Chapter Text
Catelyn's POV:
[Arrival]
Catelyn Stark stood on the steps of Winterfell, cloak tight around her shoulders.The wind was sharp, biting even through her furs, but she felt no cold. She watched the riders approaching through the gate. House Stark’s banners flapped gray and white.
She knew her husband by his silhouette: straight-backed, grim, one hand steady on the reins. But it was the bundle in his arms that seized her attention.She felt her heart give a single hard thump.
No. Her lips tightened.
Behind her, the wet nurse shifted Robb in her arms. Robb, four months old, healthy and pink, turned and peered at the riders with wide eyes. He was fat with milk, strong for his age. Hers.
Ned dismounted slowly. He looked older, wearier. And in his arms: a child. Small, swaddled, fussing weakly at the cold. A babe. No older than Robb himself.
Catelyn felt her face go smooth and still. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.
Ned stepped forward, boots crunching on frost. “Catelyn.”
“My lord.” Her voice was ice.
He swallowed. “This is Jon.”
Jon.
She looked at the bundle properly for the first time. Dark tufts of hair. Red, pinched face. Tiny fingers clutching at the air. No older than Robb. A few days younger at most.
'He could have been born on the same battlefield where Ned made him.' Her stomach twisted.
They gathered inside. The hearth roared to fight off the northern chill. Servants moved around them in silence.
She sat stiff-backed in the high seat. Ned refused wine, cradling the bastard himself.
The wet nurse handed Robb to Catelyn. She took him gladly. He pressed his face to her breast, seeking. She kissed his hair.
When Jon began to fuss and whimper, the nurse glanced at her nervously.
“My lady?”
Catelyn did not look at the other child.
“Feed him if you must,” she said flatly. “But not from Robb’s wet nurse. Find another. He will not share with my son.” Silence spread through the hall like ink in water.
Ned’s mouth tightened. But he said nothing.
They sat by the fire in the Lord's solar. Two cradles had been moved into the solar. Robb lay in one, thumb in his mouth. Jon in the other, newly settled and drowsy from milk.
Catelyn stared at the flames.
Ned sat opposite, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Finally he spoke.
“Please, Cat.”
She didn’t answer. “Don’t hate him.”
She let out a cold laugh.
“Him? Or you?”
Ned winced. “He’s a babe. He knows nothing of...”
“—of what you did?” she cut in. Her voice was low and lethal. “He doesn’t know you betrayed your vows while I carried your trueborn son? That he’s days younger than Robb? Don’t insult me.” she hissed. "Who was she."
“I can’t tell you her name,” Ned said dully.
“Oh,” she sneered. “How noble. Protecting her even now?”
He lifted his gaze to her, haunted. “I made a promise.”
She bared her teeth in a smile that had no warmth. “Your promises to me clearly meant less.”
No more words were said, Ned got up to go to speak with Maester Luwin about the wet nurses.
Catelyn remained. The fire popped. Shadows danced. She sat in her chair and watched the two cradles. Robb, her darling, her firstborn. Jon, the interloper, the bastard. They looked so similar. Both babies, both small and pale. She studied them clinically.
Jon opened his eyes, blinking at her, showing his Stark grey eyes, so like Ned, like Brandon. He made a soft noise, a hopeful gurgle. Reaching.
She felt her stomach twist in disgust.
'Reaching for me as if I’m his mother.'
She rose and leaned over him. “Don’t you dare,” she whispered.
His lip trembled.
“Don’t you ever think you’re mine.”
He whimpered.
Robb stirred at the sound, but she hushed him gently. “Sleep, my love,” she cooed to Robb, ignoring the now crying bastard.
She would never use that voice on the other one.
She watched Ned through the window later that night. He knelt in the snow before the heart tree. Praying.
'Coward.' She thought. 'Let him beg the old gods for forgiveness. They might grant it, she wouldn’t.'
Days passed. Servants whispered, but not to her face.
Two cradles in the nursery.
Two babies, fed by two wet nurses.
She made sure they were separate.She instructed the staff coldly. “Do not mix their things. Do not let him take Robb’s blankets. If they must be fed at the same time, do it apart. He will not nurse beside my son.” The old maester tried to protest once.
“My lady, they’re nearly twins in age. It will only—”
She cut him off with a look that could have frozen water in its bucket. “I said no.”
That night she sat between the two cradles.
Robb smiled in his sleep, rosy and content. The bastard snuffled, fussing.
She would not touch the bastard. Let the wet nurse soothe him later. But she spoke to him, very quietly. So no one else would hear. “Listen to me,” she whispered.
He blinked, calmed by the voice, not understanding the words.
“You will have food. Fire. Clothes. That is all.” He burbled. “You will serve this house until your last breath. You will pay for what you are.”
She heard footsteps outside. She straightened at once. Lady Stark again.
