the pair of Stark brothers, the King Who Knelt and the Red Wolf, who acted as his trusted advisor and right hand, "I've thought a lot about what obstacles Robb might face, but I'm not sure how to help him" Jon admitted, and his Father gave him a small smile. 

"That's very honorable of you, Jon" his Father complimented him, and Jon didn't want to ruin the moment by admitting he had no intention of acting honorable in defense of his family. 

Something told him that his father wouldn't appreciate his ruthless North-First mindset, nor his plans of Rebellion against the Iron Throne...

"I try" Jon smiled, just a touch too sharp, but his Father didn't seem to notice.

That night, Jon was surprised by his fathers request for Jon to lead the Final Offering. It was the eve of the new year, the last day of the year 292 AC, and Jon sensed that the coming year would bring untold surprises.

Still, regardless of Jon's apparent closeness to the Old Gods, Jon had just turned nine; it was incredibly unprecedented for a child-a bastard child no less-to lead the ceremony in place of Lord Stark. 

Surrounded by the largest Gathering the North had seen in decades-at least 60,000 people had journeyed to Winter Town this year, some specifically to see Jon. He approached the Winter Town Heart Tree under their anticipating gazes, where a goat-caught by Jon's own traps-had been bound, and struggled fruitlessly against its bonds. 

Kneeling at the base of the tree-but out of rang of any thrashing hooves-Jon began.

"Old Gods who watch from root and shadow, hear us on this Turning of the Year. Accept this offering, given with clean hands and humble heart. May its spirit rise to your unseen halls. And may you, in your timeless wisdom, look kindly upon your children of the North. Grant us endurance through the year ahead, clarity in the paths we walk, and unity in the hearths we share. Share your strength with us as we step into the coming year, and we shall carry your guidance, steadfast as the ironwood. Unbroken as winter’s will" Jon's voice echoed across the silent clearing, and then he brought the knife down into the goats heart, sacrificing it and Jon's innocence in one blow. 

His Father might not have understood the boon he'd given Jon by offering him this chance, but a First Blood sacrifice, the first life taken by Jon's hands, was a powerful thing, and not just for the Old Gods. The power of this sacrifice would strengthen Jon's magic, the coming year would open Jon up to new avenues of power that hadn't been open to the North in thousands of years. 

Change was coming to the North, and Jon had just lit the flame. 

To make it worse, Jon's actions with the blood sacrifices-and the threat he posed to Robb- wasn't as easily dismissed as Jon thought...

After the Final Offering, his Father opened the Great Hall of Winterfell to nobles and commoners alike. While Lord Stark invited the other Lords and their families to personally dine with him, commoners could approach for a plate, and any leftovers from the feast would go to Winter Town.

At normal capacity, it would feed the town for possibly a week, but with all the visitors, they would be lucky to see 2 or 3 days of full bellies, but it was more than any Sothron commoner would ever see from their Lords. 

"This is why the North is loyal to the Stark's" Jon told Robb as they watched the lines of commoners lining up to be served their share, each plate a heaping pile that could likely keep them fed for days.

"You say that like I don't know" Robb nudged him with his elbow, and Jon smiled as he looked down at the crowd. 

"You know, but I don't think you realize the extent. The North isn't pleased with Father right now, they resent him for kneeling to the Stag King, the Lords might have accepted his decision, but when Winter Comes they will be safe and warm behind the walls of their Keeps, they wont watch their children wither and die, their elders wont become Winter Wolves. Its the commoners, the true Northerners, who bear the brunt of the decisions of the nobility. In the South, they might have rioted, but here? They know that when the South turn their backs on them, the Stark's will stand with them," Jon looked at Robb with sharp eyes, "no matter what" Jon stressed, and Robb studied Jon's expression. 

"Why are you telling me this?" Robb asked seriously, and Jon bit his lip, torn between telling Robb the cold hard truth and protecting his brothers soft heart a little longer. 

"... Because some of them question-" Jon hesitated, and Robb's eyes closed in resignation. 

