Chapter Text
The chaos outside became muted as Catelyn pulled her youngest into the dark hallway near the kitchens. There were no windows and few lights, a servant's passage then. She’d not had the mind to pick a more appropriate entrance. The bastard was a hair's breadth away from killing the king and she would not let the carnage that followed take her youngest.
Catelyn kneeled on the stone floor and pulled her boys into a hug even as they struggled to pull away from her hold. They were safe. Seven watch over the three children she couldn’t save from that cursed boy.
“Jon needs us!” Bran yelled in her ear. Catelyn could sense the chatter and the work in the kitchens pause. The staff were listening to them. She had been unable to convey the need for prudence to her northern children. Especially around the small folk, gossips the lot of them.
“I want to see Jon smack the fat man down!” Rickon was so small that Catleyn had to hold him by the scruff of his neck to keep him in her arms.
The kitchen doors opened and a young girl from the kitchen rushed to her side as Old Nan and Hodor waddled behind her. Old Nan’s wrinkles seemed an inch deeper than normal.
“We heard–”, the young girl began.
“Need help with the little ones?” Old Nan cut the girl off as the three of them came to collect the boys from her arms. Catelyn stood, she straightened her back even as her hands shook under her sleeves.
“They will not be let out for the rest of the day,” Catelyn said to Old Nan. Her boys whined and groaned. The girl could barely hold onto Rickon as Hodor lifted Bran over his shoulder. They would take their meals in their room if the bastard was going to be let loose during the feast. Mark her words!
“Will Jon be ok?” She could hear Bran whisper to Old Nan.
“Aye,” Old Nan put a gnarled hand on his shoulder as the girl tugged at his arm. “As soon as the gods and men stop their tug-of-war with his mind.”
She watched them round the corner of the hallway.
A hand grabbed her arm from behind her. A hand closed over her mouth as she made to scream. The thought that it was the bastard came to touch her again flashed so quickly. The arm turned her and she saw it was Uncle Brynden. He put his finger to his lips and released the hold he had on her mouth.
“I mean to watch the boy before I announce my presence,” Brynden said. He had on a cloak in the northern style with furs around the neck. Northern boiled leathers and rough wool trousers. No one would recognize him.
Catelyn nodded. They were close to the doors of the private residence. She looked around. There was still so much commotion from the courtyard. No one had seen him.
She brought him to her room. Peeking around corners and darting past guards like an intruder in her own home. Which, maybe in truth she had become. Already she lived like a woman set aside that refused to leave.
When her uncle had sat next to her on the couch that faced the fire, nearly faded completely even though her staff knew she liked to keep her rooms warmer than others, that is the first thing that spilled from her. How she had been disgraced, treated more like the bastard of winterfell now than the Bloody Wolf had ever been.
“More and more of the servants, those who had been on my side, are leaving the service of Winterfell.” Cat gripped her uncle's hands tightly. She did not think they left in fear as her Lord husband had told her. She was sure he and Robb ordered it. Her own husband and son.
She only noticed she had not spoken when uncle Bryndyn had squeezed her hands. She continued, “they dismissed them because they voiced their concerns about the bastard in the same way I did.”
Now, those who were tasked to serve her did not listen to her commands. Well, they would. But only after they had checked in with Lord Stark, Jory, Robb, or Arya. “Even my own children hold more respect in Winterfell than their Lady does.”
Her uncle wiped her tears away as he listened to her. He was not one for displays of emotion and Cat could tell by the pinch of his lips that he was not sure how to give her comfort. He need not worry. His presence had already soothed the aching loneliness that had entered her life.
“Tell me of the boy,” He stared at her. Her uncle was a man of action, “and then we can decide what needs doing.”
She brought her uncle's hands up to kiss them in gratitude. Like one did with the Septon when asking forgiveness from the gods.
Robb finally had Jon settled. They sat at the inner edge of the training yard as they waited. Robb had bundled Jon’s head in Jory’s cloak as soon as the king had left the courtyard. Robb’s repetition of ‘you need a nap’ combined with the lack of light finally pierced through the fog of the potion the maester gave him.
Jon still mumbled, so many disjointed phrases it was near impossible to keep track of them. So, Robb had pulled Arya to his other side so that they could review what they could of what just happened. Arya sat with a quill and parchment on her knees, attempting to jot down notes. They settled into their sombre work as they tried to ignore the crowd that formed around them.
“I think I’m a Faceless Man before the Long Night,” Arya mumbled. It would make sense if Arya was the one to kill the Night King.
“Did you get your eyes back?” Robb asked, but Arya shrugged and wrote another note.
At least half the houses of the north were represented around the yard along with most of the nobles from the King’s retinue. The southerners gossiped about Jon’s previous episodes, boasted about their lack of fear in facing the Bloody Wolf, and placed bets on the fight ahead.
“No southern daisy could rip a man's arm clear off the way our Wolf does!” Smalljon near shouted.
Smalljon was particularly loud, but most of father’s bannermen pretended that they were insulted by the southerners' antics. The others grumbled and wore serious frowns as if Jon hadn't been their own source of entertainment at the harvest festival. Robb took a breath. At least they had come over to their side even if it was only to spite the south.
“Do you know who ‘Littlefinger’ is?” Arya asked, but Robb shook his head.
“Your mother’s friend,” Jon muttered. “Her sister's lover. That sister's killer. Our sister's teacher. I executed men who betrayed me, sister. Never you. Sacrificed thousands of men for you. You are my sister, but was I your brother?”
“Sansa’a a traitor,” Arya said with her chin tucked into her chest, refusing to look at Robb.
“We don’t know what happened,” Robb said.
“But would it really surprise you?” Arya asked with the small voice of a child that she was. Robb often forgot that Arya was still a child of one and ten. He kept his silence because he didn’t truly know Sansa well enough to say one was or another. He thought he did when they all came together for Jon, but if she abandoned Jon… The way Arya told it… He couldn’t say.
