To Live A Knight

by CursedEarthWanderer

Summary:

Jon Snow reminisces on the events of his life that led him to a monumental and lethal clash with a hated enemy. Chronicling his journey south with his family to become a knight, the trials that gain him his status, his romances and heartbreaks, this story tells the tale of Ser Jon Snow, A TRUE KNIGHT.

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

A thunderous roar echoes through my ears. I hear it, but it makes no difference to me. The blood rushing to my head drowns out the throng around me with frightening ease.

The creature beneath me, surging over the field, pushing her hooves into the ground hard enough to send shockwaves throughout my body, is the only living thing I need now. I lift my shield, pushing it to the horizon, it bears my crest, aches my arm and warns me of the threat I face. The lance in my right hand, inching down towards its target, carries with it my heart. And the figure, clad in steel, he bears down upon me, lance at the ready. His eyes remain hidden behind a helm of cold grey. I see them still, cruel, and devious, shining with the promise of gold and glory.

I am glad of this now, to see his eyes proper may well inflame me and throw me from the completion of my purpose. Though I will gladly look upon them at the finish, and delight in either the recognition or lack of it. I suspect that nothing else, I have done or will do is like to have brought or bring me more pleasure.

A sudden jolt sparks a small measure of pain in my leg, a sign that my mare had trampled on a stone as she pushed me on towards my destiny. To her it is nothing. Yet with it I am spirited away to a new place, to a place I visit each night at the close of my eyes, to a timeless place I carry with me constantly. To a time before.

Chapter 2: A Time Before

Notes:

I'm hoping to update once in a while, should give me time to write decently. Any feedback, good or bad, would be
really appreciated.

The courtyard rang with the clash of swords. The gaps between the shrill cries of metal filled with the soft crunch of thin snow underfoot and the panting of exhausted bodies. Sweat, cool and hot all at once dripped down Jon’s neck, pooling under his mail and boiled leather. He was on the offensive, his brother Robb scrambling to keep his balance as Jon pressed him back. A quick thrust to his left side was parried away as he pushed his mailed forearm into the now off-balance Robb, sending him after his sword. Stepping behind him he swept his blunted sword hard into the stumbling boy’s shins, knocking him to the floor. He pounced on Robb from above, pressing the edge of his practice sword to his neck.

“Yield” he edged out, barely hiding the amused smirk building at Robb’s affronted face.

Robb stared up at him obstinately. “You tripped me!”

“He did, and he’d have pierced your throat right after if you were on the battlefield young man.” Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master of arms, said approaching the pair, “life isn’t like those games you two played when you were little”.

Robb had the good sense to look admonished, but Jon knew he still didn’t think the fight was exactly fair. It had been though, Jon was just the more cunning fighter, he knew he wasn’t and probably wouldn’t be a match for Robb’s strength, even as they grew, but he was taller and faster than his brother. He also knew that he was the better fighter, nobody but Rodrik and Robb himself had ever said so, and even then, only in private. He knew even that was more than he could expect, a bastard could not be said to outshine his trueborn brother; but late at night, when rain battered his windows and Jon couldn’t sleep he would amuse himself by thinking of Lady Catelyn’s reactions to seeing him beat Robb in the yard.

He loved his brother though, more than anyone, except perhaps Arya, and he knew that Robb would be a fine lord. But just never as strong a fighter as Jon. He would happily serve him though; he didn’t have the look of a Lord as Robb did. Curly, auburn hair that fell kindly around his face, broad shoulders and a walk full of confidence made Robb the target of many glances from Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s ever-present older companion. He thought back to a few years prior, when, half mad with young love he had been depressed by her preference for Robb and cried when he confessed his feelings to her and she spurned him.

Ser Rodrik lectured them a while longer on the proper form for a side thrust, Jon rolled his eyes as Robb listened, really only one of them needed this lesson, and he could be off finding Arya by now. Soon enough though they were released into the freedom of the castle. Jon made a beeline for the First Keep, the squat circular monstrosity built by the edge of the current walls of Winterfell. Old Nan says it’s as old as the First Men themselves. Jon didn’t really care, but he knew it was almost certainly where Arya was, Sansa and Jeyne wouldn’t pursue her here – the lichyard and the gargoyles of the keep were too threatening, they couldn’t stand it. Arya relished it, hiding in the crypts, in the decrepit halls, and in between the graves.

Jon wandered for a while through the lichyard, glancing behind the larger graves and calling Arya’s name softly. He stopped suddenly, he heard a distant sniffling, turning around he saw Arya sat atop the crypt entrance, barely visible behind their raised stone shields. Creeping up to her softly he scaled the wall of the entrance.

“Arya, what is wrong” he asked, concern clear in his voice.

“Jon!” cried Arya, whirling around, “nothing, it’s fine, I don’t care anyway”

“Arya, tell me please, it’s alright to be upset. What’s wrong?”

Sighing, Arya half turned away before thinking better of it and facing him. “It’s Jeyne, and Sansa, Jeyne called me Arya horseface again and Sansa laughed, she tried to hide it but I saw her, then when I got upset she told me to stop being ridiculous and then I pushed Jeyne over into the stables and ran off.”

Jon smiled inwardly; he’d caught about half of that but from what he’d heard Jeyne had gotten what she deserved. But despite this he knew Arya had to make a show of an apology, Jeyne’s father Vayon was the Steward of Winterfell, Lord Stark wouldn’t wish to offend him.

Putting on his stern but soft voice Jon turned to Arya, “Alright little wolf, I know you’re angry, but you do need to apologise to Jeyne. It’s not nice to hit people, no matter what they were doing. And …”

“But you and Robb get to hit each other.” Arya interrupted.

“Arya, that’s different and you know it. Jeyne should not have said what she did, and it isn’t true, you’re a lovely young woman, Jeyne’s just jealous.”

Blushing slightly Arya frowned, “I don’t want to be a lovely young woman, I want to fight like you and Robb.”

“I know you do, I know. But you know Father and Lady Stark can’t let you do that.” Jon sighed, he knew this was coming, everything eventually did lead to this with Arya.

“You could teach me Jon, when nobody is looking, I’ll even apologise to Jeyne if you’ll give me just one lesson, pleeeaase.”

At this Arya turned her big brown eyes on him. Jon knew then he’d lost the argument, so he decided to just get as much as he could from it.

“Alright Arya, I’ll give you one lesson, but we have to go back to the others now, no doubt Sansa has fetched your mother and father.”

Far too wrapped up in the blissful excitement of victory Arya barely registered any disappointment at having to face her family and apologise to Jeyne. She led Jon back to the main courtyard, the two of them feeling some degree of victory, though Jon suspected Arya knew the truer victory was hers.

The courtyard was tellingly empty when they arrived, only Lord and Lady Stark, Robb, Theon, Sansa, and Jeyne and her father stood there. Jon watched the tall and stoic figure of his father sigh as Arya marched defiantly towards him. Lady Stark gave him a sharp look, full of disapproval at the thought that her daughter had trusted him. He watched as his father dealt a rather more light-hearted justice out to the assembled children before the family dispersed.

Arya had been dragged away by Septa Mordane to finish her lessons with Sansa and Jeyne, but despite this she shot him the widest smile he had yet seen from her. How he hoped he would not live to regret his promise. Father had taken Robb off with Vayon Poole next, briefly squeezing Jon’s shoulder as he passed. Second last to leave had been Lady Stark. She looked at him as she always did, with a faint mix of anger and disgust, but there was something else behind her eyes today, something he couldn’t quite identify. Theon was the last to leave, pushing past him forcefully with his shoulder, a whisper of “have you learned how to please a pussy yet Snow?” ghosting from his lips. Jon stood shocked before whirling round to confront him, but as he did the servants entered the yard again, and Jon thought back to his awful nameday.

---

It had been earlier in the year, Jon’s fourteenth nameday. Greyjoy and Robb had come to him in the morning and dragged him to a horse. They rode out to Wintertown with Jon in tow. He was bundled off his horse and into what looked like an inn by the far end of the town, as far from Winterfell as possible. Jon should have guessed by then what this was. A brothel. Theon had loudly announced his arrival and proclaimed him a maiden. He had tossed four silver stags to a girl he had marched in front of Jon. She was a young and pretty girl, brown haired and button nosed, Jon felt sick.