"If I am more Sothron than not" Robb sighed, and Jon made an aborted motion to correct Robb, but it was true. 

"You will prove them wrong, but... Its important that you understand the obstacles you face. If the gods are good, Father will live until we are both old and withered, but with the South dragging us into a new bloody war every few years... Its not likely" Jon's eye rolled scornfully, and Robb nudged him gently. 

"So what would you have me do?" Robb asked, and Jon nodded down at the crowds. 

"One day, you'll be Lord of Winterfell and people will demand things of you, and I know you: you'll want to help them. But your actions don't just affect you. The North must come first, regardless of how many Sothron's come begging for handouts, the betterment of our people is paramount" Jon told him, and Robb raised a teasing eyebrow. 

"Our people? Plan to rule beside me as my Lady? Your certainly pretty enough-" Robb laughed as Jon threw his goblet at his head, and darted back into the halls of Winterfell, an irate Jon hot on his heels. 

In the alcove they'd just left, several Northern Lords contemplated what they'd just overheard, and the boy who'd said it. 

Each of them had weathered their share of storms, they could sense change coming and knew in their bones: Jon Snow would be at the head of it. 

The question they wondered: would he be at his brothers side... Or in his place?

Chapter Text

Jon and Robb rejoined the feast as if they had never left, though eyes followed them all the same.

Winterfell’s Great Hall glowed gold with torchlight. The long tables were crowded—not only with food but with people packed shoulder to shoulder, their laughter and conversation rising like heat. Steaming breaths drifted upward toward the dark rafters, softening the carved beams into shadow.

Outside, the night was cold enough to give a man dragon’s breath. Inside, it was warm enough that men shrugged off their cloaks and women loosened their shawls, the air thick with roasted meat, spiced wine, and northern ale.

The hall roared with laughter, music, dancing-none of the Sothron pageantry, this dancing was unstructured and free. The songs boomed like war cries, retelling the battles that had shaped the North. The clatter of cups and trenchers filled the spaces between drumbeats and stamping boots, a steady percussion beneath the revelry.

And beneath it all: magic pulsed. 

According to the journal of Tareen Stark, one of the last Winter Mages—who had lived nearly four thousand years prior—the Closing Ceremony was traditionally held at the Last Dusk. Jon’s father had never heard of the practice when Jon told him, but had no issue moving the Ceremony to before the feast, rather than after, as custom had drifted to since.

Jon was glad for the change, because in the thick of the Hall he could feel the magic of the Gathering was building and building like a storm. It tasted of power and possibility, cutting through him like a brisk wind. It would continue rising until midnight, and then—something would happen. Tareen’s journal hadn’t been clear on what exactly, only that the Gathering would be closed with a Gift.

Winterfell felt alive—solid, immovable, protective.

Jon soaked it in and for a moment he let himself relax.

For a time, the revelry buzzed contentedly like a purring shadowcat, but as the ale flowed and tongues loosened, the harmony of the feast began to sour. Laughter turned sharp. Voices rose. And then—like a knife slipping between ribs—a commotion tore through the hall.

It began with Lord Tallhart’s steward, a broad man with a blotchy red face, slamming his cup onto the table hard enough to send mead splashing.

“I’m saying what half the hall is already thinking,” he declared, swaying only slightly. “The gods chose the boy. Not the Young Wolf.”

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

Robb stiffened at Jon’s side. Jon froze mid-bite, heart kicking against his ribs.

Across the hall, Lord Cley Cerwyn’s sworn man answered immediately, voice sharp as broken ice. “Chosen? He bled into the roots and the tree woke up. Strange things happen in the godswood. That doesn’t make him heir to Winterfell!”

“I didn’t say heir,” the steward shot back, though the glint in his eye said he very much meant it. “I said favored. There’s a difference.”

“Not to a house that worships the old gods,” someone else barked.

Voices surged. Chairs scraped violently. Every conversation in the hall pivoted at once, like hounds scenting blood.

“Robb is Ned Stark’s son!” a Cerwyn man protested.

“So is Snow,” growled a Ryswell retainer.

