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Chapter Text

“I know he’s not your bastard Lord Stark.”  Maege Mormont said sternly.

When the Aunt of the Lord of Bear Island,  requested a private audience with him, Eddard Stark  had expected some mundane matter, not a blunt accusation.

“Come again. Lady Mormont?”   Ned said as he took a swig of ale and looked up from his papers.

“I know this Jon Snow isn’t your bastard.  He’s too young to be Brandon’s either. He doesn’t look Dornish either.  So there’s only one option to whose he is.”

Ned’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t insult my intelligence or make me spell it out for you.” Maege Mormont said.

Ned bristled and set his quill aside.

“The babe has done-

“You think I intend to murder a babe because of who his father was?  I come with an offer. One I wished I could have made, She-Bear to She-Wolf. ”

“And what offer is that?”  Ned Stark asked.

“Let me take the boy back with me to Bear Island, what place would there be for him in Winterfell?  Your wife will not love him, and Bear Island is far from the Lions and Spiders and Vipers of King’s Landing.”

“As is Winterfell.” Ned replied, his face hard as the mountains that made up the bosom of  The North itself.   

 Maege felt a flash of pity,  The boy had never expected to be in his position, never expected to marry his brother's wife.  He had lost so much and gained little but a son and a bastard nephew in return . No one but Tywin Lannister had won “Robert’s Rebellion.”  Everyone else was dead or had just been lucky to survive.

Maege breathed out.  “The boy will grow up bitter and sullen in Winterfell.. Especially if his siblings do not love him.  Your Tully wife, will think of Daemon Blackfyre and Bittersteel, every time she looks at him, the boy may go down the same path as them , even if he doesn't want a crown and a throne.”

“He could grow up to be Daeron the Drunkard for all I care.  I promised to keep him safe.” Lord Stark sad in a mix of a hiss and growl, his eyes full of a terrible anger, his voice laden with the chill of winter. 

Ned drained his horn of ale and for a moment her looked older than Maege’s crabby  brother Jeor.

“On Bear Island, he can learn to fish, and to hunt. He’d learn to respect women and i’d teach him how to fight myself.”

“Why are you so insistent on having Jon foster with you Lady Mormont?” he asked 

“The boy needs a mother, he needs a family and home, not a destiny, not a crown.  What plans do you have for him Lord Stark? Knighthood? Legitimization as a Stark?  Use him to gain the Iron Throne? Or do you intend for him the take the black and forget about him the second  he comes of age?”

Ned Stark regarded her with a murderous glare. For a second Maege thought Lord Stark would take up Ice and try to lop her head off.  The thought of such a thing amused and frightened her in equal measure.

“Knighthood, yes, perhaps a holdfast to rule in Robb’s name,   Moat Cailn even. I will not dissuade him from joining the Watch if that is his wish.”  Ned sighed and refilled his horn of ale with a white-knuckled grip.

“House Mormont has kept faith with mine own house for a thousand generations, some of those generations included ties of kinship. “  Ned said as he took another swig of ale.

“I will think on your offer Lady Mormont, for it is one that is deeply.... appreciated.  As would be your silence on the issue of Jon’s parentage.”

“Either foster him with me, Lord Wull, The Greatjon, or Howland Reed, the babe’s a strong one with cute pinch able cheeks.” Maege demanded.

Ned let the ghost of a smile flicker over his lips.  "You're dismissed Lady Mormont."

Maege bowed her head. and walked out out of the tent,  unable to hide her smile. 

Chapter Text

At eight, Jon Snow is sent to foster at Bear Island. Technically it is to page for her nephew Jorah, but the raven scroll with Lord Stark’s request for Jon Snow to be fostered  bears the name Maege Mormont.

There is little Targaryen is Jon Snow, save for his cheekbones.  Those who would have known dead dammed Prince Rhaegar best would note Jon Snow had the same melancholy demeanor as his father.  Although Maege suspected it was as much due to his treatment ,as it was being born in grief like his father.

Jorah’s pretty ornament wants nothing to due with the bastard, while Jorah looks he had no idea what to do with the boy.

Maege knows  what exactly to do with the boy.  

She will give him  a mother’s love because his is dead and its is not Catelyn Stark’s duty to provide it.  She will teach him all she knows about how to survive, and how to live a happy life. She will put a sword and shield in his hands when he is a man  grown and tell him to comeback with the shield or on it.    

“The lad is a good fighter.”  Jorah comments as she and Maege watch  Jon Spar with Bear Island’s Master of Arms Ulric Stane.

“A great fighter, Jorah, and a clever one too. He learns quickly,  and he’s a natural with a hand and halfer.” Maege corrects 

“I’d make a joke about the Bastard wielding a Bastard sword,  but you’d probably give me the back of your hand.” Jorah chuckles wryly. 

Maege is too focused on Jon ‘s duel.    Jon Snow is a quiet bookish, boy, even when playing with Maege’s girls, he’d rather fade into the background, than be the center of attention.   

Yet in the training yard, he is a different boy.   Fiercer, colder, crueler. He smiles when he fights more than when he plays Monsters and Maidens  Maege is proud of how quick her little wolf is at learning his footwork and parries, but also a little afraid.   Jon Snow is only a boy of nine, yet carries himself like a man five and forty. Bear Island breeds a harsh, stern people, but it does not  breed people who never experienced any joy or happiness.

“I wished he smiled like that when he played with us.”  Her soon to be second youngest daughter Jorelle says.

Maege frown’s deepens.  

The Godswood of Bear Island is a simple place.  The heart tree is a gnarled thing, with an older woman’s face that reminds him of Old Nan. 

Jon doesn’t know what quite to make of her.  The lady had specifically asked for him. Not for Robb, for Jon.   Jon may be eight but he’s not stupid. The Mormonts are an old and proud house, but a poor one.  The last time a Mormont had wed a Stark was Lord Alaric’s rule a little over two centuries ago. No doubt Maege was hoping to capitalize on her Nephew Jorah’s heroics during the Greyjoy rebellion,  Why else would Maege let a bastard sully her home?

At least Dacey and her siblings were kind to him.   Lord Jorah too. Jon did not like the Lady Lynesse though.  She looked at him like Lady Catelyn did, with a glare colder than ice and taunt pressed ,lips.

Jon had come to Heart Tree to pray,  and to seek comfort in the Gods. 

“Figured I would find you here.  You are too young to be sneaking out with girls.” The gruff voice of Lady Maege said from behind him.

Jon turned to face her.  The stout lady was clad in a green wool shift  with a black shawl draped over her broad shoulders.  Her eyes were surprisingly sad. 

“Nightmares?  Homesickness?”  Maege asked. She sat cross legged next to him 

It was both, mostly the former.   “Nightmare. I would prefer not to talk about it my lady.”

“We don’t have to talk about anything if you don't want to.” Maege said in gentleness that surprised Jon.

Jon remained silent.  Maybe if he just kept his eyes on the Heart Tree, Lady Mormont would become bored and leave him alone.

Lady Mormont sighed.   “I apologize Jon… You believe you are here solely for  political benefit.  That is part of the reason, I will not lie, but it is because I….” Maege looked at the heart tree.

“Has Lord Stark said anything to you of your mother?” 

Jon frowned.   

“No My Lady   Only that she died in her birthing bed a little after King Robert’s ascension.  Lor- Father wouldn’t even tell me her name. I begged him, but he refused.”

“Did he say he would tell you about her one day?”

Jon shook his head.  “When I asked him, he got very upset. He dismissed me from his solar  .”

Maege sighed.  “I will have to talk to  my liege about this when I make my annual visit with the other Lords and Masters.”

She regarded Jon  with a kind stare

 “I  will not lie to you Jon. I did not know your mother well, but your father loved her with all his heart.  She was a fierce, willful girl who died before her time. She would have loved you very much. On the march back to The North, I demanded your father allow you to  be fostered here, because every child deserves a mother. If you would have me. I would like to be a mother, a sweet, strong, boy like yourself deserves.”

“You mean it?”   Jon asked trying not to sound too  eager.   

This sounded too good to  be true. He would have a mother!  True he wouldn’t be able to take the Mormont name, but he’d have a mother!

“One cannot lie in front of a heart tree Jon  You will always have a place on Bear Island, and you will always  be my son from this day, until your last day.” Maege said with a smile.

Jon  hugged Maege with all the strength his eight year old frame  possessed. Maege laughed, tousled his hair and scooped him up in her arms.   

“Let get you back to your bed.” Maege told him.   Jon shifted uncomfortably.

“Nightmares?”  Maege asked.

Jon nodded 

"I hate them.”  He said as he found himself sobbing and hiccuping.  

“Who?”  Maege asked.   “The Statues of the Kings and Queens in the North.”  Jon told her. 

 “I dream I'm down there in the crypts.   Some of them are screaming at me.  Why are you here?  This isn’t your place!   Others scream at me to go deeper, but I don’t have a torch.   I’m screaming for father, for Uncle Benjen for Robb, I even scream for Lady Stark, even though I know she would never shed a tear for me.”  Jon told her.

He'd never told anyone of his nightmares.

Maege regarded him thoughtfully

“Fuck the King’s in the North and fuck Lady Stark.”  Maege told him

"You’re my son, you hear?   Bastard born you may be, but Stark blood runs through your veins just as much as your siblings.”

Maege planted a big sloppy kiss on his forehead.

"Dreams pass in time, my little cub.  There is no shame in nightmares. No shame in fear.  There is shame in running from it. So next time you dream of the Honored Dead tell them to piss off  because Winterfell is your home. The only time men are truly brave is when they face their fears. They may not overcome it on the first try, or the third or the tenth, but eventually they do.  And they  emerge stronger for it." Maege said as they stepped into her bedroom. 

"You can sleep with me for the night. All my girls have had nightmares so I don't mind.  Just don't snore or hog the furs okay?" Maege said with a teasing smile

"Yes my la- I mean,  yes mother." Jon said.

Maege kissed his cheek and tucked him in next to her.  She wrapped a strong arm around Jon 

 Jon   had never  never could bring himself to sneak into father's bed like Robb did when he had nightmares.  He was afraid of rousing Lady Stark's wrath. No doubt she would have shrieked, kicked him off the bed  and summoned the guards to drag him out of the chamber for sullying her bed with his presence.  