The next morning hall was warm, filled with smells of roasted meat and fresh bread. Robb sat on her knee, cooing and drooling on her gown. She wiped his chin with a mother’s fond smile.
Jon was in the arms of the other wet nurse. He squirmed, seeking. She ignored him completely. When he whimpered, the nurse bounced him gently. Servants watched with side-eyes. They noticed.
Good. Let them see the difference.
Robb giggled as she tickled his belly. Jon began to cry. But She kept her back turned.
That night, she undressed by the hearth. Ned lay in bed already, watching her. He said nothing. She climbed in beside him but faced away.
Two cradles in the nursery. Two sons, One born of her love, One of his betrayal.
She closed her eyes.
'I will never love him. Never. And I will never let him forget why.'
FEW YEARS LATER. (Jon- Age-8)
The fire crackled in the great hearth.
Catelyn sat beside Ned at the high table, Arya squirming in her lap, Sansa seated politely on the bench. The girls were freshly bathed and brushed, two Northern roses, one wild and thorny, the other delicate and blooming.
She looked every inch the proud mother of three children- Robb, her firstborn now of eight namedays, her first daughter Sansa who had just celebrated her sixth nameday a few days ago. Arya, her wild child of three namedays and the new one growing in her belly.
Robb and Jon sat farther down, near Ser Rodrik. Near-equal in height, near-equal in age, but nothing else about them matched, not in Catelyn’s eyes.
When Robb laughed, she smiled with him. When Jon looked her way, she looked past him.
The boys trained under Ser Rodrik's steady eye. Catelyn sat in the balcony looking down in the yard where the boys trained, Arya leaned against her on the bench, fidgeting. Sansa sat ramrod straight.
“Jon’s quicker,” Arya whispered.
“Robb’s stronger,” Sansa countered primly.
Catelyn smiled and said nothing, her eyes following every movement. Jon’s footwork was sure. Robb landed a hit. Catelyn clapped.
The bastard caught the sound and looked up. She didn’t meet his gaze. He knew better than to seek her approval.
Later that evening, she dismissed the girls with their nurse to bath. Sansa kissed her cheek; Arya gave her a toothy grin before skipping off.
Once the door closed, Catelyn turned to the boy who still lingered in the shadows near the hearth of the nursery.
“You know why you’re here,” she said.
Jon nodded. “Aye, my lady.”
She stood and crossed the room slowly, the firelight casting tall shadows behind her.
She sat in her carved chair resting her hand on her pregnant belly and extended her foot.
“Mud from the godswood.”
He knelt without question.
“You will scrub them clean. Then you’ll massage my feet. And not a word to anyone.”
“No, my lady.”
His voice was small. She said nothing more and watched him work. She had started doing this to make the bastard know his place in her house.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels. His face was pale in the firelight.
Her voice was calm, even. “You remember what I told you last time?”
He swallowed. “Aye, my lady. That I serve you until the day you die.”
“Exactly.”
She sipped her lemon water. “You’re not to speak of this. Not to Robb. Not to the girls. Not even in your sleep.” She warned.
“I won’t.” the boy replied his voice small.
“You’d best not.”
She let the silence settle for a few moments then snapped. “Now get out of my sight.”
He fled without another word.
That night, the girls curled into her sides as she read to them from a thin old book of Riverlands stories.
Arya giggled at a rude line. Sansa sighed at the tale of a brave lady who married a handsome knight. Catelyn kissed their heads in turn. Ned arrived with his usual tired smile.
“You three look warm enough for a dozen,” he said. Sansa laughed. Arya tried to sit up straighter. Catelyn smiled.
“Come to bed soon,” Ned murmured.
She nodded.
When the girls were asleep and the fire low, she lay awake beside Ned, his arm draped across her waist. She stared at the stone ceiling.
The bastard had said nothing. He never did. Good boy. He knew better.
She smiled faintly in the dark. He might carry the Stark blood in his veins, but he served her all the same. She would make sure that bastard doesn't get any ideas.
The next morning, she dismissed Robb and the girls to lessons. Then turned to Jon as he hesitated in the hallway.
“You. Come with me.”
They walked in silence to her chamber. She locked the door behind them.
“Boots.”
He knelt.
“Water.”
He poured.
“You exist for my convenience. Say it.”
He did.
Her smile was cruel and quiet.
At dinner, Raven has arrived from Kingslanding, words of Rebellion, The Ironborn it said. But she was not afraid. A few tiny island could do nothing to the North, much less to the entire Seven Kingdoms. And even if Something happened to her husband, she would not mourn him much.
She was all warmth at dinner. Sansa told her about a new embroidery stitch. Arya had grass in her hair and mud on her chin. Ned looked at them with tired, grateful eyes. Robb recounted training. Jon stayed quiet, as he should, as she taught him.
Catelyn allowed him to sit with her children, eat at their table, as Ned expected of her but nothing more, nothing less. Polite, Cold in public, in front of Ned and her children but in private he served her.
