Chapter Text
Winterfell
296 AC
Jon I
His boots crunched in the snow as he tried to make it back to the castle. The Wolfswood was far too large to explore, and Jon was far too inexperienced and weak to hunt properly. Besides, most of the big game would be at the centre of the forest, and that would take close to a fortnight to reach.
So he stayed just at the edge, where he hunted small prey like rabbits. Ghost seemed to know exactly where to look, whilst avoiding any larger predators.
‘I should probably head back,’ he pondered.
Lord Stark didn’t know he was leaving to hunt; all he told him was that he’d taken a sudden interest in Wintertown and wanted to explore more and meet the folk there. The only people who did know were Robb, Arya, and sadly Theon Greyjoy, who caught him leaving but swore he wouldn’t tell anyone as long as Jon didn’t tell Lord Stark he was visiting the brothel.
He snorted at the memory. ‘As if Theon’s word meant anything.’
He knew he was back when his eyes laid upon the tall, dark stone walls of the castle. It certainly wasn’t a pretty thing, but it damn well did what it was meant to do.
Passing through Wintertown, he eyed all the folk there: butchers, bakers, crafters, teachers, merchants. Jon thought himself better than that. He had never grown up thinking his life would lead to this. Never. He dreamt of glory—of becoming someone people remembered and envied.
‘Nobody dreams of wanting to become any of these people,’ he thought grimly.
He threw the only rabbit he’d found earlier at Ghost, and the direwolf snatched it in the air and began chewing on it. He left him there in the courtyard and decided he needed a change of clothes.
When he changed and walked down the corridor, he met young Bran with Sansa walking his way.
“Jon!” Bran screamed. He darted out of his sister’s grasp and jumped at him. Jon couldn’t contain his smile and hugged him.
“My god! Look at you, jumping and hopping. Have you been good?” Bran nodded excitedly and started explaining what he’d been doing that day.
Sansa walked up to him and stood there with her graceful pose. “Bran, come. Mother is waiting for us.” She then looked at him. “And I’m sure our cousin has matters to attend to.”
Bran pouted but reluctantly went with her.
The ‘cousin’ was new. Sansa was starting to follow her mother about more and more, thinking that if she did enough, she’d become the very image of the perfect lady.
Lady Stark made it clear she did not want his presence. The lady was never abusive towards him, physically or verbally; she only kept her distance. Jon was honestly happy for it, for it was also awkward for him, knowing what he meant to her.
The product of your previous betrothal’s lack of faith. That was what he was.
He stepped into the courtyard and grabbed his training sword. He took a couple of practice swings with it and then began his lesson with Ser Rodrik.
Jon knew he was pretty damn good with a sword. Even the reluctant master-at-arms admitted it. It seemed complimenting him felt like a betrayal to the heir of Winterfell.
He was fast—faster than most—so he used it to his fullest advantage. Robb was stronger than him, but apparently his father had been even larger than Lord Stark, and Robb was just a late bloomer. It did not matter, however, for no matter how hard Robb could swing, it was pointless if he hit nothing.
Jon made sure he always hit nothing.
“Damn it, Sand, stand still!” Robb shouted.
Jon couldn’t help but giggle. “If you think you’re going to call me Sand and then I’m going to let you hit me, you really must be losing it, my lord,” he said mockingly.
Robb just swung harder, which only made it easier for him to dodge the blows.
Ser Rodrik noticed this. “Keep yourself controlled. You keep swinging like that and you’ll have nothing left in you.”
‘Too late,’ Jon thought. Robb was panting and his swings were becoming desperate.
Jon waited for Robb to over-swing again, then slashed his sword at the back of his knee, sending him to the ground with both hands braced.
“Damn it, Jon, you’re one tough bastard to get,” Robb panted.
“Language, my lord,” Ser Rodrik scolded.
Jon couldn’t help but giggle as they headed to leave the yard. He felt someone watching him and looked up to see Lady Stark glaring at him.
Jon truly did all in his power to show that he had no bad intentions towards Robb and wasn’t trying to embarrass him. Though it seemed nothing he did could prove he only wished the best for his cousin.
‘I could take a sword in the heart for her son, and she’d think I accidentally fell onto it,’ he imagined grimly.
A very young servant girl rushed up to them. “Lord Stark has asked for both of you in his solar.”
“What do you think it could be?” Robb asked as they made their way there.
“As long as it’s not punishment for anything, I really couldn’t care,” Jon answered honestly.
They entered the large solar, and Ned Stark stood behind his great wooden desk with pieces of parchment laid across it. The lord certainly had a presence about him, only enhanced by the large Valyrian steel sword, Ice, hanging on the wall behind him.
Lord Stark looked up. “Boys, sit down. We have some things to discuss.”