But Lady Mormont held him close.  Made him feel safe and content in a way he’d never felt before.

Chapter Text

“You’re lying! It can't be true! It can’t” Jon sobbed.

“It is Jon.” Jorah Mormont sadly 

“Why?  You’re a Knight.  You fought the Ironborn.  You-   You're a hero!” Jon said.

Jorah Mormont, his mother’s nephew was Jon’s hero.   He was second through the breach at Pyke, had unhorsed the Kingslayer, wielder of the Valryian steel sword Longclaw.   His father had voluntarily joined the Night’s Watch because he had such faith Jorah would be a great Lord of Bear Island.

And he was a slaver.  Ser Jorah Mormont was a slaver. A Mormont could not commit a greater sin.  And he had used the excuse of a hunting trip to flee from justice.

“It was a mistake, but the House needed money to pay off the debut I had accumulated I-

“For seven’s sake just knock to boy out and let’s go Jorah!” his wife Lady Lynesse said desperately.  Jon noticed for once the cold sad women sitting in the boat Jorah had tethered to shore was dressed modestly.   He also noted Jorah had his plate and coat of mail in the boat

Like Jon, Jorah was in leathers and hunting greens with a bow and arrow.  But Jorah had no hunting spear.  Only Longclaw and two daggers at his hip.

True the hunting spear was sized for a child,  but it was long enough to reach Jorah’s heart if Jon was quick enough.  The only armor Jorah had was his gauntlets.   One good thrust was all he needed. 

“You don’t have to run away to Essos." Jon offered.   "You made a mistake but if your took the black like Uncle Jeor-

“Uncle Jeor?  You presume yourself bastard. Just because my Aunt took pity on you does not make us kin.” Jorah growled.  His ruggedly handsome features were crunched up in  anger but his eyes were orbs of sorrow. 

Jon did his best not to cry than and there. Lady Lynesse had been cold to him, but Ser Jorah had been kind to him.  Now here he was, a thrice damned traitor to everything he once stood for, calling Jon nothing more than a bastard.

“If we are not kin any longer.” Jon said with all certainty and strength he could find.   “Than I will kill you where you stand for your crimes.” he said. He tried to sound like father when he told Jorah this. 

Jorah laughed.   “You don’t have the guts boy.  You-

With a howl of rage and sadness only a boy’s prepubescent throat could make Jon lunged at Jorah.   

The spear’s leafshaped blade  did not pierce Jorah’s heart, for he was not fated to die yet.   The blade plunged deep into Jorah’s belly.  The man who lost the right to be called a knight  roared and stumbled back.   A paw encased in iron smashed into Jon’s face, knocking the boy to the ground. Jorah  wrenched the spear from his belly, blood dripping onto the sand.

Tossing the spear aside, Jorah lashed out with his foot.   Jon gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. Jorah seized the boy by the throat and hoisted him up. Jon tried to go for his dagger, but he was too disoriented and in too much pain.  He kicked frantically at jorah. Darkness, the same kind of darkness in the crypts beneath Winterfell greeted Jon as Jorah’s meaty grip choked him into unconsciousness.

“JON!”  Maege screamed as the rain continued to fall.  She spurred her horse. Faster! She had to go faster!

She screamed her son’s name again.  Desperation, disappointment and fear spurred her onward.   How could she be so blind? How could she have been so fucking stupid?

Maege could hear the waves crashing onto the beach.  She’s at the edge of her home. The forest parts before her to the thin ragged coastline on the southern tip of Bear Island.

She sees a little figure lying in the sand.   She dismounted and rushed to him.

It was her little cub.  Half his face was bruised from a blow.  Not the back of a hand, but a full frontal punch with  a gauntlet.

A sheathed sword, one Maege knew all too well lay abandoned  next to the unconscious boy. Maege strapped it to her back before scooping   Jon up and ran her calloused hand through his brown-black curls.

She shook him.  "Jon. Wake up sweetling."

Grey eyes opened.

"M-ama." Jon said weakly.

"Shh. Your safe. I'm gonna get you home so the Maester can treat those bruises."

"Jorah He- he."

"Its alright Jon.  There was nothing you could have done."

Jon buried his head in her chest. He was sobbing and shaking  

Maege  rose with her son in her arms.  She dammed  her nephew with every step she took towards her horse. 

“He’s not here.”  Maege Mormont said as Ned Stark was ushered into the Lord of Bear Island’s solar.  It was Maege's solar now, Bear Island and House Mormont's future was in her hands.   A cup she never expected to pass to her. 

“He knocked your son out and fled with his wife.   Jon said they were going to Essos." She told her liege lord flatly.

Ned sighed.

"If I did not you well Lady Mormont I would say you aided and abetted your nephew." Ned Stark said calmly

Maege smoothed out some parchment while keeping her eyes fixed on the Lord of Winterfell.

"Go speak to your son my Lord.  Perhaps a few truths wrapped in lies about his mother will lift his spirits and not make your long journey here entirely wasted.    I have to find the words to tell my brother what his son has done and that he took the black for nothing." Maege said.

Understanding he had been told to piss off and understanding the Lady of Bear Island was cross with him. Ned took his leave.

He found his sister's son resting in the den of Bear Island.  Jon was swathed in furs and had a clay bowl of fish dumplings and onions and carrot stew lay half finished on a low table.

Half his long face was dark and swollen.  Ned had taken plenty of blows like that on the field.  But for it to happen to Jon, who wasn't old enough to serve on the battleline roused his wrath.  

House Stark had a few friends in Essos thanks to his mother's father Rodrik "The Wandering Wolf” Stark and his wife Lady Arya Flint.  When he returned to Winterfell he would put his quill to work writing to these friends his House had in Essos.  Perhaps the poachers Jorah had sold could be found and rescued. A bounty of 25,000 Gold Dragons for Ser Jorah’s head must be announced as well.   Double the amount of gold if Jorah was returned to the North alive. The ancient punishment for slaving was to be hung from a weirwood by the condemners own entrails, but thanks to a marriage into the Boltons during the days of Theon Stark, the Lords of Winterfell  were blessed with the knowledge to keep a man alive for up to two weeks while he suffered in the most exquisite agony.

He would let Jorah hang for a week and a day, Ned wasn't the Mad King.  Than he would take Jorah's head for dishonoring his house and hurting the son of a Lord of Winterfell.

Shoving his anger deep inside him, Ned tried to put on a smile and moved to set beside his sister’s son.

“You’re not too old for stories are you?” Ned said wryly

Jon beamed.  “I don’t think Old Nan would allow me to be.”

Ned let out a bark of laughter.

“Let me tell you a story then.   Before my life went to shit… before my siblings conspired to ship me to the Eyrie because your great  grandmother and grandmother loved me the most…”

“Father, You told us this story before.”  Jon said in an unamused tone and an arched eyebrow

Ned chuckled.

‘Alright here’s a different story. One I never told you before.”

“Maybe Old Nan did.” Jon said.

Ned smiled. “You have your mother’s cheekiness Jon.  Anyway this tale is the Knight of the Laughing Tree.  I was nine and ten and it was the Year of the False Spring,   my good friend Lord Howland Reed….

Chapter Text

Jon is twelve when he is sent to squire for Bronze Yohn Royce.   Maege kisses his cheek and puts a bearskin cloak with a clasp of silver chain  around his shoulder.

“Remember You're a Stark.  You might not have your father’s name, but you have his blood. Conduct yourself with dignity in the Vale”  Maege smiled

"But remember you are a Mormont.  If you have to fight, win.” Maege said. 

“Yes Mama.” Jon said.

“And I want  you to write us a letter every week.”

“I will.” He said solemnly.

Maege kissed him on the forehead and hugged  him tight. She knew he wouldn't be a boy forever.  Already puberty has become to ravage him and soon her little dragonwolf that came to Bear Island will be gone forever.   

Reluctantly, Maege lets her son go the Vale of Arryn to follow in his true father’s footsteps.

Yohn Royce would never admit  it aloud except to his wife, but Ned Stark’s bastard scared him.

He was glad of course that Ned Stark had chosen him to teach his bastard son the ways of war.   House Royce had ties of kinship to House Stark and with Ser Jorah having brought shame to his house,  the boy was in need of an instructor in the ways of Knighthood. It was true Royce, would have preferred a trueborn son, and he was surprised Ned did not send his bastard to squire with Lord Commander Barristan.

 When they  rode to Runestone,  Royce and his party had been ambushed by the Hill tribesmen of the Vale.  Two score of them against Royce his new squire and ten of his Household guard.

Jon had killed seven of them, including the leader of the raid. The boy had lept from his horse and buried his sword in the leaders eye socket. Than slew two more with dagger and fist, before retrieving his blade. 

Clearly the boy did not lack for skill at arms,and under Strong Samwell Stone, his  natural talent with all sorts of weapons was further refined.

The problem was.Lord Stark’s quiet wrath was made manifest in his bastard son.   

 Anyone who mocked him for his bastardy, or his foster mother’s rumored fornication with bears   would find themselves set upon the boy in the practice yard, or by his sharp wit.  

And Seven and Old Gods save you if you were a squire picking on  boy younger than you, or were needlessly cruel to the smallfolk   Or worse of all, sired a bastard of your own. When Harrold Hadyng, boasted of the woman he had lain with and natural daughter he sired but had no intention of raising as his own, Jon Snow had grabbed a dulled steel sparring sparring sword by its blade and beat him bloody with the hilt.

Lady Waynwood had not been pleased that her precious cousin and heir to the Vale, should Lord Arryn’s sole, sickly son Robert Arryn die without issue had been attacked by a bastard, but Royce had brushed aside her concerns by saying it would teach Hardyng humility.

Royce thought it  a shame the lad was a bastard, his cousin’s daughter could use a good husband.