Jon felt his stomach drop. This wasn't supposed to happen... His actions with the Heart Tree were supposed to strengthen the North, he never meant to put Robb's Claim in question... How could Jon fix this?

“Oh gods” Jon whispered, too quiet for anyone but Robb to hear.

“They all knelt!” someone shouted. “The whole square! That wasn’t for Lord Stark’s trueborn lad!”

“That’s madness,” a Glover man spat. “He’s a child!”

“And? So were half the greenseers in the tales!”

"At least the Snow boy looks like a Northerner!" someone Jon didn't know called out, the words carrying like a poison cloud in the air.

Jon rose to his feet, surprise and fear vanished as anger urged him forwards. Robb, sitting to his right at the High Table, grabbed his shoulder, stopping Jon from throwing himself into the crowd to set them right-preferably with his fists. Torwyn appeared at his left, grabbing his other shoulder, and both boys forcibly holding Jon back, ignoring the glare Jon sent their way.  

“Enough!” Lady Stark bit out, “Robb is the Heir of the North, not some bastard-regardless of how many trees he plants. He will not usurp my son’s claim!” Lady Stark snarled.

“I agree,” Jon said.

Silence fell around their table like snow.

“… Pardon?”

Jon swallowed, throat dry, but gently shrugged Robb and Torwyn off as he stepped forwards, drawing every eye in the Hall to him.

“I will not abide these allegations against my character. Many of you might think I intended to betray my brother, perhaps because blood and kin mean so little to you that uou assume I am eaqlly immoral, or you think that it is in the 'sinful nature' of bastards," Jon sneered the last words mockingly, "but you are wrong. I have no desire to be Lord of Winterfell, and even if I did, I would not turn against my blood like a common Southerner!” Jon called, his voice carrying over the crowd. Some looked disbelieving, others approving, a select few disappointed-Jon would watch those ones closely over the next few years. 

The hall shifted—attention snapping to him, to Robb, to Ned.

“Words are air, boy,” Lord Cerwyn said bluntly. “How are we to know you speak truth? We cannot allow questions of Robb’s right to linger.”

“And what do you suggest?” someone scoffed. “Send the boy away? Hide him? That won’t anger the Old Gods at all.”

Arguments erupted anew—shouting, snarling, accusations tossed like daggers.

“Enough!” Lord Stark commanded, rising, but Jon stepped forward before he could speak, chin lifted, heart pounding.

“I will swear a vow,” Jon declared.

The hall stilled.

“Jon—” Ned began, but turned to his right, fixing his gaze on Robb, who looked equally surprised and resigned.

“You remember our lessons,” Jon said softly, “when I was angry that the Northern lords stopped taking proper vows?”

Robb blinked. “… Yes.”

“How can I condemn a failing I won’t correct myself? I will swear upon the Old Gods that I will never usurp your claim, that you will have my support until neither of us draw breath. That I will stand between you and danger. Always.”

A murmur rippled through the hall.

“… Are you certain, boy?” Lord Tallhart pressed. “The gods clearly favor you.”

“As their champion, perhaps. But not as their heir,” Jon said. “Robb Stark will be my liege lord. I will not turn from him.”

“You don’t have to,” Robb insisted, voice rough with feeling. “I trust you with my life.”

“And I you,” Jon answered, soft for a moment, then as harder as Valyrian steel: “But I will not allow whispers of treachery to divide the North. You are the Heir of Winterfell, I wouldn't say no to a holding of my own one day, but I would sooner slit my own throat that take yours with bloody hands"

Robb exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders. “… Then I accept.”

“No.”

The word cracked across the hall like an iron gate slamming shut.

Jon turned to his father.

“I will not allow a child to bind himself with vows,” Lord Stark said, his face carved in lines of winter-hard resolve. “You will have a lifetime for such promises. But not now.”

“Father—”

“No.” Ned’s voice didn’t rise, yet the entire hall stilled around it. “The Old Gods have shown you favor. We will not answer that favor with fear or suspicion. I trust you. I trust your brother. And I will not force vows from a boy to soothe the pride of grown men.”