No one noticed the stiffness in his hands. No one noticed anything at all. Just as she intended.
Jon’s POV: (Age -12)
Jon Snow’s breath misted in the cold air. He circled Robb Stark, both boys with wooden swords in hand. Ser Rodrik barked corrections. Theon Greyjoy lounged nearby, smirking.
“Come on, Snow, you’re supposed to be quicker than that,” Theon jeered.
Jon didn’t rise to it. He kept his eyes on Robb.
They were nearly matched now, height, strength, skill.
But when Jon landed a glancing hit, Ser Rodrik didn’t praise him. He praised Robb for holding his ground. Jon ground his teeth.
Robb flashed him a good-natured grin. “Well fought, Jon!”
Jon nodded stiffly. Robb was his brother. Half-brother. No brother at all, Lady Stark would say.
After training, Theon walked beside them. He slapped Jon’s back harder than necessary.
“Snow, you’re lucky to be here at all,” he drawled. Jon ignored him like he always did.
Robb scowled. “Leave it, Theon.”
“Just saying,” Theon said lazily. “Not every bastard gets a castle to play in.”
Jon’s fists clenched, but he said nothing. He was good at silence. Lady Stark had taught him that.
The fire roared in the Great hall. Sansa sat beside Lady Stark, perfect posture, perfect hair. She glanced at Jon once, Her eyes slid away. She always looked at him like he wasn’t there.
Arya was across from him, scowling at her trencher. She looked up, caught his eye, and gave him a wide, defiant grin. He managed a small smile back. Arya didn’t care about rules.
Didn’t care what Lady Stark whispered behind closed doors. Didn’t care who he was. She was wild, free and his favorite sister, he loved her the most of all his siblings.
Bran was a child uninfluenced by the word and Rickon was just a babe.
Later that night Lady Stark summoned him like she normally did. One of her maids, she brought from Riverrun, loyal only to her, would came to his chamber with a message. 'The lady want you' she would say.
He knocked and waited.
“Enter.” came her clear voice.
He did. She sat by the fire, robe pulled tight. Her eyes were sharp as knives.
“Boots.” He dropped to his knees, started cleaning.
“Wine.”
He poured, careful not to spill.
Her voice was low and even.
“You’ve been getting careless. You think being good with a sword makes you something?” He scrubbed harder.
“No, my lady.” he replied.
“You will serve me until I’m dead in the ground.”
He didn’t answer.
She set down her goblet.
“Speak.” She snapped.
“Aye, my lady.” he replied.
He left her chambers with his face blank. He was good at that now. No one saw anything. Not Robb. Not Arya. Not Sansa, who would tattle in a heartbeat if he ever said a word.
Certainly not Ned Stark. Lord Stark. His father.
'If he even is. It’s his fault. All of it.'
If Ned Stark had left him in the South, or given him to the Wall at birth, he’d be free. Instead he was here. Serving her.
He went to the godswood to think. The old gods didn’t answer, They just watched with carved red eyes like they always did.
'Father prays here,' he thought bitterly. 'Does he pray for me?' He doubted it.
The next morning he found Robb at the practice yard, alone. Robb was breathing hard, sweat on his brow.
“Fight me?” he asked.
Jon shrugged, took up a sword. They sparred until their arms shook. At the end Robb pulled him into a rough hug.
“Gods, we’re good.”
Jon tried to smile. He did love Robb. That made it worse. Because Robb didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He was a lord, loved and cared by everyone, with much and more to inherit.
Coming back in, Theon blocked his path. “Snow. Where you off to? The kennels?”
Jon glared. “Out of my way, Greyjoy."
Theon shoved him lightly. Robb wasn’t there to stop it this time.
Jon’s voice was low. “Push me again.”
Theon laughed. “Or what? You’ll cry to your lady mother?”
Jon’s stomach twisted at the words. He shoved Theon hard enough to make him stumble. Then he turned and left. He heard Theon’s laughter behind him but couldn’t do anything or lady fucking Stark would know. So he just rushed towards the stable wanting to spend some time tending to his pony, gifted to him by Lord Stark.
He found Arya in the stables.
She was brushing her pony, hair wild as ever.
“Jon!” she cried, face lighting up.
He smiled for her. Only for her. “Need help?”
She scowled at the knots in the pony’s mane. “I hate braiding.”
He took the brush and helped. Arya sighed.
“I heard Mother say you shouldn’t be here.” He kept brushing.
“I know.” She kicked the dirt.
“I want you here.” He swallowed hard.
“I know.”
At dinner, Ned sat at the high seat, tired but steady. He spoke to Jon once.
“How’s your training?” Jon didn’t look at Lady Stark. He didn’t dare.
“Good, Father.” he replied dutifully.
Ned nodded. That was it. That was all his father had to say to him in the whole of last week.