To my mother Maege Mormont and my sisters, Dacey, Alysanne, Lyra, Jorelle and Lyanna,

Were it not for the companions I have made here, and the fun I have kicking Harry Hardyng’s ass in the yard, I would be absolutely miserable.  Were it not for the mountain air, my nose and lungs would be filled with the foul stench of lickspittles and poorly maintained privies. How father could stand such  a bunch of stuffed prancing jackalopes I do not know, perhaps it is because he is a trueborn, and even them I am the son of the foster son of their beloved Lord Arryn,  I am bastard born. Still I have earned their grudging respect for skill and chivalry, and as long as Lord Royce or some Lord or Master in the North raised to knighthood can dub me, I shall not find my time in the Vale wasted.  The only true friend I have made here is Bayard Templeton.  He claims distant kinship to House Stark through  the youngest  daughter of Lord Edwyle Stark's sister Jocelyn, who married a Royce of the Gates of the Moon.  This young daughter married into House Templeton and the rest is history.   Interestingly enough, Bayard's mother is an Arryn of Gulltown, making him quite blue blooded.  He may be a good match  for Lyra or Jorell one day. * 

I have sent some sweets and a nice dagger for Lyanna, as well as some good bolts of cloth Alysanne might like.

All my love,

Jon

To my brother Jon,

Thing have been boring since you left.  When can you come back to Winterfell? Mother says I can’t go to Bear Island, even though Lady Mormont said I could.  Father said I can’t go to Last Heath either, even though Greatjon Umber and Lady Umber said I’d be welcome too.  Sansa  says it's because father’s worried wildlings would carry me off, just like they did Lord Mors daughter. Father sent Robb to  foster with the Karstarks but he told Lord Karstark to his face that Robb would not be marrying his daughter. .  

I miss you  a lot Jon. Septa Mordane and Jeyne are mean and, Sansa  doesn’t want to play with me. When she does, it's because father or mother asks her too.   ILady Mormont’s eldest, Lady Dacey said she’d ask her little sisters to write me letters though.

Love you lots

Arya

To my little sister Arya,

Don’t worry little sister, Lord Royce is giving us squires a month's leave in two weeks, and what a coincidence that lines up with your name day.  I think a proper sword for a proper little lady like Lady Arya Underfoot would be fitting. You’ll have a real weapon should the need arise, and Ser Rodrik and I can show you the ins and outs of a wooden sword.   I miss you too little sister. I have no desire to bring you sorrow, but you would love Bear Island, and my mother most certainly would love you. Minus the Ironborn bodies to burn or return to their Drowned God and Alysanne’s snoring, I had little to complain about.   I look forward to seeing you and Winterfell again. As well as Old Nan, sweet old croaker she is.

My unconditional love and loyalty,

Your brother,  Jon Snow

 P.S Don’t tell Sansa! 

“ A sword!  A sword!” Catelyn fumed.  Ned sighed as he sipped his cider.

“Cat-”  

“I will not have the bastard filling my daughter’s heads  with ideas that will see her ridiculed and her marriage prospects lessened.”   Catelyn snarled, her red locks billowing around her shoulders as she paced back and forth.

“My Unconditional love and loyalty. Don’t tell Sansa!” Cat sneered   Her face was as crimson as her hair.

“By your gods and mine Cat, do sit.  Your humors-

“My humors are fine Ned-

“They are not. Otherwise you would not have snatched the letter from Arya’s hands with such  a black expression on your face and made her upset. Now sit and have some cider, or leave so I can get back to this figures, Poole sent me.” Ned said calmly.

Cat pulled up a chair.   Ned held out his hand for the letter.   He read it over and sighed. The pain in his heart at Jon referring to Lady Mormont as his mother was a dull throb.   

Promise me Ned .   

“I know you will not admit it aloud my love, but you know, in your heart Jon would never hurt our children.”

“He would Ned.  Daemon Blackfyre was raised among his trueborn siblings and when the opportunity aros-”

“Jon is not a Black Dragon, nor is he Bittersteel Cat.  He is my son Cat. My blood. I know I shamed you by sireing him, but he is my responsibility. ”

He sighed again.  “And despite being away from home for so long, he clearly knows our daughter’s heart  is not in the sewing needle. Speaking of that, I have found myself taking a dislike to Septa Modrane.   She sings praises about Sansa, but tell me that Arya has the hands of a blacksmith? Pray tell Cat, if one of her seven gods is called The Smith, why does she make it sound that Arya having blacksmith’s hands a bad thing?”

Catelyn swallowed at Ned’s not so subtle change of topic.

“I have been wondering that myself.  Still it's not like Arya makes it easy on the poor woman.”

Ned chuckled a sad chuckle.  “Wolfs-blood my lady. Lyanna was the same.  She made the Septa father hired after he betrothal to Robert claim she was already in the Seven Hells, dealing with her.   Still…” He took another sip of cider ,than poured another for his wife.

“My grandmother could be a proper lady, but everyone knew she was a better with a blade than her husband.”  Ned mused aloud.

Cat laughed.  “Your grandmother must have cursed me from beyond the grave.  Old Nan says its her Flint blood that makes Bran such a good climber.”

Ned chuckled again.  “The point is Cat, is that Jon understands Arya, and while yes she does need to learn her courtesy’s and her embroidering, I don't wish to stifle her and force her to be something she’s not the way my father did to Lyanna.”

“This gift comes from the heart Cat.  You may dislike Jon, but I will not have you deny to my face this gift is not one of unconditional love.”

Is this a hill you really want to die on my love? Ned thought.

Cat sighed and rose.   “I’m going to apologize to  Arya for my rude behavior.”

Ned smiled and returned to his work.

Chapter Text

The scar was itching again.  

Jorah groaned as he shoved the still sleeping half Bravossi half Dothraki whore that had warmed his bed and kept the accusing  eyes and the phantom pain of the desperate kicking of the child he strangled off of him.  

 She snored, almost like Alysanne did.  The pain that brought him made him reach for the half finished bottle of ale laying on the nightstand 

How was Jon faring?  Who was he squireing for?  Was he happy?

Yohn Royce was not happy.

“You just had to make a headache for me a week before you went back North.” the Lord of Runestone growled.

Jon stood somewhat repetent 

“He insulted my mother.  And he was being an arse to Edd.”

“So you got into a bout of fisticuffs with him and bit his hand? You’re lucky Ser Corbay was more amused than angry.” Royce scolded.

“Than the fucker should have watched his mouth.”

Yohn slammed his hand on the desk.   

You could have been killed! Worse, you have Lyn Corbay’s interest. I’m sure you heard the rumors surrounding him?”

The boy paled slightly.

“Jon you’re a lad of great potential.  I mean  that from the bottom of my heart, but you have to use that sharp mind of yours.   Every time someone jests about your foster mother laying with bears you beat the shite ot of them. You think that’ll make them stop? You think answering their words with fists and teeth will stop them thinking there’s actual truth to the taunts?  Picking fights over every little insult is beneath you, and it reflects badly on the House that took you in and your father’s house.”

Royce took a sip of ale. 

“You’ll be whipped after supper, fifty lashes, archival duty with Maester Helliweg in the evening and helping the servants clean the stables after breakfast  until you take ship to White Harbor for your sister’s nameday.  I expect better behavior after this.  You are a future Knight , not a whoreson bastard playing at war Am I clear?”

Jon nodded.

“I asked if I made myself clear Snow.” Royce  growled.  The boy nodded again and bowed his head. 

“Yes My Lord.”

“Let this be a lesson for you.  You want to lead one day? You want your name to live forever in the songs and sagas and history tomes? Learn how to follow.  Now out with you,I’ve wasted enough time with you Jon Snow.”

The boy turned to leave

“And Jon?” Yohn called.

“Yes My lord?”

“The next time, you're in  a position to bite Ser Corbary. go for his throat.”

The boy smiled.  It was a sad, thin thing, but it was a smile nonetheless. 

“Yes my lord.”

An hour after Jon left, Lord Royce bid, Ser Corbray come to his solar.

“How’s your hand?”  Royce asked gruffly as he stamped his seal on a document of taxation for one of the Landed Knight’s sworn to him.

“The Bastard bit deep, Fortunately it will keep, and I can wield My Lady almost as well with my left hand as my right.”

Ser Corbray was lith man of average height and build with  shoulder length brown hair, a long face, and thin nose. That there was a hansomeness to him, Royce could not deny, but the charm could not shroud his vileness

“I’m pleased to hear it."

“Are you? Some would say you might have ordered the bastard to bite me.  Maybe even murder me.”

And who would say that? Royce thought.

Royce bristled. As if he would break Guest right. “I summoned you to apologize on behalf of House Royce of Runestone for the behavior of one of its Wards, not gossip like a fishwife.”  the Lord of Runestone growled.

“And I accept it." Corbray replied in an  oily purr.  "I like your Bastard.  I like him a lot. He’s got fight in him. I think he’s wasted up here.  Perhaps he should accompany me to the Tourney in Gulltown, put the youthful exuberance to good use.”   The knight said with a smile.

“I think you would like the wrath of Lady Mormont a lot less.  You stay away from my Wards Corbray."

“Oh I'm shuddering in terror of an  old woman.” the younger knight said with  a sneer.

“Perhaps I should have Symond’s son accompany me? His mother’s an Arryn of Gulltown and I’m his kin by my father’s marriage through the Graftons.”

Royce clenched his fists. He knew the kind of man Corbray was.  Ruthless, merciless, ill-virtuous. Utterly unworthy of the blade resting on his hip.

“You would have to take it up with his mother.”

“Ahh yes, the beloved Lady Templeton nee Arryn. How frustrated her lord father must be, to have a prized grandson with  a claim to Winterfell and the Eyrie… But to be behind a sickly boy and Lady Waynwood’s sot.”

“Your bastard, your Templeton, your Waynwood, all with distant claims.. So very very distant claims-

“What are you implying Corbary?” Royce said with a clenched fist.

"… Nothing, but your cousin is Steward of the Vale, and you have the heir to our beloved Jon Arryn’s half trout son as your squire.   You have the Bastard of Winterfell, a boy too pretty to have come from a common mother…and you have dashing Bayard Templeton, who's your kin by a Jocelyn Stark and her Royce Husband.   Should something befall the Starks, the bastard would be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, but should he fall, why not his distant cousin to follow him. And if Harry the Heir should die..."

Corbray cackled. 

“You’re a hypocrite. You’re stacking the deck in your house’s favor. At least I’m honest about myself.  Who I am. What I do.”

Royce smiled. “You know why many do not like you Cobray? No man wants you in your bed.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lyn asked.

“You heard me Ser. Now get out.”

Lyn Corbray chuckled a humorless chuckle.   He rose rather suddenly, and left as if he had urgent business. 