Jon clenched his jaw. There was much he wished to say. Too much. Not here. Not in front of all these eyes.

“I don’t want my actions with the Heart Tree-or any future actions-to give the wrong impression,” he insisted. “A vow would silence rumors.”

“Rumors will spread regardless,” Ned said. “Your vow would be twisted, studied, doubted. Only your actions will prove your intentions.”

Jon breathed out slowly. “… When I turn six-and-ten, then. If it is still needed.”

Some of the tension in the hall eased, like a tightening rope slowly loosening.

“Now that’s settled,” Lord Umber bellowed, raising his cup, “let’s get on with the bloody feast!”

Laughter broke-uneven and brittle, but real enough to stitch the hall back together.

The music resumed.

Winterfell exhaled.

But Jon felt every gaze still lingering on him… and knew nothing had truly been settled at all.

The Festival concluded well into the new year.

After the feast, the inhabitants of Winterfell spilled into the castle grounds, nobles and commoners mingling freely as firecircles sprang to life and songs echoed through the courtyards.

Finally escaping the chaos—it seemed everyone wished to claim a piece of him that night—Jon made his way to the quiet of the courtyard, only to find Lord Manderley waiting on a stone bench, as if he had known exactly where Jon would go.

“Come, sit. My knees ache,” the lord said, patting the bench with a soft grunt.

Jon sat.

Manderley's voice, when he spoke, was low. “You have a way of inspiring devotion, I can see why your gods chose you" 

Jon’s stomach tightened. “As I said before: I have no interest in threatening my brothers Claim. I've no interest in Winterfell”

"Just because they didn't choose you to usurp your brother, does not mean they don't have plans for you, and I find myself very curious about where these plans will take you..." Lord Manderley stated, and Jon fell silent. "I'm a fisherman, Snow, I've weathered more storms than you can fathom, I know the feel of a changing tide like my own mothers face. I know you will herald such change" 

"Sometimes change is good" Jon stated, and Lord Manderley smiled. 

"I agree," He turned, fixing Jon with a surprisingly sharp look. “If the North must change, I would see House Manderley at your side. Not behind you. Not against you. With you.”

Jon blinked. “I haven’t asked anything of you.”

“No,” Manderley said, standing with effort. “But someday you might. And I’d rather be the first to offer loyalty, not the last.”

He waddled away humming, leaving Jon staring after him in stunned silence

“Jon?” Robb called, and Jon looked up to see his brother staring after Lord Manderley, his expression unreadable.

"Robb-" Jon started, rising from the bench.

“Why didn’t you tell me what you planned?” Robb asked, voice sharp.

“You would have stopped me” Jon admitted, and Robb’s glare deepened.

“Jon!” Robb scolded, and Jon huffed, unfazed.

“I had to do this, Robb. I told you when we mended things that there are some things I must keep from you. This was one of them,” Jon implored. Robb’s shoulders finally dropped, the tension easing slightly.

“You’ve just painted a target on your back. Some of these men… some of these Lords will see you as a threat. And I—” He stopped, drew a deep breath, then softened. “I can’t protect you from everyone. Not the Lords, not the South, and certainly not some fool with ambition. I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon said quietly, “but sometimes we don’t have a choice. If it helps the North, it will be worth the risk.”

Robb ran a hand roughly through his red hair, worry still etched across his features. “Jon, you don’t have to face this alone. As you've made abundantly clear: I'm your future Liege Lord, but more importantly I’m your brother. Your battles are my battles-and you are out of your mind if you think I would let the Lords, the Faith, the Crown, or even our family harm you. Whatever connection you hold to the gods-what magics you unearth-I’ll stand with you.”

Jon’s lips curved into a small, wry smile. “And I would do the same for you. Always. Even if it means risking my own life.”

Robb let out a heavy breath. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful. Don’t push too far, too fast. The North hasn’t seen someone like you in thousands of years—some might fear you before they understand you.” His voice lowered. “But I do understand you. And I won’t lose my brother to ambition. Or pride. Or anything else.”