That night in his cold room he lay awake. He saw her face. Her commands. Her warning eyes. He saw Ned’s face too, Kind, Just, Blind.
'It’s your fault,' Jon thought. 'You did this to me. You brought me here. You gave me to her.'
He pressed his fist to his mouth so no one would hear him. He didn’t cry. He was too old for that. But the hatred burned in his belly like coals.
Catelyn’s POV
Catelyn Tully Stark watched from the window as the boys clashed in the yard below.
Boys. Hah.
Jon Snow was no boy now. Twelve, nearly thirteen and already grown taller than Robb in just a the last moon. Lean and long-limbed, with the promise of a man in his shoulders.
He moved like Brandon had at that age. That was the part that made her hate him most. He looked more like a true Stark then her son.
The way he carried himself. The easy grace in his stride, the dangerous quickness in the yard. Ser Rodrik praised them both, but the truth was plain to see: Jon was better.
Better with a sword, Better at reading his opponent, Better, better, better.
And Robb loved him for it. She heard Robb’s laughter on the wind, young and open-hearted. Jon’s answering smile was smaller. Reserved.
Careful, Always careful, Because he knew. Because she had taught him, his place always below Robb.
She turned away from the window, smoothing her gown over her hips. She found herself breathing hard. She wanted to scream. She heard Rickon shrieking with laughter down the hall, Bran’s more measured voice scolding him in that solemn little way of his.
She loved them, She loved them. They were hers. Ned’s too, of course. But Jon...Jon was not. Jon was the living proof of all her failures.
Of Ned’s betrayal, no matter what kind words he spoke or how his grey eyes tried to soothe her. She heard those words every night in the dark. “You know I love you.” And she whispered them back. Because she had to, Because that was her duty to her husband, to love him but....
But when the household slept, and she summoned Jon to her chamber separate from the one she shared with Ned, there was no duty in it. Only need. Not need for him......Seven save her, No, Need for control. Need to see him kneel. Need to remind herself that this boy who looked like Brandon and moved like a Stark was hers to command.
He always came when she sent for him. He would knock, softly.
“Enter.”
He’d close the door behind him, shoulders already stiff. She would sit, watching him with cold appraisal. He had grown so quickly, Too quickly.
His hair was black as night, unruly in the Stark way. His face was losing the softness of boyhood. High cheekbones, strong jaw. Brandon’s jaw.
The first time she realized that she had to grip the arms of her chair to keep from screaming at him.
“Boots,” she’d say, her voice even.
He’d go to his knees. Large, rough hands now. Not a child’s.
He unlaced her boots with precision, head bowed. She watched his dark hair. She wanted to yank it back and see fear in his eyes. Sometimes she did.
“Look at me,” she’d order.
He would, and his grey eyes were the worst of all. Ned’s eyes, Quiet, Sad.
“You think you’re a man now?” she’d ask once, voice honey-slow, mocking.
He didn’t answer. She slapped him once, open-handed.
“Answer me.”
He flinched but did not cry out. “No, my lady.”
“Good.” She made him rub her feet, Massage her calves. She’d hiss if he paused.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
Sometimes she’d trail her hem higher, exposing the pale skin of her thigh. Watching his eyes flick there and away, face burning. She delighted in that shame, knowing of the bastard's lust.
“Tell me you serve me,” she’d whisper. He would swallow. “I serve you, my lady.”
“Say it again.”He would.
“Again.” His voice would crack.
She would smile.
There were nights she made him turn around, stand facing the wall while she undressed. She told herself it was to humiliate him. To remind him of his place. But she was aware of how her own breathing changed, Of the heat in her blood, Of the dark, guilty thrill. And she hated herself for it.
Once, she made him run his hands over her stockinged legs, all the way to her knees. She watched him shudder, refusing to look at her. When he was done she told him to get out, voice raw.
She sat there for a long time, shaking. She still kissed Ned at night, Still let him hold her, Still let him spill himself inside her, But she never closed her eyes because if she did, she saw the bastard.
Bran asked her once why Jon never smiled at dinner. She’d smoothed his hair back and told him Jon was shy. Rickon didn’t notice anything at all too young to know better. Sansa was polite. Arya glared at her sometimes in that knowing way, but said nothing. Robb tried to joke with Jon, to clap his shoulder in the yard.
Jon would half-smile and shrug him off gently.
Catelyn saw all of it. She kept her mask on tight. In the day she was the Lady of Winterfell, mother of five, beloved of the North. At night she was something else.
And she told herself it was Jon’s fault.
His presence.
His blood.
His face.
His Bastard nature.
But deep inside, she knew the truth.
She did this because she could.
Because he let her, Because he obeyed.
Because Ned had brought him here and told her to treat him as her own, and she had chosen to interpret that command in her own twisted way. She still hated Ned Stark for it. And yet she smiled for him. She always smiled. Because that was what a good wife did. In the end, Catelyn Stark knew she was damned. But she would burn before she let anyone know.