Yohn clenched and unclenched his fist. He sat back in his chair, eyes shut, stewing in his anger for a minute. 

Than he got back to work, silently praying that Corbray would die in that damn tourney of his.

Jon adjusted himself in the chair.  His back ached from the whipping as he shuffled papers.  Old expenses and tax records were boring, but records had to be kept.  With the Lord of the Vale and his household gone to the capital. the duty had fell to the High Steward of the Vale and, Keeper of the Gate’s of the Moon Nestor Royce.   Nestor had no Maester, just two half literate Septons.

 Maester Helliweg had graciously agreed to help in copying, archiving and reorganizing the flow of ledgers, petitions, and other documents that came to the Eyrie.

Jon rubbed his eyes as he scanned a financial ledger. It was incomes from Gulltown in the year 289.  He rubbed his tired eyes again. Those numbers couldn’t be right. Jon wasn't the best at sums, but he wasn't hopeless with them like his sister Sansa

“Bayard.”  Jon called.

Jon’s distant cousin and fellow squire strolled over.   The Templeton was using the library to read for pleasure, something Jon wished he was using the library for.  Winterfell’s Library and the modest one at Bear Island had been places of contemplation and refuge for him.  

Take a look at these ledgers. Those numbers don’t add up, do they?”  

Bayard’s mother's House had become wealthy through trade and marrying into merchants.  The Gulltown Arryns may have been seen as uncouth and sulliers of their own noble blood, but none could deny their skill at making and investing in cold hard Dragons. 

The Templeton’s grey eyes narrowed.  “There’s no way in the Seven Hell’s this adds up. What is this part of?”

“Tariffs levied on wine and wool  for Gulltown in the year of 289 AC.”   Bayard hummed, than frowned. “Signed off by Lord Grafton. And by the Custom Master, Lord Petyr Baelish.”  The Templeton lad growled.  

“Baelish, my mother never liked him, nor did her father.”   He scowled. “Bring me all the documents."

An hour passed as Bayard poured over parchment, He squinted and frowned  

"The rat faced bastard whoreson!"  Bayard snarled.

“These are grave accusations boy.” Yohn Royce said.

Jon and Bayard stood before the Lord of Runestone.  Bayrad had taken up every inch of the solar's desks with ledgers and scrolls.

"With Respect my Lord,  I am a Templeton, and my mother, is an Arryn of Gulltown.   That latter name, despite what you and other Lords believe, still means something.  I would not sully it with Libel.”

“Go softly, boy, and explain  to me the crimes you believe were committed."

“Embezzlement of funds, masked by an increase in incomes.   An unnatural increase, that would have been viewed with would have been viewed with suspicion, had most Nobles, understand how trade worked.”

Royce made a polite scoffing sound.

“Baelish bought, invested, lended, all within his prerogative of course, but he skimmed a bit for himself.  Some of the loans, he took out are rotten investments, and his own personal ledger’s, that he submitted for archiving…
 

"There's a saying I heard more often than I liked to when I was forging my chain in Oldtown." Maester Helliweg said with a frown.  The Maester sat to the right of Lord Royce,   he thumbed through one of the ledgers.

 "You have four sets of books. One for yourself,  One for Lord Hightower's man. One for Lord Tyrell and one for the King."

The Maester scratched his grey peppered, russet beard with  a calloused, scarred hand 

"If Lord Baelish is falsifying records to mask his embezzlements. I shudder to think what he’s doing to the  Crown’s finances. And to have betrayed the trust of Lord and Lady Arryn. The latter was his own foster sister.” 

“And Baelish is good friends with my Maternal kin the Graftons. Lord Gerold, my grandmother’s nephew in particular.” Bayard added

“And the Corbray’s hired his Great Grandfather and founder of his House..” Yohn Royce said with a frown.

“Do you think he came to try and destroy the records?” Jon asked.

“No doubt. He came for me.” Maester Heliweg said sadly.

“Because you're a Maester, you might have caught on .” Bayard said

“That, and I am  Lord Baelish’s half great  Uncle.  I was a Stone, my mother, a whore at Gulltown.”

Bayard moved to his dagger but Royce waved him aside

“I trust Helliweg with my life.  He told me what he just the both of you, when he came into my service and swore to the Seven and the Old Gods that he would never betray my trust.” Yohn Royce said in a tone that indicated there would be no further discussion on the matter.

“Someone Lord Arryn trusts must be told the truth of this matter, once the full evidence has been gathered.  Otherwise Baelish can say this is a plot by the bitter Gulltown Arryns and the Royces overstepping their bounds.” Yohn Royce said 

Jon sighed.

“My father is the Lord Hand's foster son. That is the reason you all tolerate a bastard sullying the Vale of Arryn and this fine castle. I can bring word to Lord Stark when I return to Winterfell for Arya’s nameday.”

Royce rubbed his beard.   “Yes, we’ll put your punishment to good use.  Helliweg and Bayard will assist you in copying all the incriminating evidence.    Bayard will take a copy to Gulltown after the tourney Lyn Corbray is attending. "

“Marduck!” Royce called. 

 Ser Maruck Sunderland, entered the room.  He was Bayard’s Uncle by marrige and The Captain of Runestone’s Household guard.  Marduck was a Sisterman, uncouth, with flinty, sly sea green eyes, but a firm sense of honor and loyalty.

“Take ten men and escort Master Helliweg and the lads here to the Library.    If Corbray comes, kill him.”

‘Yes milord.” Captain Sunderland said.

The bastard was scared of him.   Jon Snow hid his fear well, but the bastard  was scared of Ser Brynden Tully.

The boy sat on  a table in the center of the ship deck,  his head in a book, but his mind elsewhere.  Brynden noticed there was a sheath of parchment  and a quill and Inkpot resting on the table as well 

This was Brydnen Tully’s first time meeting Ned Stark’s bastard. The boy was the spitting image of his father, with  solemn features, the foundation of stubble, and cool, grey eyes. Whoever had spread their legs for Ned Stark had left no sign of   their mother in the boy  

Bryden had only met a few Bastards over the years of his service, and without exception, they were sullen creatures,  eager to please and quick to anger. 

Plenty of rumors  regarding the Bastard of Winterfell,  had reached the Bloody Gate, and what went unsaid in his niece’s letters had given him a picture.   The Boy was a precocious child, with the Stark looks, sent to foster with Maege Mormont a year before Robb was sent to Karhold.  Maege Mormont had quickly latched onto the little Bastard, going so far as to allow him to call her Mother. When he was old enough to squire, the boy had been sent to the Vale where he had carved out a niche as a dutiful lad , but wild and violent.  

The Bastard had not uttered a word to Brynden throughout their entire journey.  He broke his fast, ran through some blade cadences, did maintenance on his kit and read.  And watched. the bastard was always watching Brynden. Always armed with dirk and longsword.  The bastard’s grey eyes were cold and vigilant, the eyes of a wolf ready to pounce.

No not a wolf,  a bear cub separated from it mother, ready to claw friend or foe

   A bear cub who had stumbled onto a festering boil of corruption.  A boil created by  a boy who had once roamed the halls of Brynden's home.   

Brynden sighed.   It would be two weeks from Gulltown to White Harbor, and ten days from White Harbor to Winterfell.   Brynden was going to settle why the Bastard was scared of him and he was going to settle it now.

Brynden rose from his own seat, the deck thumping beneath  his boots. He'd shed the plate he'd worn as Knight of the Bloody Gate in favor of leather scale and mail.  Brynden had his own sword at his hip as well as a dagger.

The boy looked up at him.  “How much did you pay them?” 

"Pay who?" Brynden asked.

"The crew. So they would turn a blind eye while you opened my throat" The Bastard of Wintefell said

Brynden thought of the clever stripling Petyr who had been unworthy of Lysa and bit back a curse.

"I'm a Knight-.

"My mother's nephew was a Knight.  I'm sure you know what he did and where he ended up."   The boy regarded him with  a resigned weariness.

"What tales did Lady Cateyln tell  of me, Ser Tully?" the bastard asked as he set the book down. 

"She told me nothing of you in the letters I received."

The boy frowned, clearly not believing him.

"So you haven't written back to her about me?  The bastard sullying the Vale of Arryn? The bastard standing where her husband stood.  Where her trueborn son should be standing."

“You have a high opinion of yourself if you think I’d waste good parchment writing my niece about you.” Brynden snapped back.   He wrestled his choler down even as he saw the Bastard's hand drift to his dirk 

"So if Lady Catelyn didn't bid you to open my throat and dump my body in the sea, It must have been Littlefinger. How much did he pay you for you to be in his pocket Tully?" The Bastard asked?

Bryndeyn stood there aghast, his jaw unable to form words.

"Petyr Baelish and I were no longer on speaking terms  after he challenged your Uncle for Cat’s hand in marriage.  And I'm not here to kill you." Brynden said. He slowly went for the buckle of his sword belt and laid it on the table.

The boy studied Brynden.   The Blackfish couldn't help but shiver somewhat.  

"Than why are you here?” What possessed you to speak with the product of my father fucking another women besides your niece?" The Bastard demanded.

"You're scared of me. I want to know why." Brynden said hoarsely.  

The Knight of the Blood Gate stood there.  He knew Catelyn and Hoster had not been pleased by Ned Stark fathering a bastard.  Brynden had thought that rich, when Brandon Stark, would have likely sired a hundred by now.  One bastard born out of spite or a moment of weakness was not a sign The White Walkers had returned and Brynden’s great nieces and nephews right would be usurped.

"Family Duty Honor.  Fine words. Admirable ones even." the boy said.

"But people will do terrible things because of them." Jon Snow spat.

"You know your niece  takes great steps to avoid calling me by my name? It's always Bastard or boy or Him .  I think she would have smothered me in my sleep  as a babe if it wasn't for your House words.  I’m sure she's fantasized about it. I’d be lying if I hadn’t fantasized about taking her head and feeding it to the dogs.”  Jon Snow said with a sad, sullen smile. 

“Cat would never--

Jon Snow drew his dirk and slammed it into the table with  a Shunk!

“Lady Stark would. ” Jon Snow snarled. 