“Make way!” A thin stick of a squire with long blonde hair shouted. A lesser Lannister, to be sure.
The kingsguard pushed forward to the front of the crowd as the king pulled father with him. Jamie followed behind. The kingslayer wore what Sansa would probably call a dashing smile.
Robb thought the kingslayer looked like a jerk. The prince and queen stood right behind him. The queen with both hands on Jeoffrey's shoulders to keep the foolish boy with her.
Arya rolled up her notes and put them in the bag she used to keep Jon’s potions in. Robb stood and pulled her up with him. Jon was busy drawing a pattern in the wet dirt, an eighth armed spiral of sorts. Robb nudged Arya and pointed down so she could record it later.
The king had finally waddled to the fence that separated the training yard from the safe edges of the courtyard. He stood as proud as if he sat the iron throne. He waved to the crowd and silence fell.
“It better be tourney swords,” Arya grumbled.
Robb blew wind between his lips. Knowing how badly this day had begun he had no hope that the king would show even a little sense.
“How about it, Ned?” The king said, “put your son up against mine?”
The queen hissed something at her husband. Robb noticed that the prince had lost his smirk and his face grew white. The crowd began to get loud again. Northman laughed at the idea and Southerners either looked offended or thirsty for the show.
“Dear old gods,” Arya had her eyes closed and head tilted back, “bless the idiot just a pinch of sense.”
“Arya,” Robb nudged her, “don’t speak treason so loudly.”
Arya merely rolled her eyes and went back to watching the bickering match that had broken out between the King and Queen. Jon stood. He wasn’t watching the show, where the kingslayer and father now joined in the argument.
Jon was looking at Smalljon Umber. A gaze of confusion, then hate, then confusion again.
“Fine! You blasted shrew,” King Robert threw his hands up in the air. “The boy might as well pull down your dress and suck at your teat for how you coddle him.”
The southerners lowered their faces as if they could not see and hear their king. It was odd that the northmen showed more anger and insult to the king’s words then the people the queen knew best did.
Robb raised his eyes to the heavens when the king waved his hand to tell the kingslayer to draw live steel. And they thought Jon was the insane one.
“Well,” Arya pouted, “my fault for asking only one pinch of sense.”
“I want to see just how bloody this wolf really is!” The southerners laughed with him. The queen had managed to pull her children away from the spectacle in the wake of the prince’s embarrassment and her own shame.
At least one person in their party had the sense to stay away from an obvious danger. A dark part of Robb hoped that Jon killed someone so that the king would stop treating this all as if it were a jape the Starks were playing on the kingdom.
“Jon,” Robb tugged on Jon’s shoulder to get his attention. “You have to duel. Just to first blood or yield. Just like training with Rodrik. Yes?”
Jon looked at Robb with that frown that meant he was trying to tell where he was. He glanced around and his eyed landed on the kingslayer.
“You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child,” Jon said. “I’m older than you.”
“Sorry,” Robb rubbed at his temple.
“No,” Jon waved his concern away as he rolled his shoulders. “I’m the one who is sorry. I was your brother, but I didn’t join you when you called the banners.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Robb tried to think back to the shaky timeline he had pieced together. “You’d already sworn your vows to the night’s watch by then, yes?”
Jon nodded as he put on his practice armour, “I’m glad we can be together again in death.” He chuckled a little. “Did you know my tenure as Lord Commander was only a little longer than yours as King?”
“Oh?” Robb tried to sound casual. He had never pinned down how long the war to the south lasted or how it exactly ended other than betrayal.
“I know I’m biassed,” Jon leaned into Robb as if he were telling a joke, “but I think your first mistake was bringing your mother along on your campaign.”
“Why would my mother be with a war campaign?” Robb asked.
“An excellent question,” Jon nodded his head once in satisfaction. “Although Val would have my bollocks ripped from me if she heard me say so.”
Arya snorted.
“Val would never let Edric fight a rival clan without her, but she could hold a spear. Could you even imagine Lady Stark doing so?”
Arya snorted again.
“Focus Jon,” Robb said for lack of a response. Why in the name of the gods would he bring his mother along like some scared child? Robb shook his head in bafflement. His brother was still a little weak from his confinement, but his grip was strong on the sword Jory handed him and there was a bit more colour in Jon’s face.
“Something isn’t right,” Jon said as he looked around at all the different faces watching.
So many of them were laughing at Jon, at their family, at the north. Their smug southern faces, sure that the Kingslayer would beat Jon.
“Just focus on your training,” Robb shook Jon’s shoulder, took the shade from Jon’s head, and tipped Jon’s head towards the sun which hung high in the sky. “You need to be ready for when the Long Night comes.”
“Robb!” Arya hit him in the gut.
“They deserve it,” Robb rubbed at what was sure to be a bruise.
“Right,” Jon seemed even more unsure but shook away his thoughts. He walked into the centre of the training yard with the confidence of a man twice his age.
“Thank you so much for this honour,” Jamie bowed mockingly to the king, “of a fight with a greenboy of barely five and ten.”
“I’m three and twenty,” Jon said. He looked around again and pinched his lips together. His eyes landed on father and then Jon turned back to look at Robb again as if remembering that he should be dead. He asked Robb, “what age am I?”
“Don’t worry about it Jon,” Robb said.
“This is going to be brutal,” Arya rocked on her feet. Robb vibrated with that same guilty excitement that he felt before Jon’s fight with Cley. He pushed it away, he’ll not feel guilty about any damage the Kingslayer is dealt. The man came into this fight like a puffed up rooster.
Jon and the Kingslayer raised their swords at the ready. The same tiny squire called the start of the match. Jon moved first, he swooped low and whipped past his opponent to attack with an upwards slice to the kingslayers back. The kingslayer parried the blows easily.
It was a good duel, but Jon was losing the small amounts of energy he had by testing Lannister’s defences. Jon gripped his chest over his heart as if to find something that caused his lack of breath, but it was most likely just the lack of activity for a month. Jon was clearly not used to having little stamina.