Especially Jon Snow. He would kneel for her until she was in the grave. And she would hate him for it every single day.
JON- (AGE-14)
CATELYN'S POV:
Winterfell thrummed with life that spring.
Rickon was toddling now, bold and unafraid, demanding attention with fat little hands. Bran followed him like a watchful puppy, determined to keep him safe. Arya was trouble in braids and dirt-stained dresses, forever challenging Sansa, who tried so hard to be a lady.
Robb was a young lord in training, proud and laughing, broadening in the shoulders, calling men by name in the yard.
And Jon Snow was taller than them all. Catelyn watched him from the dais one day, her goblet resting in her hand as her household ate. He sat quietly at Robb’s side. Grey eyes lowered.
He was 14, nearly grown. Stark’s face on him like a curse. But worse, he carried himself like a Stark.
Calm. Controlled.
His voice had deepened over the past year. He spoke rarely, but when he did, men listened. She hated him for that.
She smiled at Ned as he told some dull story of white elk in the Wolfswood. She even let her fingers brush his wrist on the table.
Perfect. Loyal. Loving.
But inside she was cold iron and something else. She remembered last night.
Jon had knocked at her chamber's door.
She made him wait. Then she called him in sharply, ignoring the stiff, resentful set of his shoulders.
She never struck him anymore. She didn’t have to. He was too proud to cry, too careful to argue. It was better that way.
“Fetch the logs,” she’d said calmly.
He hesitated.
“It’s near midnight.”
Her voice turned to frost.
“Did I ask the hour?”
He clenched his jaw and bowed.
“My lady.”
He carried them in, armful by armful. His hands were raw by the time she told him to stop.
"Now massage my calves." She said, Raising her gown all the way to her upper thigh. This was also something that has changed. Now she showed her body to the bastard freely, without shame or guilt. Teasing him, tormenting him.
As the bastard kneeled before her she raised her gown all the way up to the waist. Showing off her hairy cunt.
She smiled as the bastard tried to avert his eyes but failed like always. 'After all he was a bastard born of lust, full of lust himself.'
As he took her leg his lap she suddenly leaned forward grabing the bastards hair and forcing his face in her weeping cunt.
She groaned as the bastard started licking her cunt like she had taught him for the past moon. She moaned and trembled rubbing her cunt on the bastard's face. She reached her peak within few minutes.
She kicked the bastard away when she was satisfied. Thinking of something new, she stood up and took the bastard's hair her hand forcing him to look at her.
"Open your mouth, bastard" She command.
He hesitated a little but opened his mouth all the same. She then collected the spit in her mouth and spat in his mouth and covered his mouth with her hand.
"Swallow, bastard. This is what you are good for. To lick me, to worship me, to swallow my release and spit, to satisfy me. This is your life till I die." She smirked as he swallowed.
She rubbed her thighs together trying to control her arousal. She remembered the week before.
summoning him to do something more forbidden.
The bastard entered her chamber, immediately bolting the door like he always did.
She looked at the bastard and her resolved deepened. He looked too much like Brandon, tall, strong and her.
She started striping in front of him. Seeing this he averted his gaze.
"Look at me, bastard." She snapped.
Immediately he looked at her taking in her body. Slowly she removed her shift, and small clothes making herself completely bare in front of him.
Seeing his eyes roaming all over her body, she smirked. "Like what you see, bastard."
His eyes which were leering at her breasts immediately snapped to meet her eyes.
"If you are done satisfying you lustful bastard eyes, strip."
His eyes widened, mouth opened as if trying to say something. This was something new to him, this was the first time she had commanded him to strip.
"Don't make me repeat myself." She warned using the same hard voice she had used when he was small and she wanted him to rub her feet for the first time.
"My la..." He stared but she cut him off. "Now."
He looked down at the floor and stared untying his tunic. In a minute he was as bare as her trying to hide his modesty with his hands. But she could see it, his bastard member already hard and ready.
"Come, kneel before me." She said calmly trying to keep her excitement out of her voice.
She stood with her legs further apart then what was necessary to stand. As he kneeled before her , she placed her hands in his hairs and brought his face to her cunt. "Lick" she ordered.
The bastard that he was started licking her with some skill, this was the third time he was doing this but his skill has improved she thought through her moans.
When she was close to peak, she pushed him away.
"On the bed now." She breathed.
When he delayed in getting up she took hold of his hairs and dragged the still kneeling bastard towards the bed. "Hurry, bastard."
As the bastard finally got on the bed, she looked at his cock, large for his age, hard and ready. She got on the bed, pushed his hand which was trying to hide his cock and took it in her hand.
"My lady. .... Please" bastard moaned. "Cant...no"
"Shut up, Bastard. Don't try to hide your bastard lust. It doesn't suit your nature."