“She hates me for being born.  Can you imagine that? Hating someone just for existing? Not my  fault father decided to fuck another woman, but she can’t do anything about it could she?  Can’t do anything about how my Father wasn’t the one she was supposed to marry. You know he probably had me out of spite? He never told me who he fathered me on.  He won’t tell me a damn thing.”  

“And I’d be lying if I hadn’t fantasized about it.  Being Lord of Winterfell. But Robb’s my brother, what kind of brother would I be if I stabbed him in the back? I’d be proving Her right and I will never ever, give her that pleasure.  I’d rather die. Besides, Winterfell stopped being home a long time ago.  Bear Island is my place. "

Brynden had nothing to say to that.  Part of him whispered that everything the Bastard told him was a lie.  A sob story concocted for pity.

But Brynden’s instincts told him the boy spoke  true.    Jon Snow’s fear masked in spite was genuine. 

Brynden stood there,  What in the Seven Hells had Cat done to make him think she’d ask Brynden to kill him?  Was that why Ned Stark, had sent the lad to Bear Island?

Brynden couldn’t imagine Catelyn harming a child, for she was the spitting image of her  mother Minisa, a gentle and wise woman. But he hadn’t seen her in years. The capital had not been kind to Lysa, and The North was a harsh place, its people mistrustful of outsiders until they had earned their respect.   

Catelyn’s letters told Brynden she genuinely loved Ned Stark, they had many children, with none of the miscarriages and stillbirths that had plagued her mother and sister, but  raising a bastard alongside her children might have been considered a calculated insult towards Hoster Tully for insisting that Ned marry his eldest daughter as soon as word reached Riverrrun of the death of Rickard and Brandon Stark.   And for Cat to go to great lengths to avoid deny calling Jon Snow by his name.... Brynden would never have calculated such malice from her. 

Brynden wordlessly retrieved his sword belt.

“I’m here because Lord Royce asked me to be here, and it's my Great Niece’s name day.”

The Bastard slowly shook his head, then sighed.

“I still don’t trust you Ser Blackfish, and neither will my mother.  Just remember if you kill me, she’ll know it, and she’ll rip your head from your shoulders.”

"For the last time I'm not here to kill you." Brynden could see some of the crewmen glancing there way.   Brynden wasn’t scared of them, but he was wise enough to fear Maege Mormont. He had seen her rip the head off a Harlaw Captain during the Battle at Fair Isle with her bare hands.

Jon Snow smoothed out a sheet of parchment and opened the book he had been reading.  Brydnen caught a glimpse of the title.

The Art of the Water Dancer by Geralt Nestoris First Sword of Braavos

Brynden  thought of a skinny blade wrapped in green ribbon and cloth of silver with a hilt sized for a child. An edgeless blade, but doublesided in  a different, deadlier way.. 

"If you say so. Any more questions?" Jon Snow dipped his quill in the ink pot and began to write about the best way for a little girl to kill a man.

"No.  I won't be troubling you anymore lad.  For what it's worth. I'm sorry you feel this way."

The bastard let out a bitter bark of laughter.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you picked up that whittling set for her.  She'll appreciate it."

"Her grandmother took up whittling during her pregnancy.  I figured a wild girl like her might enjoy that more than sewing." Brynden  choked out.

The Knight of the Bloody Gate turned around and strode back to his quarters as quickly as he could.   Brynden barred the door, then sat down with a sigh.

He needed a drink, his heart was heavy and his mind was racing. 

He longed for simpler times, when he wasn’t quite so old, before Hoster and his brother’s friend the Wolf Lord Rickard Stark, had confused ambitions with their Duty to their kin, when Petyr, was just a clever boy who couldn’t hurt a fly.

But those times had died in Blood and Fire.  Winter was coming.

Chapter Text

Jon let out a sigh of relief as their ship pulled into White Harbor. With great care, Jon hefted the sword sheathed in cloth of silver and bound in green ribbon. Arya’s mother would never approve of her wielding a sword, but that was part of the reason Jon was giving her one.

It would be good to be back in the North, even if it was only for a month.  

And even though he would never admit it aloud, he missed Winterfell. Bear Island may have been his place now, but Winterfell was his home too. 

At least he told himself it was home, He couldn’t remember the last time it had felt like home, even before he had been sent to Bear Island

Quit lying to yourself. You remember when it stopped being home. 

That morning he called it first. When he and Robb had play fought with wooden swords. “I’m Lord of Winterfell!” he cried “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.” His brother had replied.

“Fine, I’ll be Duncan the Tall then.” He said. They resumed playing, Robb oblivious to the spike of pain he had lodged in his brother’s heart. 

Jon shook his head as he walked off the gangplanks It was stupid to still be hurt over something that had happened years ago, stupider still to let it fester. Jon drowned it out in laughter and love, study and blood, but returning to Winterfell, after almost a year away, made the dull numbness of it, the fire of a dagger to the heart.

Why does that memory still hurt? Why does it hurt that I will never be Lord of Winterfell? I have a mother. I have two big sisters and four younger ones. How many bastards get to have that?. How many, get to squire in the Vale?  

It’s not that you won’t be Lord of Winterfell… It’s that no matter how hard you work, you will never be a Mormont… You will never be a Stark…. You are forever a Snow. Forever an outcast, all because your father won’t give you the name.   

But Robb could…..  

Robb wouldn't. Not for the love, he bears his own lady mother. It would be cruel to beg him,. 

It was tempting. So very tempting… like a nice platter of lamb chops being offered by a naked woman eager, for some rutting.

Jon toyed with the idea than speared it half a dozen times and discarded it

You are here for Arya, For Bran, and baby Rickon. For your Brother Robb and your sister Sansa. For your mother. For Dacey and Alysanne, Lyra, Jorelle, and little Lyanna.  

Besides, Lady Stark may have a heart attack when you present her daughter, a sword, and tell her you will teach her how to use it….

“JON!!!!!” a child's voice cried. 

Jon grunted as a bundle of furs, skirts, and enthusiasm collided with him. 

“I think you broke something, little sister.” Jon said as he lifted the youngest and fiercest of his sisters into the air.

“Then your training in the Vale must not have done you much good.” Lyanna Mormont said with a smile.

Jon laughed and twirled her about before kissing her forehead.

“You’ve gotten so big.” Jon said 

“I’ll be as big and strong Alysanne one day.” Lyanna said. “I’ve been practicing my axe throwing!”

Jon smiled. “Maybe you can show me a few things when we get to Winterfell.“

He grunted as Dacey embraced him.

“Growing your hair out?” His big sister teased as she ruffled his curls.

“I’ll get it trimmed soon enough.” Jon replied. He gasped for air, as Alysanne wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. 

“A-Aly.”  

“You’re as thin as a reed! Do they feed you enough in the Vale?” his second eldest sister asked. 

“They feed me too much actually.” Jon grunted as his sister released him.  

"You make that sound like a bad thing.” Alysanne said as she clapped his back.

Jon’s mother’s laugh was a booming thing as she too wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. “By the gods, if there was one thing, I was hoping you’d take back with you from the Vale, it was a sense of humor my son.” She kissed his forehead and put both her paws on his shoulders.

“Look at you. You left Bear Island, a little cub, and now here you are. A man grown.” She said in a voice thick with pride and sadness in equal measure.

“Almost a man. I still have two years till my age of majority mother.” Jon said with a forced smile. 

“True, but you are no longer a little boy I can sling across my back with ease." Maege said.  She hugged him again.

"We don't have much time to dawdle, get your things and let's hit the road."  Maege said as she ruffled his hair.

"You do need your hair cut."  His mother said with a teasing laugh.  

“You’re here for more than your Great-niece’s name day.” Maege Mormont stated.

Brynden sighed. He and Lady Mormont rode behind everyone else. Jon Snow and the Lady Mormont’s youngest daughter rode ahead, their laughter filling the forest.  

“I bring matters for Lord Stark’s eyes only,” Brynden said quietly.

Maege made a dismissive noise. “And I bring words for Lord Stark’s ears only. Do these matters involve my son?” Maege asked

Brynden sighed again. “He brought the matter to Lord Royce’s attention.”

Maege made an mhm sound. “His wife is a lucky woman. Jon has spoken highly of him in his letters.”

Brynden nodded.

“ I will not mince words. You are a ruthless man Ser Brynden, and as cunning as you are honorable. If you mean to harm my son, I shall tear your head off with my bare hands. Your niece…. I have never pressed Jon on the matter, but it is clear she has hurt him in some way emotionally long before he came into my care..”

“I- I suspect the same thing. The poor lad thought I had accompanied him to kill him and dump his body in the sea.” 

Maege grunted. “ As a fellow trueborn Lady of noble blood, I understand your niece will never love him, let alone tolerate breathing the same air as him. Truly I do but as a Mother…. The shadow the Lady Stark has cast is long and stifles what little sun there is in Jon’s life. I can badger Lord Stark, counsel him and make him listen, but only in a truly dire situation would I presume to speak harshly and plainly to my liege Lady regarding my son the way I would with his father.”

“I will do everything I can to ensure that truly dire situation does not occur,” Brynden replied.

“See that you do, Ser Blackfish, Gods, True and New help your niece and I if we have to come to words over my son.”

Brynden nodded. “Why do, you-

‘Refer to him as my son even though he’s not my blood?” Maege growled.  

“Yes. You Mormonts are a queer house, but-

“You Tully’s are a queer house too, I mean Taking a fish as your sigil? What do fish do but flop around when you spear them?”

“Swim milady.” Brynden shot back. 

“Aye, but little else.” Maege said as she scratched her chin. 

“I was there when your nieces were married off. Your brother reminded me of an eel. All slimy and slippery. He struck me as a very insecure man. Then again, it is a poor father who stands on the achievements of his children. But I suppose he got what he wanted in the end didn’t he?”

Bryden shook his head slowly 

“ I am not on good terms with my brother, and have not been for almost five and ten years, Lady Mormont, but I would advise you to hold your tongue when it comes to matters you know little about.”

“Or what? Going to hit me for having an opinion of my own? I seem to recall Knights taking an oath to defend women.”

Brynden tightened his grip on his reins. “You seem to be trying to get a rise out of me Lady Mormont.”

“Is it working?” She asked.

“Yes.” He admitted.

“Good, at least you are honest.” Maege said.