Jon reached out, resting a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “You won’t. Together, we’ll protect the North—and each other.”

Robb’s blue eyes softened, a mix of relief and lingering fear shining through. “Together,” he echoed, and for the first time that night, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

They lingered in the courtyard, side by side, firelight flickering across their faces, shadows of both duty and danger stretching long into the night—but now, at least, neither would face it alone.

Jon felt the night weigh on him as he made his way to his chambers. The Offering, the feast, the conversation with Lord Manderley and Robb—all pressed on his mind, heavy yet threaded with hope for the future. For too long, he had worried over how he was meant to herald change—save magic, strengthen the North—alone. But now, he realized he wasn’t.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Jon had forgotten that.

No more.

He wasn’t alone. The fate of the North did not rest solely on his shoulders—though a significant portion of it did—but between Jon, his siblings, his father, his friends, and the other like-minded lords, he felt surer in his plans for the North than ever.

True, there would be those who whispered about his place, who tried to push him to challenge Robb. But so long as those who mattered paid no heed, Jon could live with the whispers.

For now, all he wanted was his bed, some peace and quiet.

Of course, that was too much to ask.

“Snow.”

The voice slid out of the darkness—soft, unhurried, uninflected. Roose Bolton stepped from behind a pillar as if he had always been there, waiting.

“My lord,” Jon said, masking the instinctive tension that rippled beneath his skin.

“You drew eyes today, Jon Snow. The kind men remember.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t sharpen, yet something in it curled like a hook.

Bolton studied him a moment longer, then spoke with the softness of a whisper through dry reeds.

“Tell me, Snow… Do you truly mean to raise the North to glory again… and if so, under what banner?”

“The direwolf,” Jon said firmly. “Always.”

“Which direwolf?” Bolton murmured. “There are many.”

"My support of Robb is not as blind as others might think. My loyalty to the North to resolute, and I support Robb because I know he will be what is best for the North-He'll be a far better Lord than me" Jon's expression was hard, his words unwavering. 

Roose’s expression didn’t change; only his eyes sharpened. “Are you certain? Magic answers you. The Old Gods stirred for you alone. The people saw.” He leaned closer, and Jon felt truly small.

Jon’s breath caught, but Bolton pressed on, unhurried.

“You could be dangerous, if you wished,” he said. “Men will fear you. Some will follow you. Whether you want it or not.” His voice barely rose above the cold wind. 

“I am a Stark,” Jon said, lifting his chin. “We keep our oaths. I will not challenge Robb.”

“A bastard Stark,” Bolton corrected, pronouncing it without heat or mockery-as if reciting a fact from a ledger. “Bound to no inheritance. With no duties except those you choose.” He tipped his head. “Sometimes the most dangerous men are those free of consequence.”

Jon’s fingers curled.

Bolton’s eyes flicked to the fist, noting it like a man observing weather. He stepped back a pace, face unreadable.

“If you ever decide the North needs more-if you seek to shape it, guide it, claim a place beyond what birth gave you-” Bolton’s eyes gleamed faintly, a shard of moonlight in a pond of milk. “-you will find that some men will support you... and some will stand in your way.”

Jon said nothing.

Bolton inclined his head, the gesture almost courtly.

“Best pray,” he murmured, “that I am not among the later”

Bolton’s warning was not an idle threat. Jon knew the North held its share of ambition, envy, and old grudges, and there would be men who sought power, and some who might see him as a stepping stone—or an obstacle. But he also knew which eyes mattered, whose trust and loyalty he had earned. That knowledge gave him strength.

His friends, his siblings, the small network of allies who understood the weight of the North’s magic, its old ways, and its need for renewal.

Jon let out a long breath, letting the night air carry away the cold chill Bolton had left behind. The danger was real, yes-but so was the strength of the pack around him.

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. He had not only remembered that tonight: he had felt it in his bones. And with the pack at his back, he could face whatever shadowed corridors and whispered threats awaited him.

But, Jon thought with a wry smirk as he entered his chambers, why merely survive when you can thrive...