“Here you, this lad will have you tonight, take his first eh.”

The girl smiled and took Jon’s hand, guiding him to the stairs.

Halfway up Theon shouted after them, and they stopped as all watched them.

“Oh, and let him call you Jeyne yeah, he might even fall in love with you.”

The woman giggled and dragged him up the stairs and into the nearest empty room. Jon was red-faced with embarrassment, he wanted nothing more than to leave and never return, to flee from Wintertown and head North, South, East, West, anywhere as long as it was away from Theon, away from this woman, away from Jeyne and even away from Robb. Yes, the thought of Robb’s part in this little game stung more than anything else, Robb had known about Jeyne, and hadn’t said a word to her for a month after the incident, much to her distress. But clearly that was in the past now, just something else to laugh at.

The woman edged closer to him and began to untie his breeches, a sultry smile on her lips.

“How do you want to use your Jeyne my Lord?”

Jon snapped.

“I don’t” he bit out through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to go anywhere near you, you whore, you disgust me, you and everyone in here.”

Jon saw stars and felt movement, and before long he was tumbling down the short staircase into the hall below.

Rising, he locked eyes with Theon.

“Back so soon Snow? Disappointed she’s not the real thing? Look we asked didn’t we Robb.”

Robb glanced nervously at Jon. “Shut up Theon, that’s enough, Jon don’t listen.”

Theon ignored him. “She said no though, if it were me or Robb she said she’d do it, she’d spread her whore legs and let us fuck her cunt in the middle of the Great Hall, let us make her father watch her drip her juices on our cocks. In fact she said she’d suck us just to keep you away from her. In the end we needed a whore like your mothe…”

Theon didn’t finish that sentence, instead he screamed as he clattered to the floor. Jon had smacked him in the face, followed through with his entire body. He had landed on top of the ironborn youth and had kept pounding his fist into his face, he heard a crack and he didn’t stop. He heard Robb shout and he didn’t stop. He only stopped when he heard the screams. He looked down to see the cocky young man seizing violently beneath him, nose broken, face bloody, and eyes rolled into the back of his head. He stood in shock, looked briefly at his bloody hands and ran, out of the inn, to his horse and off into the forest.

He rode for what felt like hours until he reached the top of a hill, dismounting he looked back the way he came. Wintertown was nought but a toy village. Suddenly he felt hot and heavy rain on his face, he looked to the sky and realised they were tears. Sobbing he plunged his bloody hands in the snow, turning it pink as he bleached his skin white once more. He sobbed for the pain he felt at Jeyne’s rejection, he sobbed at the fact she would never know what Theon had said of her, he sobbed that he had shouted at the girl who looked so like her, that he had hurt someone, attacked someone for what they were, that he had done what he hated others doing to him, he sobbed for his mother, that he would never know her, that he would never see her, that she was perhaps a whore and he sobbed again for feeling shame at that. He passed out there in the snow, sobbing himself into sleep.

He awoke to soft hands on his face and hard hands on his arm, at his wrist. As he stirred he heard Robb’s voice.

“Jon, wake up, Jon.”

He sat up slowly, Robb was there with a girl he recognised from the brothel.

“I am sorry.” He blurted out quickly.

Robb looked somber, “Jon it might be alright, some of the women helped and Maester Luwin was fetched, Theon may …”

Jon shook his head rapidly, staring eyes wild at the girl, who looked a little like a caught doe. “No, I’m sorry to you.”

“What for, my Lord?”

“For what I said to your friend, about her and you.”

“My Lord whatever you said I am sure that half-dead Lord said worse when you hit ‘im.”

“Still.”

“Nobody deserves to have that said of them, it happens to us a lot, often from him, we’re people like anyone else my Lord, and far be it from me to wish harm on anyone but sometimes some people deserve what comes to ‘em.”

“Still. I am sorry. Would you tell your friend please? I was angry and confused, and embarrassed.” Jon aired out, not caring that Robb was watching in slight disbelief.

“Well, I thank you, but remember my Lord many of us would prefer you express your shame with kindness like that than by screaming at us or beating other stupid men.”

Jon had nodded in acquiescence and Robb had pulled him to his horse. Together they rode back to Winterfell to face Father.

---

Lord Stark had been furious when they returned. They were marched into his solar, and he shouted at them for what felt like an age, neither had seen their father like that before. The hard, dark looking man who was so soft spoken to them usually suddenly lived up to his appearance. Maester Luwin had knocked at the door then, frantic but relieved. He looked in disbelief at Jon for a brief moment before telling Lord Stark that Theon was awake, and would live, but would probably suffer some long-term consequences beyond the broken nose, skull, jaw and lost teeth. Lord Stark had sunk deep into his chair at that and dismissed the master.

He sighed deeply and asked Jon simply. “Why?”.

Before Jon could say a word, Robb had leapt in and was telling father everything, Jeyne, the crush, her rejection of Jon, Theon’s constant bullying of Jon, the trick at the brothel, and finally what Theon had said about Jeyne, and … Jon’s mother.

Lord Stark had stood suddenly and strode to the other side of his solar. He stared deeply at a portrait of Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen and smashed his fist into the table standing below it, shattering it with one blow. He had returned to them wordlessly then and hugged Jon to him, tighter than he ever had before. Jon felt certain his father had asked his siblings then if he should reveal the truth of his parentage to Jon. But Jon knew he didn’t have to, his reaction was enough, she was dead and Theon had been right. He felt like crying and screaming all at once, but then he thought of the girl who had found him with Robb, and the girl he had insulted in the brothel, and he felt at peace with the revelation.

Jon was let go but was to sit with Maester Luwin every night for half a year and learn how to control his feelings better. Luwin had been distrustful at first, as if the incident had changed how he viewed Jon. But Jon had been patient and remorseful, genuinely. Soon enough Luwin had forgiven him and they were on good terms again.

Theon recovered within four weeks and suffered no lasting visible damage beyond missing teeth and a crooked nose. Jon’s father had told him the day Theon was walking again, just how lucky he was to be facing no more serious punishment. Theon was still as cocky and awful to Jon as ever, but he had lost something he valued greatly. He was no longer such a fine hunter, every time he fired his bow he missed the centre of the target. Maester Luwin said to Jon that he had advised his Lord Father that it was probably due to the blows to the head Jon had given him. Theon refused to admit this and claimed to have lost interest in the hunt.

The girl who brought back Jon had been given a place in the household, as had those who had helped Theon, they would not speak of what happened.

---

As Jon reached the Old Keep he knew that the incident was behind them. But as he knelt before the grave he had decided would be his mother’s - a soft grey tablet covered in moss and so weathered by time its original inscription had disappeared– he still confessed to her the regret he held for what he had done. Both to Theon and that girl at the brothel, and he promised her he would honour her memory.

Chapter 3: Sword Fights and Snow

Summary:

Jon trains Arya and contemplates his future. Ser Roderik tells a tale of the King's youth.

Jon woke to a muffled thumping at his door when the rising sun had not yet summited Winterfell’s great walls. He pushed the sleep from his eyes as he propped himself up against his headboard. It was far too early for anybody normal to be up and Jon couldn’t help but feel annoyed that this person had chosen to wake him up as well. That annoyance soon turned to resigned amusement as the early riser made themself known.

“Jon, Jon. Wake up! It’s time to practice.” Arya’s hushed tones barely made it through the thick wooden door to his room. Jon smiled as he thought about allowing himself a few more minutes of sleep while Arya stood outside. He could picture her affronted face, and it was quite hilarious. He soon thought better of it though, even in this sleep-addled state he knew it would inspire her to creatively attack him for weeks.

Just then he heard her voice again, a little louder this time. “Jon, please, Septa Mordane’s coming.”

Jumping into action, he wrenched his door open and pulled Arya inside, it wouldn’t do for him to be caught with a little minion waiting outside his door. Lady Catelyn would be sure to think he was corrupting her sweet children.