“My hair is getting more grey than red, I have little time left to mince words and lie to myself and others” Brynden replied.

Maege nodded in understanding. “To answer your question…. The boy needed a mother, he needed someone who would not use him for their own ends or look upon him and see only another bastard, that the world would best be rid of by being sent to the Wall or to laze about at the Citadel. And the mother who bore him…. I knew little of her, Lord Stark told me she died in the birthing bed, and that she begged him to protect the boy. It’s a terrible feeling, to die knowing, your child will grow up without a mother. My brother’s wife had the reassurance that I would be one for Jorah. And I reassured, this first wife when she suffered the same fate, I would do the same for her babe. Maege scratched her chin again. “That babe was reunited in death with her mother not soon after, but that doesn’t matter. What mattered is that those babes would have a mother in their life.”

Brynden nodded in understanding. Minisa had died without such reassurances. Having a mother was no guarantee a child would turn out decent, and plenty of children with both parents or just a mother in their life had turned out vile and monstrous. Maege’s commitment was admirable if misplaced somewhat in his eyes. When his mother, Elys Ryger had died,, she was more concerned about ensuring Hoster and Brynden understood the importance of duty to their family and people than them growing up motherless.   

He thought of Lysa, alone in the viper’s nest, and Cat, so far from home she might as well be in Bravoss. 

And look how well we listened Ma.  He thought.

“He’s a wild boy, your son. Truth be told, I don’t think I will ever find him likable, but he is the brother to my great-nephews and nieces. As I said earlier, I will do what I can to ensure you and my niece don’t have to have words regarding Jon.”

Maege scoffed. “I have more use for my own piss than I do words, Words are wind, actions are carved into stone and scratched into velium as my Mother would say.”

“Wise words,” Brynden replied.

Jon chewed the inside of his lip nervously as the door to Winterfell's Great Hall opened.

It seemed like the entire North was packed in the Hall. Banners hung from the walls, tables creaked and groaned under the weight of food and the slamming of drinking horns and mugs. The sound of hundreds of conversations filled his ears, the smell of different meats, different loaves of bread, steamed vegetables, and grilled fruits slithered into his nose. 

From her place at the high table, his little sister rose. He knew Sansa heaped scorn on her, Septa Mordane belittled her, and Jeyne Poole, Steward’s daughter said she had the face of a horse, but Jon knew in his heart that one day, a day if he was lucky he would get to see, Arya would wed, a good man who would love her who she was, and songs of her beauty, her strength, her love, would be sung from The Wall to Sunspear. 

Arya darted in between burly Mountain Clansmen and Manderly Knights and she sprinted towards him. Her mouse brown locks were bound in a long braid with a net of silver wire and bore a winter rose in them. And heer gown was stark grey velvet with Tully blue panels. Jon handed the sword intended for Arya to Dacey. “Hold that for me,” he said calmly. He leaned down, bracing himself for Arya’s hug.

His sister leaped upon him like a cougar. Jon scooped her and nuzzled her. Arya squeed than sighed happily as she wiggled her way deeper into Jon's arms. The scent of the winter rose in his sister's hair, stirred something in him. A sense of longing…. and a painful emptiness in his chest.

" I was beginning to think you weren't coming." She said.

"Nothing could have stopped me. Not even the gods themselves." Jon whispered as he kissed her cheek.

“Hello, little wolf.” Brynden Tully said with a dry smile. Arya smiled back. “Hello, Uncle Brynden. I wasn’t expecting you to come.”

“The Vale could spare me for a while, little one.” Brynden said

Arya glanced at the wrapped sword in Dacey's arms.

"Is that?-

"You can open that when the time comes," Jon said. He grunted. "For someone still so skinny you've definitely gotten heavier little sister.”

“Your training in the Vale must not have done you lot of good. Or perhaps someone’s been chasing girls like Theon?.” Arya said cheekily.

Jon laughed. “I oughta drop you for that.” Arya grinned. “You wouldn’t.”  

Jon glanced at his little sister's wrists. Bracers of worn black leather etched with runes, Jon had seen on the ancient, pitted suits of armor once worn by House Royce’s finest, and embellished with stylized knotwork designs graced them. “And what dusty part of the armory did you dig those out of?” Jon asked as they strode to the high table. 

“They were a gift.” Arya said with a smile. Jon glanced at his mother, who shook her head. “From whom?” Jon asked. Arya’s smile grew wider. “From father! They belonged to Great Grandmother! ”

Jon chuckled. He had expected father to get her a doll.

“Your Great-Grandmother was a great shield-maiden, she would be proud of you to have them.” Maege said with a smile. Arya nodded. “That’s what father said. He told me she and her husband traveled all through out Westeros and Essos, and that she was the better warrior than my great grandfather.”

“She wasn’t just better than your great grandfather, even Lord Bolton would admit, she was the finest warrior of her generation. Lord Hoarfrost, said it was a shame your Aunt Lyanna did not follow in her footsteps.”

“Well I will. Sansa sure as hell isn’t going to.” Arya said. Jon’s mother laughed. “Well I’m sure that’s why Lord Stark named you after her.” Maege said with a smile.

Brynden smiled. “Perhaps later I can show you a few tricks with a blade little wolf.”

Arya nodded eagerly. Brynden chuckled. “Don’t tell your mother though, otherwise she’ll skin me. She’s scarier than your grandmother Minisa when angry.” Brynden said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“On my honor Uncle.” Arya said solemnly. The conversation ceased as they approached the High Table.

Ned Stark rose with a smile. Not a forced polite thing, but a real ear to ear smile.

Wordlessly, he hugged Jon. “You're almost a grown man.”

“Almost Father.” Jon said. Ned smiled a sad smile. “Almost.” He said quietly. The Lord of Winterfell squeezed Jon’s hand tightly. “Almost." he repeated.

Ned turned to greet the rest of them. “I am glad to see you here Lady Mormont.” “And I am glad to be here My Lord,” Maege said. She bowed to Lady Catelyn. “Your daughter seems to have inherited your strength, my lady. You should be proud.”  

“I am proud of her.” Catelyn Stark said. Jon fought not to frown as Arya beamed at the comment. Not as proud of her as you are Sansa. Jon thought. He bowed to the mother of his siblings as courtesy demanded. The Lady Stark’s eyes narrowed as if a bird had shit on her cloak, but she inclined her head in acknowledgment.    

Brynden clenched his jaw. “I best deliver my offering to the shrine.” The Knight of the Bloody Gate adjusted his grip on the silk and papyrus wrapped whittling set. “How about you accompany me Cat, I’d like to get caught up on things, and you haven’t written to your poor Uncle in a while.”   

“I’d like that very much.” She replied as she rose.   

Jon’s mother clicked her teeth. “You would not mind terribly if Dacey went with you two to drop off Jon’s present for Arya would you Lady Stark?”

Lady Stark glanced at the wrapped sword. Her face stony. “Of course not Lady Mormont.”

Jon bit his tongue to keep himself from smiling. He glanced at the High Table, which apart from sweet Old Nan and the household officers of Winterfell was empty 

“Father, Is Robb not here? And what of Bran, Sansa and Rickon and Uncle Benjen?”

“Robb went to share a dance with one of Lord Umber’s daughters, Bran is off playing with Clay Cerwyn, and Sansa is chatting with some of the other Lord’s daughters. Rickon is napping. And your Uncle is still en route. His last ranging took longer than expected…” Jon’s father answered.

“I see.” Ned Stark did not mention Theon. Either the squid was confined to his chambers or off whoring.   

“Robb will be eager to see you, you should go find him.” Ned suggested. Jon wanted to scream. He and his father both knew if Jon sought Robb out they would catch up, but then a girl would ask him to dance… And Jon would be left on the benches, nursing his wine and stewing and pining over pretty Lords and Master’s daughters would never even look at him. 

“Actually, I was hoping to spend time with Arya… It’s been too long… and I am almost a man now. I will have no place at Winterfell when I am one, so best make use of the time I have left.”

Jon’s father blanched and for a moment Jon thought he might burst into tears. 

“I-of course Jon. Perhaps later tonight we can catch up in private ourselves.”

Jon nodded and turned. “Go on ahead.” Maege told him and her children. “Lord Stark and I need to discuss some things.

Jon nodded again and made his way to the lower benches. Arya tugged at his hand, her lip wobbling. Jon scooped her up again.

“I’m sorry little sister.” He whispered in her ear.

“It’s not fair.” Arya whispered back. “I’m sorry,I should have chosen my words better. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Jon murmured.

“I don’t want you to leave… I want you to stay.” Arya said as they made their way to an empty bench.

“Bear Island is my place now. My home…. We both knew we would walk different roads as time went on Arya. And besides… Different roads do lead to the same castle.”

“Promise me you won’t let Mother kick you out of Winterfell, when you're all grown up.” Arya said.

“I promise.” Jon said flatly as he kissed her forehead.

Lord Stark ushered Maege to a bench outside of the feasting hall. “Whatever you wish to discuss Milady, we best make it quick. Both of us will be missed.”

Maege scoffed. “You think I care? Let them gossip that I seduced you. Besides this will be quick.”

The Warden of the North sighed. “Well by all means.” he said

“First things first The Blackfish has words for your ears only from Lord Royce, and Jon is involved in some way. Second, I respect your wife very much, but you must keep her away from and her mind off of Jon. I don’t care how, but she has done enough damage to my son. We both know she will not take kindly to Jon giving your daughter a sword and we both know she did not want him squiring in the Vale. Third…. Jon is almost a man now-”

“Absolutely not.” Eddard Stark. Maege’s eyes narrowed into slits as he choler rose. “If you do not tell him, when is a man grown, I will. And there is no guarantee that both of us will be around when he is. Arrangements should be made. Arrangements written on paper.”

“I will not-

“I am not asking you to legitimize him-

“What you ask of me is far more dangerous than legitimizing him.” Ned growled. “Some things, some sins should not be passed onto future generations by word of mouth or parchment. Some secrets should die when those that bear them die.”

Maege clenched her fists. “He deserves to know the truth. Your-

“Do not speak to me about what she would and would not want. You did not know her!” Ned Stark snarled.

“And neither did you, from what I saw.” Maege replied calmly.

The Lord of Winterfell buried his face in his hands. 

“Your point is taken…. Lady Mormont. Are we done?”