She looked at his laying in her bed with his hard cock in her hand and tighten her hold, making his whimper pathetically.
"Be greatful bastard, grateful that a lady like me is touching your filthy cock." She used her other hand to take hold of his balls. "Look at this bastard cock." She teased squeezing his balls.
She took delight as he whimper and tears leaked out of his eyes.
She then spat in her hand and stroked his cock making it wet and climbed on It, easily taking it into her cunt.
She and the bastard moaned together as his cock entered her. She started riding Immediately trying to reach her high without any care for him.
The bastard tumbled releasing his seed in her cunt within a minute but she didn't stop.
"This is what you're good for, bastard. This is your life now, you will satisfy me whenever i call you." She breathed scratching his pale chest, leaving red lines all over it.
As she continued riding him the voice of skin slapping skin became more vulgar with his cock and her cunt now covered in white cream.
When she reach her peak, the bastard released his seed one more time inside her and She slumped beside him.
"Get out," she breathed.
As the bastard dressed himself she rested on her bed, still naked, her body buzzing with lingering pleasure.
"Make sure this remains between us, bastard." She warned. "Even if you dared let out a word about this on one will believe you."
"Aye, my lady."
She chuckled looking at his shame filled face as he looked at her sweat covered body.
"You might have your own bastard in nine moons, bastard." She said just to look at his terror filled face.
No one knew what happened that night, what been happening every other night. And she would make sure noone will know in the future and as for the bastard's seed taking root in her belly, she didnt care. If Ned can have a bastard, so can she and no one will know her child is a bastard, she would pass it off as Ned's.
'Who knows I might already carry his child.' She mused knowing her moon's blood was already two weeks late.
But she didn't care, all her future children will be trueborn no matter if they are fathered by the bastard.
Because Jon would never tell. And that was the truth of it.
She told herself it was justified. That Ned had forced Jon on her—raise him as your own—and this was what that meant.
Breaking him down. Reminding him he was not a Stark. Using him to satisfy her. But when she watched him in the yard, parrying Rodrik’s blows with practiced grace, or laughing when Arya tried to trip Robb, something twisted in her chest.
He was supposed to be ashamed. He wasn’t. Not enough.
So she made him ashamed. She would praise Robb in front of him, lavish and warm.
“Oh, my sweet boy, you’ve grown so strong!”
She would ruffle Bran’s hair and tell him stories of Riverrun. She would kiss Rickon’s head and hush him to sleep. She would fix Arya’s braids, badly, and scold her with a smile.
Even Sansa got a mother’s gentle touch.
But for Jon? It was always silence.
And when the hall emptied, and servants left, and torches guttered low, then she’d call for him.
He would kneel to tie her boots.
She would insult the dirt on his hands.
Have him stand in the corner while she read, just to waste his time.
She would issue commands with icy precision.
“You exist to serve this family, to serve me."
"Lick me."
"Use your bastard cock."
"Don't speak."
"Out."
That was what she told him. Over and over.
Until he whispered it back.
She would watch him leave, shoulders set in that rigid line, fists clenched at his sides. And she would breathe easier. Because then, for a moment, she felt in control.
She knew it had gone too far. Seven forgive her but there was no way back.
The world thought she was kind.
A good lady.
A loyal wife.
Ned still held her in the night.
Still kissed her.
Still told her she was beautiful.
She let him believe it.
She smiled, even as she loathed him for the boy he’d cursed her with.
But she loathed Jon more. Because he was the one she could hurt.
She heard Rickon calling for her down the hall and forced her mouth into a gentle curve. She smoothed her skirts and walked out to meet her son.
Lady Stark.
Mother of five.
Beloved of Winterfell.
And behind her, the door to her chamber closed on the memory of Jon Snow kneeling at her feet.
He would keep kneeling, he would keep serving, he would keep satisfying her.
Until the day she died.
Jon’s POV (Age 14)
Jon wiped the sweat from his eyes and raised the practice sword again. It was heavier than a real blade, meant to tire the arm and train the strength. His tunic clung to his back. His chest heaved in the cold air of the yard.
Ser Rodrik’s mustaches bristled as he scowled.
“Again, Snow. From the guard.”
Jon gritted his teeth. He didn’t answer. He obeyed like he always did.
Steel cracked against oak shield. He twisted, let Rodrik’s blow glance off, and countered hard, aiming at the old knight’s hip.
Rodrik was better. But Jon was faster.
They moved in a blur of strikes and parries, until the old man’s arm shook.
Jon’s final thrust landed, blunt tip thudding into the padded armor.
Rodrik raised his hand.
“I Yield.”
Jon stepped back, breathing hard.
Rodrik’s eyes crinkled. “Good. That’s one for you today.”
Jon didn’t smile. He just nodded.
Robb had stopped sparring with him weeks ago. Jon had bested him too often.
They still trained together, drills, archery, riding, but with swords, it was no contest now.