“Ha! Knew that’d get you to let me in Stupid.” Arya was not gracious in victory; her face was contorted into a ghoulish expression of glee.

“Yes, alright. Very good.” Jon sighed as he pulled some basic overclothes on. “But you shouldn’t be up so early Arya.”

“But it’s time to practice. We have to do it before mother and father get up Jon. Pleeaase.”

There was an undeniable truth to Arya’s words. Jon knew that they could under no circumstances be caught by Lady Stark. Father’s own sister had been a keen rider and fighter, so Jon thought he might understand, but it was better not to run the risk.

Jon grabbed his leather boots from under his bed. “Alright then little wolf. Time to practice.”

That was how, for the next few weeks, Jon found himself waking up before the light of the sun cast dappled hues of purple and orange across the clouds. It was nearly enough to drive him insane; Robb’s constant jokes about him turning into a boy again didn’t help. In the end, it was Arya’s infectious joy in the yard that drove him on. It hadn’t been long before he had started drilling Arya on the very basics of swordplay, and it had taken her little time to pick it up. Often Jon found himself in another world while watching Arya smack seven hells out of the straw dummy he’d dragged to the Old Keep. He thought of his own future, what exactly it would be. He was enjoying teaching Arya and thought about the possibility of becoming Master of Arms for Robb at Winterfell, replacing Rodrik when he grew too old and slow. But he also thought of his Uncle Benjen, and how his letters to father were full of complaints about the poor quality of men in the Watch.

He could join the Watch, live with honour. He knew it would mean he would father no children, but perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing – he did not want to sentence another child to a life of bastardry, and who would marry him, the uglier bastard half-brother of Robb Stark, the one blot on the honour of the honourable Ned Stark? No. It was better not to entertain thoughts of a family, but looking at Arya dancing around her straw opponent, concentration evident on her face and joy in her eyes, he felt a deep ache at the thought of never sharing this with his own child.

---

---

The biggest advantage Jon got out of his arrangement with Arya came, surprisingly, on the yard in his own swordsmanship. Not three weeks had passed before he was approached by Ser Rodrik at the end of a sparring session with Robb.

“I don’t know what you’ve done Boy but your basics have been rock solid these past weeks. You’ve put not a foot wrong in all that time.”

Jon flushed, half in embarrassment, half at the thought that Ser Rodrik would realise how he’d done it. But the older man simply wandered off, a pleased smile on his old, grizzled face. Thinking back Jon realised he was right, he could count on one hand the times Robb had beaten him in the past weeks, and he realised that his concentration had improved, he barely noticed his footwork and stance anymore, it just happened. He’d take another lifetime of early starts if it meant he’d keep improving. But it was probably best not to tell Arya that, who knows what she’d do.

---

---

Soon enough the time came for the Royal arrival, riders had been sent from the nearest camp stating the party would be no more than three days’ ride away.

Robb and Jon found themselves in high spirits in the training yard. After Jon had knocked him on his behind again and Rodrik had called it a day for them Robb couldn’t even bring himself to sulk. Instead, he ran straight to Rodrik and asked for a story about his father and Robert Baratheon. Jon, certain they’d have heard them all by now, thought about leaving, but something pulled him back, and he stayed to listen.

They walked with Rodrik to the armoury and he had them sit down on the grinding bench. Thrusting a pile of daggers onto the table beside them he handed each boy a sharpening stone.

“There, if you’re getting a tale. I’m getting some labour.” Rodrik rasped out, pulling a small stool into the middle of the room and sitting down facing them.

“Now, you’ve probably heard all the ones I have from the Rebellion because truth be told they’re the only ones I can attest to. I was a young man then, fighting at my peak, but I have no first-hand knowledge of the stories outside of them.” Pausing for a moment he seemed to hesitate slightly before ploughing on. “Regardless, I’m sick of all the boring ones you’ve heard before. I’m going to tell you a story I heard about your father and Robert Baratheon when they were a little older than you in the Vale.”

Both Robb and Jon were fully perked up now, their father had never had tales of battle or skirmishes in the Vale to tell, he’d always suggested it was a time of great fun and innocence.

“I heard tell of a time when your father and Robert Baratheon were passing through the Mountains of the Moon to reach the Fingers. I can’t say why, because I don’t remember, but that just means it weren’t interesting enough to be worth remembering. The pass through the Mountains is treacherous at the best of times: shadowcats are lurking around every corner, sneaking through crevices, stalking travellers; there are rockslides, random and lethal, they can bring tons of stone down on an unsuspecting group; but most importantly, there are clansmen.”

“Father never told us he fought clansmen from the mountains.” Robb blurted out, halting his speech when Ser Rodrik directed a harsh glare his way.

“Yes. He fought clansmen. And I’m not surprised given what I’ve heard, it can’t have been pleasant, so I don’t want you bothering him about it afterwards an all.”

Jon swallowed. For all his father had been warm and kind to him he was well aware of his icy reputation. He only ever avoided two topics with him: the Rebellion – or more specifically his sister’s death, and Jon’s mother. For this to have affected him so badly was strange.

Ser Rodrik sighed before continuing. “Your father and the King were travelling with twelve other men, some young knights, some young second sons, all in their prime, and all unused to the environment. Well, it wasn’t long before the slightly raucous stories and loud camps drew the attention of a clan, and right in the middle of a late-night fireside drinking competition, your father was descended upon by at least three dozen clansmen. He and his companions fought like demons, but they could only do so much and before long seven of their companions had been killed and the others incapacitated. The clans lost at least twenty men though. Their armour is non-existent and their weapons pathetic enough that damaging them is simple. Anyway, the survivors – Lord Eddard included – were taken to the clan’s nearby campsite. They remained there for four days, and each day they were beaten, abused, and starved. Worst of all the clan would execute one hostage a day, the first to die being the one who put up the least fight.”

“But that means father was one of the best.” Robb said excitedly and Jon couldn’t help but nod in agreement, there was pride in his heart at that.

“It also means that your father watched four of his friends die for the crime of being unexceptional.” Ser Rodrik said sharply. “Just like you two would watch Bran and Rickon die in front of you if you had been captured.” He stared the two cowed boys down before adding, “War isn’t a game. Do you think it ever crossed your father’s mind to think about how good of a fighter he was while his companions were having fingers and toes removed? I’ll tell you now it didn’t. The two of you are good fighters, great even.” It could have been Jon’s imagination but this next part seemed to be aimed at him. “You’ll be the best I’ve ever trained and you could be even more, you could be one of the best ever. But you’re immature, you’ve never seen battle, you’ve grown up in peace. None of that’s your fault and I hope to God you never see battle but if that’s the case you need to mind your tongue around those who have and learn from them.”

Robb, ever the young Lord, looked appropriately contemplative and thanked Rodrik for his comments. Jon was less pleased, Rodrik’s words cut deep. He felt as though he ought to have seen battle by now. He apologised to Ser Rodrik but inwardly he thought of the Watch and decided that remaining at Winterfell with Robb, in comfort, was not in his future. It couldn’t be.

Rodrik’s gruff voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “Anyhow, it came to the fifth day of their imprisonment. Your father was about to be executed. There didn’t seem much hope at all. He was moved from the cage they had kept them in and tied to a post, just as the clansmen were finishing up his bindings they were attacked. An arrow pierced the throat of the main executioner and all of a sudden your father was cut free. He seized the nearest weapon and joined the fight, half-starved and delirious. But the real story is of the King, he was cut free by a young squire who lent him his sword. Well, Robert Baratheon is a giant of a man, and he went straight for the clan leader, ducking the strikes of those stood between the two before facing him down in a small clearance. Nobody intervened, they were busy with the other clansmen and quite frankly the leader was a terrifying sight. You see this clan leader was well known for carving a tally into his flesh for every man he killed and he had not an inch of space left on him.”

Both Robb and Jon were on the edge of their seats at this point.