“For now.” Maege said. She rose and bowed. “Good day Lord Stark.”

Ned gritted his teeth. “Good day Lady Mormont.”

Jon sighed as Robb finished his dance with one of Lord Manderly’s daughters. She was a young thing, a few years younger than him, with hair dyed a magnificent shade of green. Jon watched as another woman, a tall, lanky girl, he recognized as Alys Karstark came to share a dance with his brother.

It was hard not to be jealous. It was taking all his effort to wrench his gaze away and focus on Arya and Lyanna’s rambling. He needed to focus on them, care about what they were saying, not the pretty girls Robb had fawning over him 

“Lord Snow?” a voice called. Jon stirred himself out of his brooding, his eyes blinking as he took in the sight before him. Quite a beautiful sight, if he said so himself.

The maid that stood before him was gowned in golden yellow wool. The sleeves, collar, and hem of the gown were lined with black fox fur. The dress's girdle was deep purple silk with swirling knotwork designs in red gold. Rather than the crispinettes and intricately wrapped and coiled braids of southern fashion trends that had trickled up North, the maid’s dark hair, was done up a bun and ponytail by bands of bronze and secured by twin ivory hair sticks wrought in the shapes of axes. The maid's cheek were high, her jaw strong, her eyes were a haunting, soulful blue. 

“Are you going to keep staring at me Lord Snow, or shall I find another knight to dance with?” The maid asked in a silvery, tone that masked the underlying iron in the request.

Lyanna and Arya giggled.

“I would be glad to dance with you, my lady.” Jon said as he rose. 

“I sure hope so. Tis no fun to dance with a partner lost in sour thoughts.” the maid replied with a smile

Jon took her hand in his as they made their way to the center of the hall. The hand was not a calloused, thick paw like his mother’s, or a bony, pretty thing like his sister Sansa’s. It was a strong hand, the skin thick and carved in a way Jon knew came from gripping the reins of a horse’s bridle…. And from gripping a seax. 

“Judging by the axes in your hair, the shade of yellow of your gown, and your cheekbones, you're a Dustin… Lady Barbrey’s daughter.”

“And judging by your sullen disposition, your pretty hair, the black doublet bearing no sigil, over a tunic in the same shade of green favored by the Mormonts of Bear Island, you are Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, and ward to Lady Mormont. A knight in the making so I'm told.”

“And who told you that Lady-” “Miriam. Miriam Dustin, heiress to the rulership of Barrowton and future head of my house.” the maid said as Jon moved to support her waist.

Miriam smiled. “And to answer your question. My mother told me. She likes to keep abreast of you Starks. Knowledge is power and power brings victory.”  

Jon fought not to frown. Rumors of the current Lady of Barrowton, Lord Dustin’s widow, Barbrey Ryswell, had been making their rounds since he’d been breeched. That she was a shrewd, fierce woman who was not to be taken lightly. That she’d been in love with her Uncle Brandon, that he had deflowered in her. A darker rumor said she’d arranged for the murder of her husband’s brother because he had demanded her hand in marriage after Robert’s Rebellion. Other rumors said she had tried to seduce his Lord Father when he had visited Barrowton on a progress throughout his kingdom.

“And what kind of victory are you looking for my lady?” Jon asked. 

Miriam smiled. Her lips were painted crimson, Jon couldn’t help but notice they were the same shade of the blood spray from when he’d bit Ser Corbray. His cock itched at the thought as he spun her about. He caught a glimpse of Robb, still dancing with Lady Alys. Jon forced his gaze back at Miriam He would not be rude and let his gaze longer to her bosom or the sway of her hips as she twirled to face him.

“A simple one. Ensuring what is mine by right of blood and birth is not stolen from me, be it from my husband or my own kin. “ she said sweetly.

“Well, best of luck to you… I take it you are still looking for a husband?” Jon asked. 

Miriam frowned, biting her lip as the bards changed the tune. 

“Sadly yes. There’s still time enough to prune the list of suitors. “ 

Her words lodged a spike into his heart. Had he been a Stark… He might have counted himself amongst those suitors.    

“If I may be so bold my lady. Why are you dancing with me?” Jon asked.

Miriam smiled.

“Why wouldn’t I? You're a handsome lad, and most knights to be are good dancers.” 

“Forgive my choice of words lady, but I think that’s a load of horseshit. Trueborn daughters do not ask a bastard to dance, and you Dustins are older and prouder than my mother’s house.”

“And richer, and the rightful Kings in the North, if certain accounts of the history are to be believed.” Miriam’s smile grew wider.

Jon fought not to grind his teeth. “As fetching as you are to look upon, Lady Dustin, I may have to cut our dance short, if you are not honest with me.”

Miriam’s smile grew wider still. “So you think I'm fetching Lord Snow?”

“I do,” Jon said.

“I think you're quite fetching as well.” She said in a smoky whisper.

“Answer my question,” Jon demanded in a low growl.

“Or what?’ She whispered back. “Won’t you be a Knight one day? And even if you're not, you don’t strike me as the man who stoops low enough to lay hands on a woman in a way that would not give her pleasure.”

Jon gritted his teeth. “Answer my question.” He said in the frostiest tone he could muster.

Miriam cocked her head. “So testy, you're as bitter as Bittersteel aren’t you Lord Snow?”

“I am no lord.” Jon declared. Miriam threw back her head and laughed. “More’s the pity, you are more lordly than all my suitors put together. Kingly even.” Jon could not help but laugh.

“A knight is all I will ever be,” Jon replied. “And what a shame that is. The Gods have been cruel to us both.” Miriam said. Her smile grew sad.  

“If you are not a Lord, may I call you Jon?”  

“Answer my question and you can call me whatever the hell you’d like.” Jon said as he adjusted his grip on her waist.  

Miriam nodded, her face as somber as the stone figures in the Crypts that haunted Jon’s dreams.

“You looked very sad sitting there. You looked half a ghost watching your brother dance. And angry..”

“Your pity is making me angrier.” Jon said softly.

Miriam’s face grew frosty

 “What good is pity? Before I flowered, that’s all our guests and our vassals had for my mother and I. A fatherless child, one of the last Dustin's, alone apart from a bitter widowed, mother, and the ghosts. I had a Great Uncle, but he died, a week before my tenth name day. I had a cousin I thought loved me, but all he wanted was Barrowton and I had to drive him off with my father’s dagger. I had another cousin, I might have married, but his half-brother murdered him. He squired in the Vale as you did.” Miriam shook her head slowly.

“I danced with you because you looked you could use some cheering up.” Miriam leaned in close.

“Look over your shoulder.” Miriam whispered in a voice soft as silk and supple as sin.

Jon spared a brief glance. Theon and Lord Umber's heir, the Smalljon were glaring at him. Jon could feel other eyes, eyes sharp as daggers boring into him. 

“Save for your brother….. I haven’t danced with anyone else.. And I must say you are the better dancer….” Miriam said.

“All those lordlings… All the second sons and third sons so eager to dance with me, to beg me for my hand in marriage. All of them I’ve turned down…. But they saw me ask you to dance… And now they're all wondering, why did that gorgeous girl with a dowry fatter than Lord Wyman and great tracts of land, ignore all these trueborn sons to dance with a bastard?”

“They’ll stew in their jealousy all day and all night because when this song is at an end, I will decline any request to dance…. And they will be jealous because the bastard whelp of Ned Stark, danced with me and they didn’t.”

Jon could not help but smile. The only joy he would derive from today would be from his duty as a brother, why not have a small victory for himself even if it was a petty thing?

“It appears I misjudged you, Lady Dustin. My deepest apologies.” Jon said.  

“Apology accepted,” Miriam said. They danced for a few more songs than she slid away.

Jon’s gaze did not linger. Would not linger. He turned and stalked back to the bench, feeling better and worse in equal measure.   

“You must be glad to see the reason we are all here, getting along so well with your youngest cub.” a smooth, sultry voice said.

Maege looked up from her horn of mead. A tall broad-shouldered, but lithe woman stood before her. She was in her late 30s, with oil dark hair tied back in the traditional knot of a widow. Her eyes held tiredness, bitterness, and old grief. She wore a gown of black wool, embroidered with gold knotwork, the hem of her skirts and sleeves cuffed in black ermine.

 “Lady Dustin.” Maege drawled. “I thought you’d be sulking in the corner with Roose.”

Barbrey Dustin’s laugh was the sound of steel scraping steel, a rasping tinkle that made Maege’s teeth itch.

“ Roose and I have not been on speaking terms for almost a year now.” the Lady of Barrowton said flatly as she sat down next to Maege and poured herself a glass of spiced wine.

“What a shame,” Maege said as she sipped her mead. 

“Quite,” Barbrey said pleasantly. “You see his bastard, Ramsey, murdered my nephew Domeric… Roose refused to punish him. So I had my Miriam do so. Wasn’t hard really. She invited him to tea, and well… he fell ill with the Black Fever. Rather dreadful I must say, but not as dreadful as the “illness of the bowels” that took my sister’s son.   

Barbry glanced at the high table. “He’s quite charming, our future Warden of the North. Such a bright lad, I almost considered, stomaching talking to Lord Stark about, betrothing my Miriam to Robb. It would be worth the complications of having a child by them succeed Miriam in ruling Barrowton.” Barbrey sipped her wine. “Such a shame, that I cannot rely on Catelyn Stark’s word, that the babe that slid out between her legs at Riverrun is a Stark.”

Maege pitied Barbrey Dustin nee Ryswell. Everyone knew Brandon Stark, had stolen her heart and her maidenhead, but he had never loved her. Privately Maege had wondered if Brandon Stark was capable of truly loving anyone outside of his family. The Lady Barbrey’s husband, William Dustin, and her younger brother, Mark Ryswell had followed Ned Stark to war. Both had died during the skirmish to rescue Lyanna Stark. The Lord of Winterfell had brought back his sister’s bones, his bastard son, and the fine stallion, the Lady Barbrey had gifted to her husband, but not the bones of her husband or her brother.

Still, tragedy and pity only extended so far. 

I'd watch your tongue young un." Maege scolded.

Barbrey scoffed. "Peace milady I know they’re his. Family Duty Honor are the Tully words. Lady Catelyn cannot afford trysts when she is an outsider and there is a son that is undeniably Ned Stark’s that was raised in Winterfell."