All this time the Kingslayer barely moved. Preferring to deflect and step aside than engage. Jon stood up straight and took time to assess his opponent. The southerners and the king shouted insults at them as they looked at eachother.
A cloud cleared from the sun and its glare hit Jon in the eyes. Robb could feel Arya tense beside him. In the dark part of his heart Robb hopes that Jon’s next vision will let him ignore his body's struggles and finish this fight with a win.
“Jory!” Jon jumps to the right as he glances behind him towards the king and father. “Take Lord Stark and run. He plans to kill you all!”
“Now we’ll get a show!” The king said into the silence. Jon had his body spread wide. A terrible fighting stance, but it seems Jon meant to block Lannister rather than fight him.
“Ok boy,” Jamie let his sword relax and held his left hand up in a calming gesture, “I think that’s enough.”
Jon brought a fist up to rub at his eye and temple. He looked to the side at Jory who hadn't moved. Then he looked back at father who was trying to push his way past King Robert to get into the ring.
“Father?” Jon lets his sword relax too. “Didn’t the horse fall on you?”
“I’m ok, Jon!” Father yelled over the crowds heads, held back by some kingsguard. Clearly on the king’s orders. Robb could hear father try to keep the panic from his voice, but it was not working. “The horse didn’t hurt me–”
“Get in there!” The king shoved one of the gold cloaks into the ring. He took the wind out of the poor guard as his belly hit the wooden fence. “I want at least five of my men in there! Now!”
The King looked to his kingsguard and father as if telling a joke, “should have known the Lannister ponce would be too scared to mess his hair to give your Bloody Wolf a good fight.”
Five men in gold cloaks enter the ring. Then there was blood.
Jon didn’t warn anyone before he struck. One moment he was holding his head, a ring of golden fabric obscured Robb’s view, and then two men were down with cuts along their thighs. Robb thanked the gods that the men wore body armour.
“Pull back!” Father shouted at the gold cloaks, but they didn’t listen.
Lannister tried to pull one of his men back by the shoulder, but Jon had raised his sword to cut the man’s head off. Lannister showed his skill when he pushed the guard down and deflected Jon’s sword with his own. They both moved so fast it was hard to keep track of all that was happening.
It became a true fight between Lannister and Jon. This time Jon wasn’t losing. His swings had grown an efficiency to match Lannister’s. The kingslayer was at a disadvantage by being on the defensive to protect the guards.
One of the youngest guards didn’t get the message and ran at Jon from behind. His feet bashing into the earth. Robb could see Jon already tense his back leg, ready to surprise the young man who had his sword raised over his head, his belly fully open as his armour rode up his body.
“Stop!” Father shouted.
Lannister raised his left hand. Robb could see the anger on Lannister’s face. If the guard survived he probably wouldn’t be employed for much longer.
But Jon didn’t attack the young man. Instead he stepped to the side to let the guard pass him. Then Jon pushed the man in the back.
There was blood everywhere.
The guard had swung. His sword came down as if to split Jon’s head down the middle. Instead, he had sliced the Kingslayer’s left fingers clean off his hand.
“Jamie!” The Imp yelled from the front of the king's corner.
“Millken, get an iron from the forge!” Father yelled.
“Fantastic!” The King yelled.
“Belt his wrist!” One of the Umbers yelled.
“Jon!” Arya yelled. Robb grabbed her around the waist to hold her back.
But in the cacophony of noise, Jon was still fighting. The sword had been hit out of the guard's hands. Jon bore down on the man. A hit to the chest pushed the man onto a patch of soft mud where little bits of snow still gathered. Jon pulled his arms back, about to plunge his sword under the guard’s chin and up through his head.
Before he could, a little blur of brown clothes and black hair ran behind Jon. His feet light as air. and kicked Jon’s knees. Jon nearly fell, but pivoted at the last moment.
“That’s our defence teacher,” Arya said.
“You are heavy with Death boy,” the teacher said as they circled around each other. “It wears you like a coat.”
Jon tilted his head to the side. His expression was blank, every muscle in his face relaxed.
“What do you say to the god of death, Syrio?” Jon’s voice had changed again. It was smooth, without inflection, but somehow still conveyed a sort of humour. It made the body hairs on Robb’s arms stand.
“Not today,” Syrio struck at Jon with his oddly thin sword. If the fight with Lannister was impressive, this fight was something otherworldly. The two moved like a dance. Neither gained ground. Both on offence and defence from one swing to the next which was met with equal efficiency. The training grounds had gone silent. Even Lannister watched in awe as a Kingsguard kneeled next to him and bound his wrist with his white cloak and a leather belt.
The fight ended as abruptly as it started.
The pipes sounded once. Jon let his sword hang to his side, the fight forgotten. The pipes struck up the beginnings of a march, one loud screech while softer wails trilled under it in an imitation of melody.
“No,” Jon said as he looked at the Kingslayer. “Bran said we had more time.”
The pipers must have taken a breath, but as soon as the tone dropped and then sounded again Jon ran for the gates.
“Lannister!” Jon looked behind himself as he jumped over the fence of the fighting ring. “Get the archers. Tell Sansa to get the women and children to the crypts. Now Lannister!”
“Jon!” Robb yelled after him, but Jon was so fast and Robb had to make his way around the ring past the crowds that had gathered. “Someone grab him! Arya, grab his jacket!”
Jon still held the sword in hand as he ran outside the front gates. Robb made it to the gates in time to see Jon slash at imagined foes.
“They broke through the first line,” Jon stared out at the empty field in front of him. Thank the gods most of the bannermen had started their camps nearer to Wintertown. “Why has no one lit the trench?! Rhaegal!”
Jon looked around him, up at the sky. “Fucking dragons!” With that he began fighting again. He jumped behind rocks. Slashed at air again and again.
Robb walked slowly towards Jon, but not close enough to distract him. Maybe the vision would burn itself out.