“Well the clan leader charged Robert and Robert charged the clan leader, but as the clan leader swung an axe for the King’s head he found that his target was no longer there. Robert had become like the Stag itself and was charging towards him head down. Even for a man the size of the clan leader a tackle from Robert Baratheon was devastating, his shunt launched the clansmen into a tree trunk and knocked him out cold. The witnesses say that Robert then cleaved him in two against the tree, but swung so hard that he both moved the tree, uprooting it, and embedded the sword in it so deep that the squire who owned it, could not retrieve it.”

“That can’t be possible” Jon couldn’t believe it, that was too outlandish, no man was that strong.

“Well, you just wait until you see Robert Baratheon, then tell me I’m a liar.” Rodrik laughed. “The tale isn’t quite finished yet. There were six men who rescued them, a band of squires on the road who found the destroyed camp of your father and the King. Every one of them was knighted on the spot by Robert. Some of them became quite famous. Let’s see, there was a Mallister, two Redwynes, Ser Steffen Stone, Ser Alaric Redfort and …”

Jon vaguely registered the fact that Ser Rodrik had continued talking, but truthfully, he hadn’t concentrated on anything beyond Stone. A bastard. A bastard knighted by the King, a bastard who saved the King and his Lord father. A bastard with honour and dignity. A Ser. He knew then that the Watch was his last shot, he would give everything for a chance at a Knighthood, a chance to protect the weak and live with honour and earn a name in the history books for something other than his status.

That night Jon went to sleep with a book he had stolen from the library. A compendium of Kingsguards throughout history. If anyone had looked in on Jon and picked up the book they would have found it open to the sixth page. A first glance would suggest Jon was a slow reader, a second would reveal that this was the page of Ser Addison Hill – The Bastard of Cornfield and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under Aegon I. Jon slept peacefully and dreamt of a future of which he could be proud. For the first time in a while, he felt as though he knew where he was headed.

Chapter 4: Bastardry

Summary:

The royal party arrive at Wintefell and Jon has a mixed experience at the feast.

Notes:

Please let me know what you think, for better or worse.

Cheers.

It was a little past midday when the household received their orders to assemble in Winterfell’s main yard. Jon stood with Jory and the household guard off to the side of his father and siblings. Arya had caused a bit of a fuss about wanting Jon with them while they greeted the King, but Lady Catelyn had quickly stopped her short. Jon tried not to let his pain seem obvious, his father never usually had him this far from the family and when Lady Stark had admonished Arya for wanting to offend the King, he had looked forward to the gate, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at Jon. He had little time to dwell on this though; the ground had begun to rumble noticeably as the thundering of hooves on the gravelled road to the gate became audible.

The visitors streamed through the east gate in an explosion of colour. Silver and burnished gold caught the light as mounted men filled the yard, forcing Jon to shield his eyes. There must have been 300 riders, some carrying great banners ahead of them, acting as the heads of columns of knights, freeriders, and sworn swords who assembled behind them. Try as he might, Jon couldn’t help but be reminded of the hordes of rats that Arryn, the Winter Town innkeeper, would harry out of his door each morning. ‘But this time we’re inviting the rats in.’ he muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from Jory.

Through this came the royal procession; the King, mounted on a great steed, led the white-cloaked kingsguard towards his family. Jon’s pace quickened at the sight of them, he thought he recognised Barristan the Bold on the King’s right, and on his left was the most attractive man Jon had ever seen, almost ladylike in a way, meaning he had to be Jaime Lannister.

Jon watched as the king leapt from his horse and revealed himself to be a far less impressive figure than those of the stories as he swept up his father in a hug. It was at this moment that the Queen appeared on foot with her children, their carriage being so ludicrously wide it failed to fit through Winterfell’s gates. She was beautiful, more than any woman he had ever seen, and yet her eyes seemed desperately cold as she surveyed the yard with ill-hidden disdain. The two families were introduced to each other before the king dragged Jon’s father away despite the Queen’s protests. Jon was suddenly thankful for his exclusion as he slipped off to see if he could spot any famous knights while his brothers and sisters were given the job of showing the royal family around the keep.

---

Eight hours later Jon couldn’t help but feel the same way as he downed his summerwine at his place on the lower benches of the Great Hall. The air was thick with smoke and noise as nearly three hundred people feasted in the glow of a dozen lit hearths along the side of the room. Two singers sat at opposite ends of the room, seemingly competing for dominance and creating more of a caterwauling effect than anything resembling coherent music.

The revellers were four hours deep into a celebration of the king’s arrival and Jon himself was more than four hours worth deep into his cups. He was being egged on by the youthful squires surrounding him and had thus far been thoroughly entertained by their tales of adventure and valour. He spoke with men of the Lannisters, Baratheons, and a dozen smaller houses and knights. He was sure that all were more interesting than the royal guests his brothers and sisters had been saddled with. He had seen them all when they passed him by as the feast began.

They had accompanied the royal party through the hall in a procession at the start of the feast: the Queen had gone first, just as beautiful and stony as she had been in the yard; the King had followed, swaying violently and smelling distinctly of wine as he passed. Jon was becoming decidedly less enthused by the King and his character, which seemed so at odds with the strapping warrior of his father’s stories. Despite this, Jon was still resolved to speak to him about becoming a knight at some point. His siblings had entered afterwards; his brother Robb with the Princess Myrcella, a pretty girl of around fourteen with blonde curls and green eyes like her mother, Jon was certain that she would soon surpass her mother in beauty, but as he had come to expect, she had fixed her green eyes on Robb’s; they were followed by Sansa with the Crown Prince, who Sansa was making doe eyes at endlessly. The prince himself was a tall youth, a little older than Jon but significantly taller. His face was set in a permanent pout, and this had the unfortunate effect of making him look rather like a stuffed trout to Jon, who endeavoured not to be caught laughing at his majesty. Arya and Prince Tommen followed after, looking rather like the most ill-matched pair in the world: Arya wild and full of energy, Tommen plump and cautious.

Jon was more interested in the men walking behind the procession: the queen’s brothers. The Kingslayer and the Imp. Jaime Lannister looked resplendent in his crimson silk tunic, stitched with what looked like threaded gold. Jon had heard the stories, and for all the men called him kingslayer when they thought he wasn’t listening, Jon was enraptured by him. His knighting at fifteen and the part he played in the defeat of the Smiling Knight, he felt in some way that he was like him, that he would understand the pain of being a bastard.

The imp waddled after him, almost lost amongst the seated crowd, short as he was. The man was stunted and deformed, frightening almost in looks. He had eyes of two different colours and hair of the most brilliant white - like it had been bleached from shock.

His uncle Benjen entered the hall last, greeting Jon with a smile as he passed him.  Theon Greyjoy passed with him, but he avoided Jon’s gaze entirely, which truthfully didn’t bother Jon, he was too deep in his cups to feel affronted.

The hall melted away as Jon took another big swig of wine. Ghost used the opportunity to snatch a piece of chicken from his plate, moving as silently as ever. Jon grinned and mussed his fur. The direwolf looked up at him and nuzzled his hand before turning back to his spoils.

“I see that wolf has you well trained.” a familiar voice teased from his side.

Jon looked up at his uncle as he sat down beside him at the table. The squires sat around them briefly paused their lewd stories as the lord sat down but resumed when he grabbed a roasted onion from the table and bit straight into it, waving them on.

“That wine, how much have you had Jon?” he asked after a brief taste.

“Enough,” Jon said slowly, before smiling.

Ben Stark laughed. “I see, well we all get a little drunk when we’re young, teaches us not to do it again.”

His uncle still wore his clothes from the Night’s Watch. All-black, utilitarian, but without the heavy cloak in the roasting hot hall.

“Shouldn’t you be sat with your brothers?” Benjen asked.

“I do mostly, but Lady Stark thought it would be an insult to the royal family were I to do so today.” Jon answered in a pinched tone.

“I see,” His uncle glanced back at the high table. “My brother tells me you want to join the Night’s Watch.”
Jon looked up to the high table, catching his father’s head whipping away from him and Benjen. “Uncle Benjen I …” he began.

“Jon, listen” Benjen cut in, “The Wall is a hard place, we could use a good sword of course, but you’re a young man, I’m not sure it’s the right place for you.”

