Chapter Text
Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and Hand of the King (pending a refusal he was currently crafting in his head), had survived two wars.
He had survived the Mad King’s pyromania. He had survived the Tower of Joy.
He was not sure he would survive puberty. specifically, Jon’s puberty.
It was three in the morning. The candles had burned low, sputtering in a pool of wax that looked suspiciously like a melted dragon. Ned lay on his back, staring at the stone ceiling, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Beside him, Catelyn was aggressively brushing her hair, the rhythmic scritch-scratch sounding like a metronome counting down to the doom of House Stark.
"He walked into the Great Hall today," Catelyn said, breaking the silence. Her voice was tight.
"Late."
Ned flinched. "He was training, Cat."
"He didn't just walk in, Ned. He gracefully sauntered," Catelyn hissed, slamming the brush down. "He pushed the doors open with both hands, his cloak billowed; I don't even know where the wind came from, the windows were shut... and he looked around with that... that look."
Ned squeezed his eyes shut. He knew the look. It was the Look of Melancholic Destiny. It was the Look of 'I am burdened by a glorious purpose.' It was Rhaegar’s look. It was the look that made Lyanna Stark ride off into a sunset that ended in tragedy.
"He’s just moody," Ned lied weakly. "It’s the teenage years. Robb is moody too."
"Robb is sulky," Catelyn corrected sharply. "Robb slouches and eats too much venison. Jon...
glides. And did you see him with Ser Rodrik in the yard? He didn't just disarm Theon. He disarmed him, spun the sword in his hand, and then apologized with a smile that made the septa drop her embroidery hoop."
Ned pulled the furs up to his chin. "He has been practicing."
"It’s arrogant!"
It’s Targaryen, Ned screamed internally. It’s the genetic memory of a thousand years of people who think they are gods because they can ride oversized lizards.
"And it’s not just the arrogance, Ned," Catelyn continued, her voice lowering to a whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. "It’s your daughters."
Ned’s heart stopped. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, instantly freezing in the chill of the room. "The... the girls?"
"Sansa," Catelyn said, sounding horrified. "She requested that Jon sit next to her at dinner. She said she wanted to hear him talk about... poetry."
"Poetry?" Ned squeaked. "Jon doesn't know poetry. I made sure of it. I gave him nothing but books on agriculture and snow removal."
"Apparently, he improvises," Catelyn said grimly. "And Arya? She’s worse. Usually, she hits him with sticks. Today? She asked him to braid her hair."
Ned sat up bolt upright. "He touched her hair?"
"Yes. And he did a better job than I do. He hummed a tune while he did it, Ned. A sad, haunting tune."
Ned scrambled out of bed and began pacing. A sad, haunting tune. The Song of Ice and Fire. Or perhaps just something he picked up from a bard. But knowing Jon's blood, it was probably a song about marrying your sister to keep the bloodline pure.
"I have to send him to the Wall," Ned muttered.
"Immediately. Tonight. He can take a horse."
Catelyn looked at him, surprised by his sudden agreement. "Well, I’ve been saying that for years, but isn't this a bit sudden? Because of a braid?"
"It starts with a braid, Cat!" Ned raved, waving his hands. "Then it’s a blue winter rose in the lap. Then it’s a tourney at Harrenhal. Then thousands of people die!"
Catelyn stared at him. "Ned, are you feeling quite well?"
"I am under a lot of stress," Ned said, leaning heavily against the cold stone wall. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't tell her that every time Jon flipped his hair out of his eyes, Ned saw the ghost of the Silver Prince. He couldn't tell her that Jon’s "brooding silence" wasn't Northern stoicism, it was Valyrian drama.
Most of all, he couldn't tell her that Targaryens had a historical tendency to look at their siblings and think, 'Yes, this is the only dating pool worthy of me.'
Technically, Jon was their cousin. But Targaryens weren't picky about the specifics of the family tree.
"You need to speak to him," Catelyn said, returning to her bed. "About his station. He walks around here like he owns the place. Like he’s a... a Prince."
Ned let out a hysterical little laugh that he quickly turned into a cough. "A Prince. Yes. Imagine that."
"And speak to the girls," Catelyn added, blowing out the candle. "Sansa was making eyes at him over her lemon cakes. It’s unseemly. A highborn lady swooning over her bastard half-brother."
If only he were just a bastard, Ned thought, staring into the darkness. If he were a Brandon bastard, he’d just be sleeping with tavern wenches. If he were a Robert bastard, he’d be drinking the cellar dry. But no, he has to be Rhaegar’s. Which means he’s going to be sensitive, incredibly talented, and accidentally seduce his own kin while looking tragically into the middle distance.
Ned walked to the window and looked out at the courtyard. Below, in the moonlight, a figure was sitting on the edge of the fountain.
It was Jon. He was wearing a black cloak. He was looking up at the moon. He reached out and caught a falling snowflake in his hand, staring at it with profound intensity.
From the window above Ned’s, he heard a distinct, dreamy sigh. It sounded like Sansa.
From the window below, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Probably Arya.
Ned groaned and rested his forehead against the freezing glass.
"Winter is coming," he whispered to himself. "And it’s bringing incest."