Robb could see the procession that started all this in the distance. The noise of those damned pipes echoed in the small canyon between the hill they crested and Winterfell. Robb shook his head.
“Get a rider out there to stop that noise!” Robb shouted to the guards and spectators who crowded around the gate.
By the time a rider had left, the procession was already halfway down the hill. Glovers and Mormonts. The Mormonts would not be fool enough to play pipes of war and funerals. The Glovers would have much to answer for.
Jon seemed to have wound himself down. That was until he looked up at the sigils that seemed to have stalled in their march down the hillside. The pipes cut out suddenly. Robb could see the figures of the Mormont women tearing the pipes from men’s hands and smashing them with their morning stars.
“No,” Jon hissed. “They wouldn’t dare. They wouldn’t dare!”
Jon began to run up the hill with his sword at the ready position to attack. Robb took off after him, but even weakened Jon had too much of a head start.
“Run!” Robb shouted up to the crowd of Glovers and Mormonts. “Ride away!”
The Mormonts and Glovers were yelling at one another. Weapons were drawn. The leader of the Glover clan had a red face and his arms waved in the air.
They couldn’t hear him. None of them had turned their horses. It seemed that none of them had noticed the true threat that ran at them.
“You dare!” Jon yelled at the crowd. “You craven sons of whores would dare come here after the battle has been won? Did you think we would welcome you for an ale? Your abandonment of the north would be forgotten?!”
“Did you just call me craven?!” The red faced man turned a bit purple as he waved his arm towards Jon as he pulled out his sword. Lord Glover himself.
“Drop your weapon if you mean to keep your head,” Jon stood firm just twenty paces from the crowd of Glovers and Mormonts.
“And why should I, boy?” Robett Glover still shouted even as Jon stepped closer. His grey whiskers did little to hide the angry blush on his neck and cheeks.
“By order of the king you helped to name,” Jon’s voice became a raspy growl, “drop your weapon.”
“Drop it Lord Glover!” Robb shouted through his straining chest. “He has live steel!”
“I’ll not take orders from greenboys with only their first whiskers,” Glover’s arm swung his sword with a flourish that might have been impressive if Robb hadn’t seen true swordsmanship just minutes before.
“You’ll not take the Mormont banners,” Jon was furious, his face granite and eyes piercing. “Little Lyanna died with more honour than you’ve shown in all the wars we’ve fought. You’ll not walk with her banner!”
Robb had gotten to Jon. He grabbed him around the middle and pulled him tight so he couldn’t spin to attack him. With his other hand Robb pulled Jon’s head back and tilted his face towards the sun.
“Easy, Jon. You’re ok,” Robb muttered calming words like one would with a horse. Jon’s body tensed. Robb put a hand over Jon’s eyes and his brother began to relax. “Keep your eyes closed.”
Robb brushed Jon’s hair with his fingers like his mother would for Robb when he was ill. The chaos of screams and insults still echoed around him. More riders approached from the gates. Swords came to blows, but Robb could spare no thought for it. Robb let Jon’s hair go to grab the sword from his hand to drop it on the grass.
“He is my son, Robert. Mine!” Ned spoke so forcefully it was nearly a yell. He nearly yelled at his king. Red cloaks tried to reach for him, but Ned’s bannermen outnumbered them three to one. The northmen closed ranks around Ned as he walked away from the man that used to be his friend.
“I expect to see him tomorrow Stark!” The king yelled over the crowd. Ned turned back only slightly to nod in the imitation of a bow. Perhaps both Robert and he had lost their senses.
Ned had made to follow his sons out the gates. Screw Robert and all the fucking courtesies he was supposed to uphold. Let the man try and invade the north. Nothing would bring him back the support of his bannermen faster
A strong arm held him back. Ned looked behind him, but saw no one until he looked down. His old friend Howland Reed stood with his spear and leaf covered cloak like he’d come straight from the swamps.
His friend’s words stopped Ned completely. His light green eyes bore into Ned.
“The maester isn’t here to help Jon.”
Arya waited at the doors to the Great Hall with Jon’s leather jacket to hand to Robb. She was about to push her way through the crowd when Sansa blocked her path.
“I’ve been horrible,” Sansa said into her hands. Why she came over to Arya was a mystery to the younger girl. Did she expect Arya to comfort her?
“Yes,” Arya didn’t even look at Sansa, “you bloody well have.”
They were both quite a moment as they watched the Glover men yell at Robb who was trying to guide Jon away from the noise. Father stepped up and put himself between Glover and his sons.
Umber’s and Manderly’s then put their bodies between the two houses, but it still seemed that they could come to blows again at any moment. Southerners still clung around to the edges of the courtyard to watch the northern drama unfold.
“I–” Sansa stuttered, “it got too much.”
Arya’s jaw pinched. She’d felt that way many days, but she’d never run from it. “You sure it didn’t have something to do with a stupid smug prince?”
“He’s not smug!” Sansa put her hand to her chest as if offended.
“Smug and stupid,” Arya mumbled. Sansa glared at Arya.
“He’s not stupid. Just–”
Arya tugged on Sansa’s upper arm as hard as he could. She looked right at Sansa, made sure that Sansa looked her in the eyes. “Still set on being horrible for a stupid boy you don’t even know?”
“Joffrey is a prince.”
“A prince who’s not your family.”
Sansa turned away from Arya. Her hands fisted into her dress, making small wrinkles she would be horrified by later. She whispered, “he might be.”
“Jon needed you.”
“Nothing we do helps him,” Sansa’s eyes were wet. Arya tensed even more. She hated tears. “Can you blame me for wanting to escape for just a few weeks?”
“Yes and I will,” Arya turned away from Sansa to watch as Smalljon punched Lord Glover in the chin. Sansa turned to walk away. Just like she’d been walking away since they all realised Jon wouldn’t get better. Realised that this would be no fairytale.
“If you can’t be there when it’s hard,” Arya said with grit teeth and clenched fists, “then don’t pretend you care about him when he’s better.”
“He’s not going to get better,” Sansa said. Then she walked away.