Jon paused, somewhat offended that his uncle thought him unready. “I’m more than a good sword Uncle Benjen I swear, but that’s just it”

“What Jon?” Benjen asked, looking somewhat hopeful.

Just then, a slurred voice rang out loud from behind the pair. “The Watch isn’t what the Bastard wants. He thinks himself above it”

Jon’s head whipped around, it seemed Theon Greyjoy had gotten brave again in the crowded hall.

“I saw you with your little book Bastard. I asked Maester Luwin what it was. You think yourself a future Knight of the Kingsguard.” Theon swayed slightly on the spot, looking pointedly at Jon as if he had won a great argument.

Jon noted with some anxiety that the hall had gone silent, Theon was rather loud.

Benjen took the initiative. “That’s enough. You’re too deep in your cups. Return to your seat.” Standing, he made to grasp Theon’s shoulder, but the youth jerked away quickly.

“Bastard, you’ve got no clue. You disgust these people, you think they’ll have you watching them, guarding them, you’re likely to kill them in their sleep, or force yourself on them and father another little bastard.”

Jon stood, trembling. “I will never father a bastard,” he hissed out slowly. “Never” He spat out with venom. Jon knew at that moment that what Theon wanted more than anything, was to be proven right. To get hit, to be absolved of his behaviour by Jon’s reaction, and in a split-second, Jon decided he wouldn’t rise to it. Stepping back, he announced slowly, “and I am not as you say I am my Lord.”

Looking around quickly he saw the hall was in a state of shock: his father half-sat half-stood in his seat, clenching the armrests so hard his knuckles were white, appeared to be as apoplectic as he had ever seen him; Lady Stark, for all her disdain, looked shocked and, vaguely pitying Jon thought; the Queen and King watched it all with interest, one cool and the other excited as if itching to see a fight. He turned and left it all behind, stepping into the cool night air of the yard.

 

 

Chapter 5: White Knight

Summary:

Jon takes out his frustration on a target in the yard. A new face spots him. Change ensues.

Jon’s face stung as he marched into the wide expanse of the training yard, the cold air nipped at his reddening cheeks and gnawed at his fingers. His breath went ahead of him, steaming in the sharp air as he made for the sword deposited at the feet of Winterfell’s most disfigured training dummy.

I want to prove to my family that I could be more than just a man of the watch and yet I do that. Jon thought, with a grimace. Embarrass Father before the King and Queen, act like a child before Nuncle, and force myself into the cold for the amusement of some squid.

Swaying slightly, Jon began to warm himself up before swinging a ferocious blow into the body of the target. Time seemed to slow to a stop as Jon poured his energy into his thrusts and swings, increasing the speed as he went. Before long he felt the salty taste of sweat and tears drop onto his lips. Jon dropped to his knees before the dummy, panting with exertion.

No sooner had he let his sword fall from his hand than a voice rang out across the yard.

“Your form is good boy, but you’ll struggle to surrender to a straw man.”

Jon’s head whipped back, a retort at his lips. But his eyes widened, and his words died on his tongue when he saw who it was who had spoken.

“Barristan the Bold.” He whispered disbelievingly.

“What was that son?” The old knight asked, striding towards him.

“Nothing” Jon replied quickly, turning and wiping his eyes on his sleeve, attempting to disguise it by reaching for his sword.

“Crying will get you nowhere boy,” Barristan said, with the tone of a man not particularly used to comforting distressed children. “you won’t need it to with talent like yours.”

Jon pushed himself from the floor and faced the old knight. The man must have been sixty years if he was a day, and yet he carried himself like a man half his age. He was tall and lean, he walked quickly and without any trace of the aches his Father, a considerably younger man, complained of. His hair was white, but it was cropped short and neat. This man is the warrior personified.

“You think I have talent?”

Barristan smiled wryly, “I’d say your form and footwork show more promise than I’ve seen in many years. How old are you boy?”

“My fifteenth name day is approaching Ser.” Jon replied eagerly.

Barristan stepped back a few paces before he replied. “Pick up your sword and attack me.”

“W-what” Jon asked perplexed. “You don’t have a weapon ser.”

“Don’t fret, I’ll set you back on your backside soon enough boy.” Barristan stated mockingly.

I could get him, Jon thought, he thinks me some weak child. Keeping his sword by his side he attempted to appear apprehensive but tensed his core and shifted his feet almost imperceptibly. “I wouldn’t be so sure ser!” Jon exclaimed as he lunged for the older man, before swinging two wide passes towards the knight. Barristan stepped back just three times, moving his body minimally as he deftly avoided all of Jon’s strikes. He planted his back foot and brought his front knee up to Jon’s stomach. As Jon doubled over Barristan swung him around by his shoulder and used his free hand to steal Jon’s tourney sword. With that he left Jon laid out on the ground and stepped back, throwing the weapon aside.

“Your technique is excellent boy: you are fast and strong for your age, and you don’t make the mistake of fighting fair.”

From the ground Jon looked up at the warrior, eyes full of pain and joy in equal measure. “But you allow your emotions to cloud your judgment, you felt I was underestimating you, as everyone does, given your … status, and that meant you pushed too hard, too quickly.”

Jon suddenly became downcast, finding the mud of the yard more significant than a dressing down from the finest fighter in Westeros.

“Look at me boy!” Barristan said sternly. Jon did as he was told. “Make no mistake, against a less skilled opponent you’d have faced a dead man now, but you won’t always face men weaker or less skilled than you. You need to learn.”

“Yes ser.” Jon said, unable to decide quite what Barristan was thinking.

“You would make a fine squire in the care of the right knight, but I heard from your father that you wish to join the Night’s Watch.”

Jon perked up immediately, sensing his chance, “I had Ser, but I have changed my mind. I wish to convince my father to take me South, to find me a Landed Knight to squire under.” He spilled passionately.

Barristan paused momentarily, and Jon saw the faintest glimmer of what looked like recognition in his eyes before the man shook it away. “You won’t become a real Knight with a petty noble, boy.”

“I doubt father would permit me to squire under a knight without fixed lands or a hearth.” Jon replied with resignation.

“Unless that knight were to be of sufficient stature lad,” Barristan said thoughtfully. At this, Jon sat up straighter – held in place by hope.

 “Seven Hells, If I were ten years younger, I’d take you for a squire.”

Jon’s face must have fallen then, for Barristan quickly added, “It wouldn’t be for the best lad, at my age I need to devote my energy to one purpose – the King must come first.”

“I understand ser.”

At this, Barristan grasped him by the wrist and hauled him to his feet, with Jon realising in some embarrassment that he had been sitting on the ground this entire time. As he made to move away, he was held fast by Barristan. “But I’ll speak to the King and your father boy. We’ll make a knight of you yet. I’ve seen the shipments of men from King’s Landing to the Watch for decades now, while there is honour there it is becoming increasingly difficult to find.”

“Thank you.” Jon effused, grinning broadly for the first time since the arrival of the royal family.

“Don’t think on it. Westeros is in need of more men who become knights for reasons beyond gold, we need men who have the drive to prove they can embody the institution’s ideals.” Barristan told him. “From what I can tell, you have every reason to want to do that. Now go on, off with you, get inside and to bed.”

After thanking him again Jon began to walk back towards his rooms when he heard Barristan call him once more. Turning around he saw the old knight in what seemed to be very deep thought before he looked at Jon with a melancholy smile. Jon strained to hear his words as he spoke over the night winds. “You should speak with passion more often boy, it changes you … I … it almost makes you a whole different person.” With that, the white-haired man shook his head slightly, replacing melancholy with stoic passivity, and marched back towards the hall.

Jon was too caught up in the moment to be overly troubled by this final comment, and he slept well that night, safe in the knowledge that the process of altering his destiny had begun.

 

 

Chapter 6: Headaches and Headaches

Summary:

Jon faces a hangover, his siblings and an unexpected stranger.