“Did we do something wrong, Father?” Robb asked as they both sat down in front of him.
Lord Stark simply chuckled and shook his head. “Did you do something wrong?” Robb just shook his head slowly, though he looked anything but innocent. “Very well, then. There shall be no punishments. That is not why I brought you here. Robb, I am deciding a very important part of your future, and I think it’s only fair you get a say in it.”
Robb sat up a bit straighter and tried to look serious. “What are we deciding, Father?”
The Lord of Winterfell closed his eyes and sighed slightly before opening them again. “Who your betrothal is to be.”
Jon looked at Robb and saw his cheeks turn red. “Be-bet—betrothal?” he squeaked.
Lord Stark nodded. “Your mother wishes you to marry a woman of the south. She says it will be better for you. But you must know the chances of you getting to know your betrothed well are not as likely as if she were from the North. Alas, it does not matter what we think; what’s important is what you want—within reason, of course.”
‘Of course Lady Stark wants him to marry some southern lady. Even though she’s lived in the North for over a decade, she still seems to favour the ways of the South,’ Jon thought, rolling his eyes. ‘Though it may not matter, since someone’s already caught your eye, right Robb?’
A couple of moons ago, all the major northern houses (with the exception of the Boltons) had come to visit to celebrate Robb’s thirteenth nameday. He’d seemed to fall in love with one of the Manderly girls from White Harbour—Wynafryd, her name was. The girl seemed quite happy to spend time with him and tell him all the stories and funny tales she’d heard from the docks.
“I–uh–uh, I mean, this is… this is a lot,” Robb stammered.
Lord Stark seemed to understand. “You don’t need to give me an answer today, nor tomorrow, nor within the month. But it would be better settled now than when you’re older.”
Robb seemed to relax at that. “Thank you, Father.”
Jon was quite interested in the conversation and especially amused at how beet-red the heir to Winterfell was—and he was most definitely going to tease him about it.
‘But why am I here?’ he pondered.
“You may leave, Robb. I have some things to discuss with Jon.” Robb stood up and left the solar.
They didn’t say anything to each other, and Jon was starting to get quite uncomfortable with the silence.
“Jon… where are you going in the mornings?”
‘Seven hells. He knows,’ Jon realised.
“Just out, my lord. I—I like thinking by myself,” he said, trying not to tell a direct lie.
Lord Stark just huffed in response. “Well, I know you’re not in Wintertown, as nobody ever seems to see you there. But I do know you come from the Wolfswood—and don’t try to deny it; multiple people have reported it to me.”
Jon cursed those rats, always trying to gain favour from the Lord of Winterfell.
“It’s not safe for you, Jon. I don’t know what I’d do if you were to get hurt—or worse—in my care,” he said grimly.
“You’d bury me. And then forget me…” he said without thinking.
The Lord of Winterfell’s eyes widened, and he seemed at a loss for words. He quickly recovered, however. “Jon… why would you think that? People care for you. Arya, Robb, Sansa, Bran—and others—care for you. I care for you! You are my brother’s son, my nephew. You’re not some name that will be lost in the wind,” he declared with conviction.
Jon thought that was a sad way to be remembered—the bastard nephew to a queen, the greatest swordsman who ever lived, and the lord of Winterfell. He was associated with greats, but what was he?
“Aye, you’re right. Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I promise not to go back to the woods,” he lied.
That seemed to ease the lord, and he appeared to remember something as he pulled a letter from his drawer. “Your uncle wrote to you.”
Jon took the letter carefully and thanked him before leaving the solar. He rushed back to his room, quickly opened it, and read the words his uncle—and his hero—had written to him.
Dear Jon,
It seems your training is going more than well, if your humble stories of what you’re doing are true. I understand wanting to find peace, for I myself seem to be grasping for those moments more and more lately. I wish I could see you—and the queen feels the same. I remember seeing you as just a little babe, with your few strands of black hair and your perfect indigo eyes, just like your mother. I know without a doubt she would be proud of you. Be strong and be brave.
Love,
Your Uncle.
Jon smiled at the letter and placed it with the collection of all the others.
‘Would she be proud?’ he wondered. How could he know? All he knew was that he certainly didn’t feel proud. Robb had subtly suggested he might one day be the future master-at-arms of Winterfell.
‘I’d rather be a lowly hedge knight than a future Ser Rodrik,’ he thought.
He decided to walk through Wintertown with Arya, who was bouncing about and inspecting all the shops with swords and armour.
All he was looking at were the people—the tired looks on their faces, the way they seemed to move without thought whilst doing their tasks.
‘I would suffocate like this,’ he thought. ‘Lord Stark said I wouldn’t just be another name. But why wouldn’t I be?’
As he and Arya walked back to the castle, he looked at the cold stone walls and knew it was only a matter of time before he had to leave this place.