“Will you watch over him?” Robb looked as harried as Mona, the Mormont keep’s baker with her nine children underfoot. Jory laughed into her mug of ale imagining the Glover party to be those nine bratty children.
Dacey punched Jory in the ribs so she choked on her sip.
“You can always leave him in our care,” Maege reached out to take Jon’s hand as though he were a child. Jory frowned, her mother never showed that sort of maternal instinct to her or her sisters. Not since they were wee things like little Lyanna. Well. Unless they were dying.
Jon clutched someone's cloak around his head like an old woman’s shawl. Nearly hiding his perfect curls. As Robb passed him over Jon looked back, “Robb?”
Robb paused and stepped into his brother’s space. He held Jon’s chin and waited.
“Rickon,” Jon broke out into a huge smile, “how did you survive Ramsay’s arrow? Does Sansa know you’re ok?”
Robb sighed heavily and gripped his hair in frustration. He took a breath and smiled back at his brother, “at least we’re getting closer, aye?”
Jon glared at Robb and made to speak again, but Robb just patted him on the side of the face. “How about I go find Sansa now?” He turned back to the Mormont women, “just go along with it if he’s not violent. Tell him to close his eyes and rest if it gets too much.”
“She should be in father’s solar,” Jon glanced at the women, but decided to pay them no mind. “And tell her that I will be talking to her later about that stunt she pulled with the Vale. I know I bollixed the fight, but if she knew they were a possibility then so did she.”
Robb nodded and turned to leave, but Jon grabbed onto his hand and pulled him back, “I’m so sorry I didn’t reach you in time. I thought you died. Gods, I held you in my arms. You don’t know how sorry I am that I didn't reach you.”
“Gods,” Lyra brought her hand to her chest like a dainty lady, “that’s so sad.”
Jon turned to look at Lyra and pursed his lips at her, “aye my lady, the last few years have been harsh on the North. Were you also held captive by Bolton? If you’ve fresh marks we’ve ordered the maester to treat the women before he treats our less injured men.”
“That is kind of you…” Lyra trailed off as she wondered how to address him.
“Jon is fine,” Jon smiled at her, “I was Lord Commander, but my watch has ended. And with Rickon here I’ve no need to beg off being crowned king.”
Maege pulled Jon to sit at her side and pulled him a plate to set food on. “Eat Jon. You must be hungry after your fight.”
Thank you Robb mouthed to the Mormont women then turned to rush out of the hall. Back towards where idiot men are yelling about imagined slights against their feeble honour. Mother undid one of the buckles in the back and Jon’s right arm was let free to eat.
“This gathering is proving to be just as interesting as you thought it would be,” Dacey nibbled at her own food as Jon tucked into his stew with gusto. Her mother huffed and Jory rolled her own eyes.
The young man was still comely. Even with paler skin and slightly hollowed cheeks it only brought out the grey of his eyes and the pink of his lips. If he were of sound mind Jory would do terrible things to catch a child from him. Even if mother thought she was too young to swear off marriage so soon.
“-- Stark let such a beauty waste away at the wall,” Dacey said as she watched Jon with her chin in her hand like a love struck girl. Like that Sansa girl at man in armour. That the girl would grow into a perfect Tully.
“He did say he was Lord Commander though,” Lyra tucked into her own meal at such a dainty rate it would shock Jory if she finished this meal before the feast began.
“Commander of what?” Jory scoffed, “three hundred thieves and rapists?”
“One thousand,” Jon looked up at Jory, “I don't need you to protect me.”
“Of course you don’t,” Maege put her hand on Jon’s shoulder, but it seemed to shock the young man. He spoon dropped to the floor.
“Give it back!” Jon dove under the table. Her sisters and mother tensed, unsure of what to do next. Nothing happened, not really. Jory could hear him muttering, but not the words.
Jory jumped again when Jon placed his hands on the outside of her thighs.
“Jory?” Her mother questioned. She couldn’t see him yet.
“Jory!” Dacey scooted away from her as Jon began to kiss up her leg. Even through the wool of her breeches she could feel that it would’ve been a nice kiss if it was on her skin.
“I don’t know what to do!” Jory hissed at her sister. Jon kissed the inside of her leg, just above her knee.
“Stop him!” Dacey hissed back at her. Mother stood to see what was what and then promptly sat back down and made sure there was no one else had eyes on them. She pulled Lysa to sit closer to her, probably to block the Dustin woman’s view of Jon’s legs.
“What are you doing, Jon?” Jory put both her hands on Jon’s head. Her fingers got lost in his curls as he looked up at her.
“I want to taste you,” he said. His eyes were dark and focused like a predator. His hands tightened just a little on her thighs, like a promise.
“Gods be good he’s perfect,” Jory said as she swallowed down the flush that had given her.
“Jory!” Mother hissed at her as she pulled out her morning star. A promise of a spanking even though she was a woman grown and too big to be tossed over her mother’s knee.
“I know!” Jory hissed back. She looked back down. Jon had the most adorable confused face. A little crease between his eyebrows and a small frown on his slightly open lips.
“Ygritte?” Jon asked. Well, that killed the swell of lust in Jory, good and dead.
“Let’s just go to sleep,” Jory scratched at his curls to soften any hurt. “Just close your eyes and rest. I’ll be in soon.”
“I don’t understand you one bit,” Jon shook his head with a little huffed laugh. “I know, I know. I know nothing.”
Jon shook his head and rolled his eyes as he went back under the table. Jory put her face in her hands and blew out air. Dacey put an arm around Jory’s shoulders.
“If he ever comes back from round the bend you’ll have to fight me for him,” Dacey said.
The Mormont women laughed as the tension bled from them. The poor Starks.
“There’s more crows,” Rickon said from the ledge of the window. Bran looked up from the book he was reading about Ser Duncan the Tall. Old Nan glanced up from her knitting needles for a moment, but quickly returned to her work.