Jon’s mind exploded in protest the next morning, the exertions of the previous evening, combined with his … excessive consumption of wine were wreaking their havoc upon him. He glanced briefly out of the window before the flare of what had to be the mid-morning sun sent him spinning down into his sheets for respite. After a few minutes the throbbing in his skull had faded to a low thrum and his throat began to cry out for moisture. Hauling himself up from his bed, he headed for the kitchens, not yet having shed his stained clothes from the night before.

The journey to the kitchens took twice as long as usual, as Jon gingerly tread the familiar boards he used to break his fast among the staff when Lady Stark was at her worst. Every noise beyond regular conversation made him wince, and Jon stopped to lean on the thick walls of Winterfell more than once The stone was cold at first touch, but heat leaked through slowly courtesy of the springs running through the pipes embedded within the castle, for years now that warmth had seemed to Jon a comforting sign of home and hearth, a privilege to be treasured, yet now all he could think of was the terrifying thought that Barristan may fail in his attempts to convince his father and the king, leaving him to be slowly boiled alive in the ever warming confines of the halls of Winterfell.

The kitchens were quiet, and Jon had been left a small breakfast plate by the staff, presumably having noticed his absence from the hall that morning. He wolfed the food down hungrily, stopping only to the gulp down flagons of water, filling his cup twice from the pails of icy water brought forth from the wells of the castle.

His solitude would be ended by a stomping Arya, who clattered into the kitchen with the grace of a one-legged woodsman. Noticing Jon, she mastered her face, adopting an enormous, almost comical, scowl, and marching towards her bastard brother.

“Where were you stupid!” What ought to have been a question was more of an exclamation.

Jon was taken aback. “What are you talking about Arya?”

“Our lessons, I knocked for you three times this morning, when I tried to get into your room Ghost stopped me”.

Jon made a mental note to reward his wolf later.

“I’ve been … unwell Arya” he said.

“You mean you were drunk last night. That’s what Father said to me when I asked why you weren’t answering”.

Jon could find no good response to her accusation, so went with it.

“Did Father mention anything else when you asked him what was wrong with me?”

“Well … he looked very sad, and he said that I ought to tell you he hopes you feel better when I saw you. But he was going out to hunt with the king. They left over an hour ago with most of the Kingsguard. The Queen shouted at the King for only leaving them with her brother.”

“You mean she shouted at him in front of the hall” Jon said, surprised.

“Yeah” Arya was getting quite excited now, “she said that the royal children needed a guard, and that Joffrey needed his own, but the king shouted back at her, and said that father’s guards were as good as any man.”

“And what did the Queen say to that?” Jon asked. “She just walked out, nobody said anything for aaagggeeesss after that. It was very boring.”

“Ah well, what are you up to now?” “Hiding from Prince Tommen” Arya made a disgusted face. “He follows me everywhere, it’s so annoying, he can’t run fast or anything. I’m going to hide in the Godswood, he’ll be too scared to follow me, and you’re going to give me two lessons tomorrow.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond but his little sister was gone before he could say a word.

---

Jon took that as his cue to head to the courtyard. He had no doubt that there’d be fighting going on that day, perhaps he’d have the chance to see Prince Joffrey fight, maybe see Robb put him on his arse if things went right. As he passed the Armoury he came across his half-brother carrying some training swords towards the yard.

“Robb!” He called out across the way.

“Jon, feeling good?” Robb said with a wry grin.

“Shut it, I’m half dead, who are you fighting?”.

“The Crown Prince” Robb spat out. “Stupid blonde toad”.

“What? Did he piss on you from his window this morning?” Jon was surprised by the venom in his brother’s voice.

“No, but mother has told me that under no circumstances am I to beat him. That I let him beat me is imperative to getting Sansa a match with the prince in the future.”

“That’s ridiculous”

“I know, and that poncey arsehole is going to lord it over me for the rest of the visit, probably hold onto it if I ever saw him again, I wish I’d been sat with you yesterday, you wouldn’t believe how much of an arse he was, bragging and trying to woo Sansa.”

Jon bit his tongue when the seating arrangement was mentioned.

“Well just make sure you make him hurt for his victory, if he isn’t black and blue by the end, I’ll turn you that colour.”

Robb laughed at that, throwing his head back and letting it all out. He looked every inch the future lord then.

“Come on, I’ll carry your swords for you.” Jon continued.

“No Jon, I’ve told the men nobody from Winterfell sees this, not even you, I won’t debase myself for a Northern audience, you can come and ask me how it was afterwards.”

“You can’t go alone, what if something were to …”

“Jon, if I let that pompous git more than bruise me before his sham victory, I’d deserve it.” Robb said, striding off toward the courtyard. “Have fun without me!” he called back over his shoulder.

Jon was alone once again, if not as drunk as he was the night before. He set off towards the Broken Tower, seized suddenly by a desire to look out at the place he’d called home all of his life, a place he now wished to leave. Somehow, it felt as though the isolation he had felt and resented most of his life was what he needed at this very moment.

---

As expected, Jon saw not one soul on his journey from the Armoury to the First Keep. The castle had emptied with the King and Jon’s father out in the Wolfswood hunting. The ancient stones of the First Keep and its legion of gargoyles were his only company, and the many eyes of the stone beasts bore into him. Jon found it hard to tolerate, always feeling as though he was being judged, but the feeling of solitude and isolation within the broken tower were too good to pass up.

However, Jon was not the only person who had decided to seek out the company of the carved horrors. As he crossed the threshold of the broken tower, dust falling down into his long black hair, he was halted dead in his tracks. Stood before him, blonde hair shining - even in the murky shadows of the tower, was the Queen. She was so incredibly out of place in the broken tower, Jon half expected her to confess that she was lost and ask him to direct her back to the keep. But instead she strode towards him, pushing him back harshly against the cold stone wall with a hand on his chest. “Who sent you here Bastard?” Jon blinked, the Queen asked questions in the same tone that Lady Stark barked orders and she knew who he was.

“Are bastards deaf as well as sinful? Who sent you?”.

Jon answered quickly, “No one your grace, I visit the broken tower often”.

Kicking himself he realised he had spoken in too much detail for the Queen’s liking. She rolled her eyes and sneered down at him. “Don’t presume that I have any interest in whatever disgusting things bastards do in this tower”

Jon felt his face flush.

“Do you have some whore coming to join you?”.

His eyes flashed with pure anger, but he schooled his face quickly. However, he noticed the Queen’s face change, her eyes flashed with what seemed like recognition. Stepping back slightly, she surveyed Jon from head to toe. Her eyes roved up and down his body, over his face and hair, and stared intently into his own eyes.

“Your grace, I am very sorry, I shall leave yo-“ Jon’s words died in his mouth as the Queen reached out and touched his hair. She pulled it gently towards her and toyed with it, rolling it in between her fingers.

“Your grace?” She stepped forward again, this time pushing Jon back against the wall with her body, her face inches from his.

“You know Bastard, you remind me very greatly of someone I was denied. They say bastards are lustful creatures”. Jon almost opened his mouth to answer, but the Queen had placed her hand on his crotch over his trousers. He gasped in shock. Her touch felt good, but so wrong, "Maybe you could be of some use to me", the Queen purred in Jon's ear. She was so beautiful, but so cold, and yet he could not help but have his vision drawn to her breasts, pushed tight against the neckline of her dress.

Jon could almost touch them, it could be so easy to do it, he just had to - “No!” Jon thought to himself.

He squirmed out of the Queen’s grasp just before she brought her red lips to his. She looked hurt for the briefest moment before she straightened and stepped back. “Fine, leave me Bastard, and tell no one of this, or I’ll tell my royal husband that you attempted to force yourself on me. My brother will happily kill you before you could give your side of the story”.

Panicking slightly, Jon replied, “Yes your grace, no your grace” and took off as fast as he dared. Never once glancing behind him or up from his feet. If he had, he may have noticed Bran running along the walls between the First Keep and the Broken Tower, or Jaime Lannister skulking towards the Tower from the Guards Hall.

Chapter 7: A New Journey Begins

Jon kept his head down as he crossed the wide-open courtyards of Winterfell to his room, partly to keep the icy cold wind that had blown in suddenly like some ominous spectre off his face, and partly to hide his conflicted shame. Not a single soul paid him any attention on the way back and the only sound he heard, or cared to hear, was the crisp crunch of the thin frost underfoot.