Robb pretended to be happy for him. But Jon saw it in his eyes. Frustration, Shame.
He didn’t want to embarrass his brother. But he needed this. Because she couldn’t take it from him.
He remembered last night with shame.
Standing in her chamber naked, his hard cock bare before her.
“lick,” Lady Stark had said simply like she was ordering some dog.
He’d knelt. Worked until his jaw and tongue were sore, drinking her white spluge.
When he had drank it for the first time he had nearly vomited but now he was getting used to the salty taste.
She moaned and trembled on her bed. Calling him names, telling him how he was only good for this.
When he was done, she inspected his face covered his her release using her toe.
“It’s filthy. But you like it, Don't you bastard." She teased.
He’d ground his teeth not denying her because to his shame he did like it, his cock harder then ever.
He was in her control, his lust for her in her control, even his body betrayed him in her presence.
He hadn’t spoken, Just obeyed and fucked her till she kicked him out of her bed.
But here, on the yard, he could speak with his sword. Control his sword.
He could fight back.
He trained until his arms ached.
He drilled until his legs were lead.
When the yard emptied, he practiced alone, cutting at straw men until the shafts split and splintered.
Ser Rodrik let him. The old knight would watch, saying nothing. Sometimes he gave quiet corrections. Other times he just nodded.
The guardsmen stopped laughing at the bastard long ago. They watched him now. Sometimes, in the hall, they’d clap his shoulder.
“Fine work today, Snow.”
“A real wolf, that one.”
Theon tried to bait him. “You’ll wear out your arm for nothing, bastard.”
Jon just stared at him. He didn’t rise to it anymore.
Because he knew. Theon wouldn’t last ten heartbeats against him now. And Theon knew it, too.
Robb tried to stay close. Jon loved him for it, even as it hurt. They’d sit in the godswood sometimes.
Silent.
Robb would talk about leading men, about Father’s lessons. Jon would listen, nodding. Pretending he didn’t care he’d never command anyone. That he’d never be a Stark.
Arya was better. She didn’t pretend.
“You’re better than all of them,” she’d say.
She’d grin with her dirty face and kick at the snow. Jon ruffled her hair, even when she swatted at him.
Sansa barely spoke to him. He didn’t blame her. He saw the way Lady Stark looked at him when Sansa was near. Like he was a stain. Jon tried to stay out of her way.
But at night, returning to his chamber after serving lady Stark. In his bed, he thought of Father.
He hated it. hated how he was betraying the man by laying with his wife. Hated how much he wanted Ned Stark to see him.
To say the truth.
To explain.
To tell him why.
Instead Ned just looked at him with those tired eyes. Treated him kindly, Respectfully. But not like a son.
And she, Lady Stark, played the perfect lady and mother in public.
Jon watched her kiss Rickon’s head.
Tell Bran stories.
Scold Arya with laughter in her voice.
Smile at Robb like he was the sun.
He watched and swallowed ashes, knowing noone would believe his truth.
At night she summoned him.
At night he served her, to lick her, to satisfy her.
At night he swallowed every curse, every scream.
Because if he spoke a word, noone would believe him.
Ned would see it as betrayal.
Robb would hate him.
Arya would cry.
So he let her. let her control him, own him. But in the yard, he did not let anyone.
He learned the longsword, The shortsword, The shield and spear. He learned to move quiet as a shadow, quick as a snake.
He watched Ser Rodrik’s footwork. Copied the guards’ dirty tricks. He sparred with them all.
He lost.
Then he lost less.
Then he won.
Even Ser Rodrik couldn’t always beat him now. One bout in three was Jon’s.
Rodrik would grin and say, “Again, boy.”
Jon would nod. Because if he stopped moving, he would think. If he thought, he would remember.
He wasn’t a Stark. He was a Snow.
But he would be the best Snow the North had ever seen. He’d carve it into the world with the edge of his blade.
And no one, no lady, no lord, not even Catelyn Stark herself, could stop him.
Jon stood outside the Lord’s solar for what felt like hours. His boots were muddy from the godswood path. He’d been there all morning, rehearsing what he would say.
He held his breath as the guard finally rapped on the door and Lord Stark’s voice called, “Enter.”
Jon opened it. Ned Stark sat at the table, papers and ledgers spread before him. The fire in the hearth cast deep shadows on his lined face.
He looked up, eyes steady and cool grey, the same eyes Jon saw in his own reflection.
For a moment, Jon nearly turned and fled. But he swallowed the fear.
“My lord.”
Ned set down the quill.
“Jon. Come in.”
He closed the door carefully behind him, fists clenched at his sides.
Ned’s gaze softened a fraction.
“What is it, son?”
Jon flinched at the word. He hated how much it still pierced him. He took a breath. “I’ve come to ask you...to let me take the black.”
Silence fell.
Ned’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in the way a man squints at pain.