Bran stood and made his way to the window. The opening was barely wide enough for the both of them to sit on the ledge. Counting the number of birds on the innermost ramparts was not Bran’s idea of fun. But neither was being inside.
Rickon was too close. The tiny boy took up more than his share of the ledge. Bran shoved Rickon’s leg over. Rickon shoved Bran back. Bran’s little hands caught the edge of the window before he fell. He pulled himself back and shoved at Rickon even harder.
Old Nan cleared her throat. The boys glared at each other, but their little fight had ended. Bran looked out the window, but down to the courtyard first. He could see the crowds of milling southerners. All of them packed close together to look over at the noise that was just outside of Bran’s view. Too many voices, too far away, to hear what all the fuss was.
If it weren’t for mother he would be down there helping Robb. His brother knew that Bran was grown enough to handle things. He’d seen his first execution already!
“The crows!” Rickon pulled at Bran’s ear and Bran yelped. His little brother was so rough. He wasn’t going to grow to be an honourable knight.
As Bran rubbed his ear he looked at the roofs and the ramparts. “Those aren’t crows. Those are ravens.”
“How can you tell?” Rickon asked as he tilted his head to the side like their direwolves did.
“All around bigger,” Bran pointed to one that was just below them on a window overhang. “Bigger beak and longer tail.”
“Never trust a crow,” Old Nan said. Bran jumped, but Old Nan’s hand on his thigh kept him and Rickon from falling.
“What about ravens?” Bran asks.
“Wise birds,” Old Nan used all the strength of her brow to pull the wrinkles away from her eyes to look out the window. “Too wise. Makes them cruel.”
Bran looked again. The roof of buildings, the ledges of the ramparts, the trees that lined the road to the hunter’s gate. There must be hundreds of ravens. All quiet. None of them moving.
“There’s more of them,” Rickon said. A shiver went up Bran’s arms.
“More?” Bran asked.
“Haven't you seen?” Rickon turned to look at Bran. His little face was upset for some reason. “They’ve been around since Jon near fell out the window.”
Bran almost said that Jon wouldn’t have fallen. He would have jumped, but then he turned back to the birds. For the life of him, Bran couldn’t remember seeing ravens around. Well, not more than usual.
“Shaggydog likes to try and catch them,” Rickon said with a smile. His earlier concern was completely forgotten.
“Come down now,” Old Nan patted them both on the thigh, “let’s have a story.”
“Dragonknight!” Rickon yelled as he jumped for the best pillow around Old Nan’s chair.
Bran took another moment at the window. The raven just below him looked up at him. They stared at each other. Bran looked away first. There was something wrong with those birds.
Sansa walked through her tears. She knew the route to her rooms well. She kept her back straight and head held high. If she pretended all was well the servants and other nobles wouldn’t notice her quivering lips and wet cheeks.
She turned a corner and ran into a body that was leaning against the wall. Something metal clattered as her hip also hit the stone floor.
“Foolish northern wastes of space!” Yelled the man above her. Sansa raised her hand to shield her face from a blow when she noticed the man’s raised fist.
“I’m so sorry my lord,” Sansa said.
“Lord?! I’m a prince you ingrate.”
“Prince?” Sansa looked up and saw that it was Joffrey. He still had his hand raised over her head ready to swing down at her. He had not been hurt by their collision, still standing as he was. Her own hip would be horribly bruised. “I’m so sorry, your grace! I was truly being foolish, my prince.”
“My Lady Sansa,” he said with such a soft and caring voice, like a caress. He was a perfect prince. He leaned down towards her and helped to raise her to her feet. With one hand still in hers, something cold and thin caressed her cheek. “Fool am I to have yelled at my future wife. Can you forgive me?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Sansa’s lip trembled again, but now it was in anticipation. This is the moment in the songs when the music would rise as the lovers meet and fall deeply in love at first sight. “No, you must forgive our family. My half-brother is a poor introduction to the north.”
Joffrey stepped away from her. “I could have fought him.” He said to the empty space in the hall. “If I’d have fought him he would be the one without fingers instead of my uncle.”
“Of course my prince,” Sansa agreed eagerly. She noticed then that the prince had a dagger in his other hand. Is that what he had caressed her cheek with? She set the thought aside.
“It doesn’t matter,” Joffrey turned back to her, “my mother won't let that monster back out of its cage during the rest of our visit. You can be assured that you’re safe while I’m in your castle, my lady.”
“Oh,” Sansa cleared her throat as Joffrey took her hand back in his and kissed it. He was most gallant, but… “Jon would never hurt me. Please fear not for my safety.”
“Do you think I’m afraid?!” Joffrey pushed her back so she nearly stumbled to the floor again. “I’m not afraid of the Bloody Wolf! He should be afraid of me!”
The prince’s voice cracked on his last words. He looked much like the boy that he was in that moment. This was the person she’d spent all of the last month thinking of.
She’d hidden herself in the sewing circle with the Septa and Jeyne to gossip about how perfect this boy would be while her brother was nearly alone all month. Only Arya had been brave enough to defy their mother to visit with him.
“If you’ll excuse me, your grace,” Sansa curtseyed as made her way back down the hall. The boy behind her yelled for her, but didn’t come after her. She would deal with the repercussions of her discourtesy later. She had much to consider and no more appetite for princes, southern knights, or feasts.
She was such a foolish little girl.
Glovers mollified, Robb had just enough time to rouse Jon and get him out of the hall before the feast. Four casks of Winterfell’s best ale to take home, a promise of fostering for Gawen Glover, and the right to a first dance between Rickon and month old Erena Glover on Rickon’s fourteenth name day seemed to temper the worst of Robett’s whinging.
Robb ducked under the table as the Mormont’s pulled back the bench. “Jon.”
Jon sat up fast and hit his head on the bottom of the table. He lay back down and glared at Robb. Then he looked at where he was.
“Did I fall into my cups last night?” Jon got up slower this time. He looked down and saw that Robb held the leather jacket to bind Jon’s arms. He looked back at Robb. “I went mad again, didn't I?”