Crossing the threshold to the Great Keep and into its steam-heated corridors gave Jon great relief; on cold and wet days one could press themselves against certain spots of the inner stone walls and steam themselves as their damp clothes became dry. Today however, was not a wet day and so Jon did not need to linger long in the corridors and instead made a beeline straight for his room.

Ghost was at his side almost as soon as his door closed, nudging his snout into Jon’s sides below his ribs. He was showing no signs of slowing his growth either, he was taller than Rickon already. Probably around four feet at the shoulder by now. All the direwolves were growing quickly, Lady aside, she was developing far slower than the rest, possibly due to Sansa refusing to let her hunt or go running with the other wolves.
“You’re getting almost too big for this room Ghost” thought Jon, patting his white furred companion absent minded-ly before collapsing face down onto his bedsheets.

Jon couldn’t make any sense of the Queen’s behaviour. He felt a great shame at his temptation, as well as the shame of being touched and being so powerless. But he also felt a great deal more confusion as to why the Queen had deigned to touch him at all.
“It’s like she recognised me”, Jon thought.
Of course, he rationalised, she is the Queen, the people she had met were surely too great in number to even comprehend. It was, therefore, unremarkable to think that Jon may have reminded her of someone. What was remarkable was that this person had been so significant to compel the Queen to attempt to seduce a Northern bastard.

He had been working it over in his head for what felt like longer than he had thought about anything in his life that didn’t involve his mother when, suddenly, he heard footsteps thundering down the corridor, past his room, and on into the inner sections of the keep – the Stark quarters. He rushed to his door, hauling the heavy oak open and sticking his head out, but the figure had disappeared round the corner.

Jon almost returned back to his bed, but was gripped with an intense fear, what if the footsteps were those of a rogue intent on harming a member of his family. So instead, he took off after the figure.
Halfway down the corridor he realised he had no weapon, without pausing his pounding sprint he wrenched the iron cup from the nearest sconce, not daring to waste time returning to his room.

Reaching the stairs that would take him up towards his father and Lady Stark’s rooms, as well as the rooms of his brothers and sisters, he crashed wildly into the wall rather than slow down to turn more gracefully. Pain throbbed in his shoulder, but Jon put the coming bruise out of his mind to take the stairs three at a time. Jon’s lungs burned, he wasn’t breathing properly, running on adrenaline and moving faster than he ever had. Even so, Jon had barely reached the top of the stairs when he was shocked by a wailing scream, piercing and raw.

“Lady Stark!”, Jon thought, as he pushed harder.

As he neared the source of the cry, he spotted Arya and Sansa, with their Septa, stepping out of the rooms, lessons interrupted. Sansa looked terrified and Arya was held close by the Septa as she tried to move to her parent’s rooms.

Spotting him, Arya cried out, “Jon, what’s happening?”

“Don’t know”, he squeezed out as fast as he could, “Stay with Septa Mordane!”.

And with that, he had reached the doors, bursting in without knocking.

The scene before him was bizarre. The figure he had glimpsed at the end of the corridor was clearly the man stood just ahead of him, hands at his side, head bent in supplication. Clearly, Jon had been mistaken, there was no threat, and he quickly hid the iron cup behind his back. Deeper in the room Benjen stood uncomfortably before Lady Stark, who was on her knees before the fire. Lady Stark’s body was wracked with sobs, and she heaved erratically, but her scream had clearly stolen the breath from her lungs, and no noise came forth. Jon thought the sight was vaguely nightmarish, as if Lady Stark was being tortured, but could not even scream.

Benjen looked up at Jon, in delayed shock at the intrusion. He stood quickly and strode toward him, grasping him by the shoulders and pushing him out of the room into the corridor.

“Jon, fetch Rob and take him to the Maester’s rooms. Bran has fallen from the Broken Tower, he has been taken to Luwin but he isn’t waking up. We will fetch Rickon and the girls.” Benjen’s voice was barely more than a whisper and Jon was aware of Arya and Sansa’s shocked eyes on them. “Go Son, now!”.

With that he turned and strode back into the room. As the doors closed Jon caught one last sight of Lady Stark, flames roaring in the fire behind her, face contorted in unimaginable pain. For the first time in a long time, Jon felt great sympathy for her, she was locked in her personal hell.

Without a word to Arya, Jon turned and sprinted out of the Keep, bound for the training yard.

Only halfway there did Jon remember that the Queen had been by the broken tower. And then he remembered her threat.

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Jon found Robb in the training yard with the prince looking thoroughly dejected. The prince was jesting about his victory with his personal guard, an enormous, scarred man known to all as The Hound. The Imp looked on in amusement.

“Oh and there’s the bastard, another Northern beast to test my blade against.” Joffrey said, with a dark glint in his eye.

Jon ignored him.

“Robb, get up, you must come immediately.”

“Your prince is speaking to you Bastard”.

“It’s Bran, he’s fallen, and he’s unwell. Uncle Benjen told me to get you to and take you to the Maester’s quarters.”

Robb’s face was pale where seconds before it had been red with humiliation and he took off at pace towards the tower.

Jon made to go after him, but the prince had placed his hand on his shoulder and pulled him round to face him roughly.

“I said, I was talking to you Bastard”.

“Your grace” Jon said, remembering his manners, “I am sorry, I must go”, bowing his head in perfect supplication.

“You’re not going anywhere Bastard, I’m going to best you in this yard and you’ll thank me for it”.

Surprisingly, the enormous, scarred figure bent down and whispered into his prince’s ear. Jon could not make out everything he said but caught occasional words “you sure your grace?”, “dishonour to taint blade” “just a Bastard”, all the while watching the Imp amble over to the group.

But the prince had clearly had enough of his guard’s smooth words and wrenched himself away. “No! Dog!, I will have this Bastard under my boot”. He thrust the wooden tourney sword Robb had dropped into Jon’s hands and moved to take his ornate sword that the Hound was carrying for him.

All of a sudden, Jon was panicking, he did not fear the prince, he knew with tourney swords or with steel he was a better fighter, but when he had wood and the prince had steel he was in a very vulnerable position.

He had resolved to cross blades to the best of his ability and attempt to find some sneaky way out when he heard a new voice.

“Joffrey, allow the Bastard to attend his brother” It was the Imp, “His absence will be noted and if your Lord Father hears of this he will be greatly displeased, to say nothing of the dishonour it would do to Lord Stark”.

Joffrey looked at his uncle with undisguised disgust. “And what good will the Bastard do the Stark boy”.

“Maybe nought but –“

Joffrey interrupted, “In any case the Stark boy is nothing to me, it’s only the sister that’s of any use as a brood mare.”

At that, Tyrion reached up as far as he could and slapped his nephew’s arrogant face.

“One word, and I’ll hit you again”.

But no more words were uttered, and Joffrey turned on his heel and marched off. The big man hesitated long enough to say “Not wise Imp, the boy’s mother will hear of this I’m sure”.

“She can hear of it all she likes, I’ll giver her a slap also” the Imp said with a wry smile, and Jon felt sure the big man almost smiled before he turned to attend his wounded charge.

Jon turned to the smaller man, seeing him in an entirely different light.

“Thank you, my Lord”.

“Don’t thank me Bastard, I wanted to do that anyway, go to your brother.”

Jon didn’t waste any time and got to the tower last. Lady Stark for once, was too consumed to shoot him dirty looks or ask him to leave, and so the Starks sat together, waiting for Bran to awaken, or Lord Stark to return, not sure which would come first.

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It was another day before Lord Stark returned with the royal hunting party from the depths of the Wolfswood. Three riders had been sent out to cover different areas of the forest and bring the group back. There was no pomp or circumstance in their return and Lord Stark had gone immediately to his son’s side as he had not yet woken from his sleep.

Even the King had been able to refrain from any unseemly behaviour for at least two days following their return, and all meals had been taken privately with no feasting or alcohol. King Robert even attended the Sept in the company of Lady Stark to pray for the health of Bran. Lord Stark did not leave the Maester’s quarters and as such was not communicating with the King, instead sending messages to his children not to approach Robert lest he give them some boon or unnecessary bequest.