“The Wall.”
Jon nodded stiffly.
“Aye, my lord."
He tried to speak steadily.
“I’m a Snow. I have no claim here. No place. I... I would serve the realm. Take the oaths.”
He hesitated.
“Find some honor for myself, a name, greatness."
Ned looked older than he ever had. He rubbed his temple.
“You’ve thought on this?”
Jon felt something burn in his throat.
“For years you have told me tales of how even a bastard can achieve honour, a name at the wall. How many a bastards have become great Lord Commanders, who protected the realm from the Wildlings."
Ned rose slowly. He circled the table and placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder.
“You’re young.”
Jon’s jaw worked. “I’m strong. I can fight. Ser Rodrik says—”
“I know what Rodrik says.” Ned’s voice was gentle. Too gentle.
“Think carefully, Jon. Once the words are said, there is no turning back. No wife. No children. No name. Only duty. Only the cold.”
Jon let out a bitter laugh. “No name? My name is Snow. What would I lose?”
Ned winced. Jon felt the small satisfaction of it. But he regretted it, too.
Because Ned didn’t deserve his hatred, his betrayal, he didn't his wife's hate and betrayal either.
And yet he did.
“Please,” Jon said, voice cracking. “Let me go. It’s all I want.”
Ned’s fingers tightened on his shoulder.
“Very well. If you are sure. I will speak with Benjen when next he visits. I will grant it.”
Jon’s heart hammered. Relief threatened to make him sob. He forced himself to stand straight.
“Thank you. My lord.”
Ned squeezed once, then let go.
“You are a Stark, you may not have my name but you have my blood.” he said quietly.
Jon didn’t answer. He left the solar, shoulders light, feet quick on the stone floor. For the first time in years, he felt like breathing but a small traitorous part of his mind was also sad, having to leave the pleasure of lady Catelyn's body.
But he knew, his relationship with lady Stark can easily lead him to his death.
He was going. He was getting out.
But Winterfell had ears. He didn’t know who told her.
Maybe a maid. Maybe one of the guards. But when she summoned him that night, her voice was calm, Icy.
He knocked. “Come.”
He pushed the door open. Her fire burned low.
She sat in her chair, hands folded over her silk robe. Her eyes pinned him like a hawk pins a rabbit.
“I heard you spoke with my lord husband today.”
Jon swallowed. “Aye. My lady.”
She tilted her head.
“The Night’s Watch.”
Jon nodded once. Silence stretched. Then she smiled, It was a knife’s edge, cruel.
“Oh, Jon,” she said sweetly.
He felt the hairs rise on his neck..
“Do you truly think you can run from your duty?”
He clenched his fists. “It would be service. An honorable oath.”
Her voice sharpened. “Don’t be stupid.”
He flinched.
She rose, her robe falling open giving him a glimpse of her bare body.
She circled him slowly. “You think to escape me?”
Jon didn’t answer. She stopped behind him.
“I’m not finished with you.” She hissed her hand on his clothed cock.
His heart thundered as his cock hardened at her touch.
He felt the old, hot lust twist inside him.
But he didn’t dare show it.
“You belong here,” she whispered. “You belong to this family. To me.” she came in front of him letting her robe fall to the ground. Showing her mature body, huge pale tits topped with dark nipples, her belly marked with Pregnancy, her wide hips and her red fur covered cunt.
He swallowed.
“My lady—”
“To me,” she hissed taking hold of his breeches and unfastening them.
He shut his eyes. She stepped closer taking hold of his naked hard cock.
“I want you here. Serving. Until my death.”
Her hand squeezing and stroking his cock. He shuddered.
“You will not speak of this again. You will not insult me or this house with your foolish dreams of running to old men on a wall.”
He said nothing.
Her voice lowered.
“Say it.” she squeezed his cock harder.
“SAY it.” stroking it faster.
Jon’s voice cracked.
“I...I will stay.” he moaned.
She leaned close. “Whose are you?”
He clenched his jaw until it hurt. “Yours.” he breathed
“Louder.”
He hated the lust in his body.
“Yours. My lady.”
Silence.
She breathed once, then stepped back.
“Good.” She turned her back on him, her hand still on his cock. Pulling him through his cock towards the bed. Jon stumbled towards the bed.
The chamber was dark, cold, his body sweaty, lady Stark panting beside him.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. Clenched his teeth now that his lust was in control he could think clearly again.
The Night’s Watch was gone. His freedom was gone. She had taken that too.
"Out" She said like always.
He walked to the yard Instead of his chamber.
It was empty and dark at that hour.
He picked up the practice sword.
Lifted it.
Brought it down.
Again.
Again.
Until his arms trembled.
Until he couldn’t think.
Until he couldn’t remember the sound of her voice, shape of her body.
He was hers.
But tomorrow he would fight.
And he would keep fighting.
Until the day he broke free.