Robb sighed with a smile, a small joy that Jon seemed to be back… at least a little. Robb helped Jon from under the table. He rubbed at Jon’s hair, it was more of a mess than his own. Jon would be so upset if he saw the state of it.
“It seems that way,” Robb said. “You are here now at least.”
“How long have I been mad?”
“Do you mean when it started?” Robb leaned back to look Jon over. Jon nodded. “It’s been a few months, but you haven’t missed much.”
Jon raised an eyebrow at Robb. Then he nodded his head down to the jacket Robb held, “I think I missed a few things.”
“Don’t try to remember,” Robb stood and helped Jon to his feet. “Arya and I are here to help. Most of the bannermen too. Just do as we say for now.”
He hugged Jon close in a hold which was as tense as Robb. “Please Jon, it’s been a rather long day. Just trust us.”
Jon took a step back, “what are you not telling me?”
“A lot,” Robb said, “but right now we're going to put you in your room so the rest of us can feast with the Jolly King Robert, so all that will have to wait.”
“The king is here?” Jon looked off into the distance as Robb guided his arms back into the jacket. “There’s something I need to remember.”
“Not now,” Robb felt close to tears, “please don’t try to remember now.”
“Robb?” Jon asked.
“Yes?” Robb finished buckling the jacket and turned Jon around to face him.
“When next we meet I’ll be in all black. It was always my colour,” Jon gave Robb a small smile. Robb tried to smile back, but failed. Would this day never end?
“But are you sure?” Rickard Karstark asked Lady Dustin one more time. Were she not a more composed woman she’d have torn her hair out from its knot hours ago.
Instead she tilted her head down and looked up at Rickard through her eyelashes. She knew how good her blue grey eyes looked, lined with kohl to pull his eyes away from the wrinkles that had formed. Roose told her she should wear her hair down as well, but there were lines she refused to cross even to unseat the dishonourable Eddard Stark.
“Stark would never let us join our houses,” she whispered. Her voice pitched annoyingly higher than her true voice. She reached out a hand to lay it on Rickards thigh. “Their hold on the north is too weak, too southern, to let our great and purly northern houses come together.”
“Aye,” Rickard leaned back, spread his legs just a bit more, and took a sip of his ale. “The fish pushed out a batch of southern cunts. His bastard is more northern than any of his children.”
“Even raising her girls with a Septa,” Barbary said, hoping that Rickard would forget the second girl who was said to be Lyanna come again. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the heir prayed to the new gods too.”
Rickard spit on the floor. While she agreed with the idea of spitting on the Starks, the act was disgusting.
“A daughter for house Ryswell, a son each for Winterfell, Karhold, and Barrow Hall, and a loving wife for you. Truly you are gaining more from this than either Lord Bolton or I,” Barbary whispered into Rickards ear. “And you don’t have to do any of the unsavoury parts either. Just find where the boy sleeps.”
Rickard finished his ale, smacked it on the table, and belched with a nod. He stood and took her hand to kiss the back with his foamy lips. When the man had gone Barbary wiped her hand on her dress at least ten times to try and get the feeling off her skin.
She fingered the small silver locket that she wore around her neck. She couldn’t wait until Roose and her could dispose of Karstark. One step closer to an independent and prosperous North.
These were the sorts of parties that Tyrion had always dreamed of. Ale flowed. Men drank and became boisterous. Jokes were funnier. Maids were prettier. And everyone around him became just a little bit friendlier to The Imp. The only thing that was missing were the whores aplenty, but this was not Dorne. Well, the party was nearly perfect.
Tyrion told a story that he’d told a hundred times before. He barely had to pay attention to it as he scanned the hall. There was a sombre corner where spoilsports were talking in hushed voices.
That Glover lord that had caused the scene in the courtyard sat in the centre of these dour grumblers. A refined woman with a severe everything seemed to be whispering in Glover’s ear as a pale eyed man on the other side of Glover watched and seemed to fiddle with his food, but never touched it.
Then he looked over to two young men who crouched in the sombre corner, refusing to engage in the whispers of the others. One was a boy who looked ill and the other a young man who would have been comely if he hadn’t been missing a chunk of his jaw. It seemed the whole hall was avoiding them while pointing and whispering about them.
“Awfully cocksure for a wee thing,” some burly northern heathen interrupted his story. Tyrion rolled his eyes. He was so close to the punchline about Martell, Lannister, and Stark in a tavern. Now the timing was ruined. Ah, well. More’s the pity.
“You would be too if you had a cock the size of a giant compared to your ‘wee’ body,” Tyrion took a deep sip of the good wine, which the Starks had clearly imported special for their delicate southern tastes, as the crowd listening to him laughed.
Gods, that wasn’t even witty of him. Either they were sorely lacking in entertainment in the frigid north or they were twice as drunk as Tyrion first thought.
“Well,” the interrupter waved at Tyrion, “show the goods. I’ll not let ye tell tales taller than the wall when ye can bare look o’er the table.”
“Well,” Tyrion put down his drink in dramatic fashion. Long suffering sighs and a roll of the eyes. “Gather around for proof of the truth of my prowess. By the seven I solemnly swear, this and drink are the arenas of battle in which this Lannister is king!”
Tyrion untied his breeches and pulled them away from his belly. Turned from one side to the other to let the men look down and gaze in wonderment at the one gift the gods found fit to give him.
As the men took their look, gaped, and japped over his blessings, Tyrion scanned the hall again. His sweet sister was deep in conversation with Lady Stark. Their heads bent together with looks of deep concentration on their faces.
Any other might think his sister was angry by her sneer. Well, she most likely was, as it was her default in life, but no. Tyrion could see the fear that her frown held. A fear clearly shared by Lady Stark if her clutching at her chest was any indication.
“Play Bloody Wolf!” Shouted a stout man in Lannister guard livery.
The bard turned to the man, but shook his head, “that’s not one I know, my lord.”