Several days later, out in the tilt yard Jon was approached by Arya, who excitedly told him about an argument that the King and Queen had had that morning at the breakfast table. The Queen had audibly complained that Winterfell had become completely miserable and the King had reprimanded her publicly, demanding that she apologise to Lady Stark.

“Did she apologise?” Jon asked incredulously.

“No, she whispered in the King’s ear, she probably thought nobody would hear but I was sitting with Tommen – No Jon that’s awful I hate him, he’s such a baby – and she said that she’d ride out of Winterfell that night with Tommen, Myrcella, Joffrey and the Kingslayer if he didn’t do something”.

“Really!”

“Really.”

“Then what did the King say?”.

“He said that he’d make sure he did something and then called her a spiteful woman” Arya chattered excitedly, “She left after that, and barely even said anything to Mother, so I threw eggs at Joffrey”.

“Arya, you’ve got to be careful”.

“I just thought the whole thing was very strange, and Bran would’ve laughed at what I did” Arya said, her eyes welling up slightly.

Jon sensed Arya would cry, and he knew that would upset her even more. “I know Arya, no harm done in the end I suppose”.

“Yeah, at least the King laughed”.

Jon sighed internally, no wonder Joffrey was as vicious as he had seen, with a mother like the Queen and a father who couldn’t give a toss. At least Jon’s father liked him, he thought.

“But he did also say they would leave in two days, and that tomorrow there would be a leaving feast”.

“So one more night of drinking and whoring after all” Jon thought.

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The Kitchens had begun preparations for the feast that evening, and when Jon visited Bran the next morning, he was surprised to see that for the first time in days, his father was not at Bran’s bedside. In fact, Maester Luwin had told him that Lord Stark wished to see him in his solar. So after an hour or so of reading to Bran, and telling him about the vicious boy prince Joffrey, Jon visited his father’s solar.

When he had entered the room, he was shocked to discover that he was not the only other person there, for joining him were Uncle Benjen, and amazingly Ser Barristan the Bold. Benjen winked at him and smiled at his shock, and the white-haired old knight smiled graciously at him.

Father was unshaven, and had red eyes, he looked as though he had not slept since he returned, and Jon knew that he had been fighting with Lady Stark, as he overheard Sansa crying about it the previous evening.

“Sit down Jon” said his father, sounding as tired as he looked.

Jon sat down and became acutely aware of a lot of discomfort from his father. Uncle Benjen seemed slightly happier than Jon thought he would and Barristan was somewhat imperceptible in mood, although his eyes were repeatedly drawn to the portrait of father’s siblings on the solar wall.

“Jon, I have a lot to tell you, so I’d best begin with the news less concerned with you. On the hunt, before I had heard about Bran, I accepted an offer from King Robert to become his hand, so I’m taking Arya and Sansa and travelling to King’s Landing”.

Jon gave a start and opened his mouth to speak.

“Wait please Jon. There’s more. I also accepted the King’s offer to marry Sansa and Joffrey”.

Jon again began to speak.

“I know, I know, Robb harangued me about this already, it is what Sansa wishes and my lady-wife believes that the match is good, I also think the boy may change, God knows Robert was a character at his age, we just need to get him away from his mother more”.

Jon did not agree but kept his mouth shut.

“Sansa does not yet know this, and nor does anyone else but Lady Stark, the four of us, and the King and Queen, it will be announced at the feast tonight.”

Jon sat for a moment digesting this. His father faltered and stopped speaking. The four sat, or stood in Selmy’s case, in awkward silence until Uncle Benjen coughed pointedly.

“Yes, yes” His father continued, “There was also something else agreed on this hunt … about you. Ser Barristan?”

“Indeed, as you know lad. I promised to speak for you to the King and your father. I did so and the King thought it quite fair that you were given the chance to become a Knight.”

His father interrupted then, “But I made it clear to the King I would not have you far from me, I would not have you sent to the Reach or the Crownlands”.

“But father …” Jon began.

“Jon, wait, let your father and Ser Barristan finish” interceded Benjen.

Selmy picked the tale back up, “The King then said that, of course, the hand’s son could squire for a Kingsguard knight. Of course, we have squires in a strange way normally, someone has to prepare the armour and the horses, but to take a squire to train is unusual”.
Jon began to feel a great hope bubbling inside of him.

“And so the King suggested Trant or Oakheart take you on” his father said, “But I mislike both of those men”.

“Even though they are my sworn brothers, I was in much the same feeling but did not say so. But Boros Blount volunteered his own services, and I felt the king was inclined to agree. Now, I say this without malice, but Blount is a disastrous knight, he is not a bad man, but his privileged position has led to corpulence and laziness, and I could not allow this to happen. And so, I volunteered myself, despite what I told you that evening in the yard.”

Jon had never felt such exhilaration as he felt in that instance, it felt as though his entire body was alight, he could feel the blood surging to his heart as it sped up.

“The King was ecstatic, and I agreed to it provisionally Jon” Said his father, “But I also told the King I would allow you to choose to head North, to the wall if you wish, with your Uncle. His grace will announce your position to the realm tonight if you choose this.”.

“I have told your father he’s a fool Jon” Said Benjen, “Seize your chance, go South and learn, your father’s taking Arya and Sansa, they’ll need a northern presence to protect them.

“Benjen!” his father sternly said, “Jon, there is honour at the wall, and King’s Landing is a nest of vipers, I will accept whatever you choose, but neither option is easy, and neither is safe. I resign myself to your decision, but you have more than one option.”

Jon had opened his mouth before his father finished speaking.

“I will squire for you Ser Barristan, thank you”.

Benjen and Barristan looked pleased. His father looked grim.

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Jon managed to keep quiet until the feast that evening. He was sat at the head table that night with the royal family, as Lady Stark had chosen to remain with Bran he didn’t feel as uncomfortable as he might.

The night went well, even if there was a slight melancholy feeling, knowing Bran was still asleep in the ether.

Slowly the night drew towards its climax, and as the tables were cleared of the main courses, the King drew his great weight up to its fullest height and rang his goblet with a fork. Immediately the room stood to his attention.

“My friends, we have had a good evening tonight, in spite of absent loved ones, join me and raise your glasses to Brandon Stark”. This declaration was echoed through the hall by all, even if the Queen was rather taciturn doing so. Joffrey had been ‘sweetly’ consoling Sansa all evening, whispering in her ear, and feigning a look of concern. Robb had pointed it out to Jon and said he wished he could put a real look of concern on his face.

“But as our stay in the walls of this great castle comes to an end, I find I need to make several royal proclamations” Shouted the king, slightly slurring the final word, his drink mushing his mouth.

“Firstly, before the tragic accident, while out on our hunt, I bestowed the great honour of the position of Hand of the King on Ned Stark, he will ride with us on our way back to King’s Landing and will help usher in a new age of my rule.”

This announcement met with a great deal of polite applause.

“Secondly, it has been decided that House Baratheon and House Stark will join our great lineages” the King proclaimed as the Queen gripped her cup tightly. “My son, Joffrey Baratheon is to be married to Sansa Stark, this I proclaim now, to all the kingdoms.”

This announcement was followed by an even greater applause and a shriek of delight from Sansa, and a smug satisfied look on Joffrey’s face.

Jon wondered briefly why his announcement was left until last, a royal wedding is far more important than a bastard squire, as was the appointment of a new hand. And when he saw the King look at the Queen with a vicious look on his face, a pit in his stomach began to open up.

“And finally, I decree today that the son of Ned Stark, Jon Snow, is to become a squire under a knight of my Kingsguard” Jon saw Barristan Selmy step almost imperceptibly forward while the Queen’s face turned angry and the feast’s crowd began to murmur. “Not only that, the boy will squire under and perhaps impart some honour to …

“Something is not right” thought Jon, watching his father’s confusion manifest on his face, and Barristan’s face twist.

… the Kingslayer!” finished King Robert Baratheon.