A whisper of a thought crossed his mind. It was odd for such a lowborn minstrel to pronounce ‘my’ properly. For that is what the man was with his uncut mess of grey hairs, dirty cloak, and lute that had clearly seen the elements. As quick as it came, the thought was waved away.
“Is a southerner song about Stark’s boy,” Umber grumbled. “And we’ll not have that crap played in Stark’s hall!”
A chorus of ‘Ayes!’ rang out from the northmen. A young northern man with pale eyes and dressed in an unsettling pink wool leaned around Tyrion to ask Umber “I’ve not heard that one. Is it any good?”
“Never heard it before,” Umber said from above him. “Don't take a maester to know it’ll poke fun at our lord’s misfortune.”
“It’s very good,” Tyrion said into his wine glass. “Though they do overuse the words ‘savage’ and there are far too many wolf puns even for me. It’s still quite the hit in the taverns below the neck.”
“I truly don’t understand how the south sees us as savages,” the young man said. “We’re hardly wildlings.”
“Says the boy whose ancestors cut the skin off of men and made cloaks of them,” Umber slapped him on the back.
“It was hundreds of years ago!” The youth slapped the table.
“Nooooo,” Tyrion breathed in excitement, “is this true? They don’t write of this in the southern history books.”
“My fathers, fathers, fathers, great-great grandfather didn’t even flay men!” The youth stomped and smacked his tankard on the table. “Old gods save me. You flay a few Starks hundreds of years ago and no one lets you forget.”
“Wonderful!” Tyrion was ecstatic, “do you still have the skins?”
The youth looked chagrined. Umber looked at Tyrion with heavy meaning. Clearly they still had some of those skins.
“Get off me!”
Tyrion looked up at the shout. The Bloody Wolf himself was battling a guard with his bare hands while nearly nude. No tunic, no shoes, and unlaced breeches that had fallen low enough to show the boy was transitioning into a man by the hairs that grew below his belly button.
But that wasn’t the most interesting. No, what captivated everyone around Tyrion was the dried blood that ran from the boy's mouth. There was enough that it spread on his face like a beard and ran down like a river to cover his chest.
“I stand corrected,” Tyrion said into the silence that the others had fallen into. “They didn’t use the word savage enough.”
“Where’s Sansa?” Robb asked Arya. Father was busy entertaining the king with stories about Jon. Their missing sister was easy to overlook in the boisterous hall.
“She’s fine,” Arya mumbled into her mashed potatoes.
Robb stared her down. That was the voice of guilt. It was well hidden under annoyance and a glare, but Arya hadn’t touched much of her food.
Robb sighed. It had been too long of a day already to worry about one of their spats. “Did you visit the maester?”
Arya glanced down the table to the royals and then at the table just below them to the Manderly’s and the lesser Lannisters. Most of them were clapping along to the jaunty tune the bard had struck up. No one was paying attention to them.
“We have a basic timeline,” Arya said. “We’re missing something. Bran and Rickon dying twice and Jon being Lord Commander and King of the North is confusing everything.”
“Maybe I made him my heir?” Robb pushed his roasted meat around. “If you went away to Braavos and the boys were dead –”
“Why wouldn’t it go to Sansa?” Arya asked. Now that was a good question.
“He’s also called her queen,” Robb shrugged. “I guess she would have died too. Problem is he’s not very specific.”
“He wasn’t ever good at talking,” Arya put down her fork. “Why would the gods send him as a messenger? He’s the worst choice.”
Robb pursed his lips. It was clearly blood more than the gods that had chosen Jon. The music had ended. The hall began to grow quiet. “Don’t worry over it.”
“Robb–”
“Robb!” Jon’s voice called. Robb looked up just in time to see Jon kick a guard's knee that got too close.
Jon walked with wild purpose up the hall. From the high table Robb could see that he had left his room without a shirt. Only his breeches on for cover against the chill.
His brother's eyes were wide and wild as his bare feet slapped on the stone. His hair blew out behind him as he rushed to not be stopped by the guards. Robb grit his teeth and glanced to the centre of the table where his father sat. Just like himself, father and the rest of the hall were tense and frozen waiting to see what flavour of madness had gripped Jon now.
As Jon passed under the light of the chandeliers those near him gasped. He had some mud or brown paint running from his mouth and down his chest. Had he tried to drink dirt like that Targaryen drank wildfire?
“Robb!” Jon yelled. His stride turned into a run when Jon saw him. “Robb!”
He sounded desperate. Scared. The kingsguard seemed to materialise from the shadows as they moved to surround the royals. One of them tried to move to block his way, but Robb stopped the man with an arm.
“He wants me,” Robb said. He wouldn’t take his eyes off his brother. The little dancing that had just begun had stopped as had any toasts or boasting.
“Move the royal party away,” father spoke from behind Robb. He could hear the king tell his men to stand down. Still laughing, drunk, and with a servant girl in his lap. Oblivious to the fear that was moving like a wave through the hall.
Jon ran up to Robb and collapsed to his knees. He reached his hands out, covered in that same flaky brown paint.
Jon grabbed Robb by the neck. Robb grabbed onto Jon’s wrists, but Jon’s hands were gentle. Cradling the back of his neck as he moved his other hand from side to side on his sternum. Looking for something.
“Has it not happened? Is this not Edmure’s wedding?” Jon backed away as his eyes darted around in confusion. “Check the musicians for weapons!”
“Robb, that’s blood,” Arya backed away towards their father. He grabbed her and pulled her behind him as he too realised Jon was covered in blood.
“Jon. Whose blood is that?” Robb stood.
Jon looked down at himself. At the blood that ran so thick down his chest that it soaked into his pants.
“Blood?!” The Queen yelled.
“Sansa,” Jon said. The word rang out in the quiet hall as loud as if he had yelled it. Jon looked back up and into Robb’s eyes. Fear, Robb could see fear.
The room erupted into noise, but Robb could hear none of it. On Jon’s cheek, stuck in the dried blood, was a long straight red hair.