“Speaking of the son that is undeniably Ned Starks, why did he pick you to foster his bastard….. And why do you let him call you mother? I’d understand if he really was you and Neds, or Brandon’s, his father would be a bear, and he’d be a Mormont, but…

“Wait don’t tell me, he really did promise to that nursemaid of Ashara Dayne’s that’s supposedly that pretty boy’s mother to protect the boy? And when Catelyn Stark raised a fuss-.”

“I will not breathe life into malicious rumors regarding the mother who gave birth to my son, or the circumstance that led our liege Lord to choose me to foster his bastard,” Maege growled icily. 

"No doubt the shame choked him. Unable to keep his beloved bastard boy safe from his own wife. " Barbrey sneered. She took a healthy swig of her wine.

“I must admit, I have to respect Catelyn Tully for putting her foot down, I guess I should give our beloved Lord Rickard more credit when he chose her as Brandon’s blushing bride to be.”

Maege sighed. Lord Rickard was not the most charismatic or beloved Lord of Winterfell. His ambitions had never sat well with his vassals, especially since they involved his heir and his only daughter, wedding southerners. But Lord Rickard’s opinions on his bannerman had been soured since his youth. Maege knew this because Maege’s Aunt had been his Lady Mother, Marna Locke’ ladies in waiting.   

 Lord Edwyle, Rickard’s father picking Lady Locke as his bride had not sat well with the other Northern Lords. Sure she came from old First Men blood, but after her goodfather William Stark’s scandalous marriage to Melantha Blackwood and the carnage that had caused, not to mention only giving her husband a single child, many had hoped Lord Edwyle would choose a bride from among his more powerful and older vassals. Sew things up with the Boltons, or marry a Cerwyn or an Umber or Reed. But he had married Marna Locke, and she, like her predecessor and goodmother, only gave birth to a single child.   

The Lady Stark, was unfortunate to never have any more living children, a string of stillbirths and miscarriages followed, and plots bordering on treasonous to have her set her aside or suffer an accident, dogged her and Lord Edwyle’s marriage till she died giving birth to a stillborn girl a few days before Lord Rickard’s tenth nameday. More convoluted plots between the Houses followed to ensure their bride would be the next Lady of Winterfell, but Lord Edwyle refused to remarry and the fruitless scheming came to an end. 

Because of these plots, Lord Rickard did not look kindly upon his vassals. He regarded them all with a grim vigilance. He would endear himself to them, and earn their respect, but he never indulged their whims, and never missed a chance to remind them, who was liege lord and who was sworn to obey. Despite Lady Barbrey’s view of him, as an overambitious schemer, puppeted by his own Maester, Maege’s own father and Uncle learned a painful lesson that Lord Rickard brooked little tolerance for scheming. 

Maege shivered at the girlhood memories of the painful lesson Lord Rickard had taught them, and the angry words between Maege’s Aunt and her goodbrother and husband that were uttered the day after.

“Why are you here Lady Dustin?” Maege asked 

"I'll be blunt. Miriam needs a man who will love her for who she is, respect that she is ruling Barrowton in her own right and virile enough to put strong sons and daughters in her. I believe Jon Snow can be that man. He was raised by a strong woman, will be a Knight one day, and is indisputably of Stark Blood. The number of suitors is getting ridiculous. All of them are adequate in terms of birth and wealth, but nothing exceptional. There were a few offers from the Westerlands I considered out of spite-

“I will give the matter some thought. Do not speak to Lord Stark of it, Lady Dustin.” Maege said curtly

“I was not planning to. And that is all I ask. That you consider the benefits this will bring for both our Houses… And to the North.”

“Are we done?” Maege asked. Barbrey glanced at the dancing couples. Maege followed her gaze. Her son and Barbrey's daughter had just finished sharing a dance

“For now.” the Lady of Barrowton said. With graceful dignity, she rose and smoothed her skirts. 

Maege drained the rest of her horn and refilled it. On one hand, Jon was almost a man, he would need a wife soon. Miriam would be well dowered, and even being a Lord Consort was a grand title for a bastard. But on the other hand, would Jon be happy with Miriam? And was Barbrey using Jon as a plot in some scheme to settle her grudge against House Stark? Was Miriam dancing with Jon on her mother’s orders? Would Lord Stark even approve of Jon being betrothed before the rest of his children?

Maege took another sip of her mead, then sighed as Lord Stark began tapping his glass with a spoon.

The time for gift giving had come.

Miriam watched as the gifts were distributed with a cynical eye. From Lord Manderly, were fine silks and other bolts of cloth, imported from Essos. Both the Wulls and Flints of the mountain had gifted Arya each one of their finest ponies. Miriam knew blood would be shed between the two Clans over which one had had the idea to give her a horse, and which one was the better bred one. From the Umbers came gold and iron ore, and precious stones. 

Arya accepted every gift with a warm, genuine smile. Miriam had been watching the girl, and she had a feeling little Arya was soaking up the attention like a starving leper hoarded food. Miriam pitied the girl, she was a second daughter, and the only brother who clearly, truly understood her was a bastard.

A bastard boy, Miriam wanted for herself. Of all the boys who had to take her fancy, it had to be Ned Stark’s bastard, her mother would be furious. She could hear it now “Why should I do Ned Stark a favor?”

“Because it would spite that southron bitch the first man you ever loved was forced to marry.”

She watched as Jon knelt before Arya, leveling the tip of the wrapped sword in line with his heart and extending it outward.

Ned Stark and a few Lords shifted uncomfortably. To hand someone a sword, even one intended as a gift, in such a manner was a declaration of loyalty. If the sword-giver was found wanting in some way than the recipient would plunge the blade into their heart. Such grand displays of loyalty was a throwback to times before the Targareyens, when the Starks of Winterfell styled themselves as King and Queens in the North.

Arya smiled and accepted the package. “This is so you can defend yourself, father and the guards won't be around all the time, and neither will Robb and I.” Jon said. “We live in a cruel and unfair world little sister, and true knights and good men and women are rarer than snow in Dorne, even here in the North."

Miriam chuckled as Lord Stark arched an eyebrow and some of the more pompous Lords and Masters bristled at what they presumed was a slight.

“Give it a few swings.” Jon said as Arya unwrapped it.

“It's so skinny.” Arya exclaimed as she swung it about. 

“Skinny like you. Swords like that are popular like that in Bravoss. It won’t take a man’s head off, but it will poke a man full of holes and leave them choking on their own blood if you're quick enough." Jon said with a dry, almost cruel smile. 

Miriam chuckled as Catleyns Stark’s face frosted over, and many of the Lord's discomfort deepened. Even the jovial Greatjon Umber was white-faced

Arya turned the sword in her hands. “I can be quick.”  

“You’ll have to be,” Jon warned. “Just because learning swordplay is fun, does not make it any less serious. I can show you some things while I am here, as can Lady Mormont, but when I leave, you’ll have to practice yourself and study the manuals and codexes regarding the art yourself. I’m not giving you a sword lightly, it's not a toy, when you draw it, you kill. No hesitation, no mercy, even if it's someone you regard as a friend or kin. A drawn sword demands blood, and it will find it one way or another. "

Arya nodded solemnly. 

“First bit of advice. Your sword needs a name…   

Arya glanced at the blade in her hands, then turned to her elder sister.

“You can keep your sewing needles, Sansa, I have one of my own now!” the girl declared.

Jon smiled as he slid a slice of Gage’s beef and bacon pie onto a plate, as well as slices of thick, warm black bread drizzled in olive oil and soaked in butter.  

His humors were less melancholic now that Arya had her sword. She had always wanted one, for she was a fighter like his sisters. He prayed for her sake, one day their father would understand her desire to fight, her desire to be more than a simpering, mewling little lady like Sansa and her mother. 

Jon wished he had some way to capture an image and store it for all time beyond the failable memory of a man, for the look on Lady Stark’s face throughout the whole affair had been worth more than all the gold the Lannisters hoarded beneath Casterly Rock. 

Yes, Miriam was right, he was as Bitter as Bittersteel, but he did not drink a great deal, he did not whore, and he did not waste his coin on fancy clothes, so he had few vices left to him.

And the bitterness… it made him for grateful, for what he did have. He accepted there were things he would never have…. Or people….. 

Jon was jarred by his musing as the doors to the grand hall opened. 

The man that entered was tall and gaunt, dark of skin and eye, with a bearded grey as a stormy sky falling to his waist. He wore robes the color of a forest in spring, A cloak of deer and rabbit pelts was clasped around his throat by a length of rusted iron chain. Atop his balding scalp was a headdress of feathers and plant stalks, graced by a pair of antlers dipped in bronze. Bones, some of them human rattled in his hair, which fell past in his shoulders in gnarled, curled vines. His only weapon besides a dagger at his belt was a spear carved from the branch of a weirwood; its head and buttspike were not steel, but dragonglass, known to the Maesters as Obsidian.  

“I am Midhir of the Green Men. I speak for Gods and the Dead. I ask for a guest right and greet you Eddard Stark, son of Lyarra Stark. Hail to you, Breaker of Dragons, father to the Banes of Lions, King in the North, and all who bear the blood of the First Men.”

The Hall grew as silent as the Crypts beneath Winterfell.   The Green Men, were the closest thing to a priesthood the Old Gods, the True Gods had.  They were not priests, or shamans, or monks, but something far more terrible entirely   They rarely left the Isle of Faces, their abode and sanctuary from the wider world and where the pact between the First Men and the Children of the Forest had been sealed.  When they did, miracles could happen, or terribly castigations, the wrath of the Gods made manifest.  A Green Man could bless a couple's child, or curse it so it mutated into a vile hideous creature.   They could summon lightning, heal the sick, even bring back the dead.

Jon’s father frowned. But he rose. “Guest right is your, milord, though you are mistaken, in calling me King in the North, I am only Lord of Winterfell and Warden in the North.”

“As many of my Order have told you, Starks, before…. Titles may change, but the meaning may not. You are King, one of the few men worthy of being called such.” Midhir said with a sad smile.

“I have come to bestow a blessing on your daughter Princess Arya. Your Great- Grandmother and Grandmother asked me of this in my dreams.” The Green Man announced as he accepted bread and salt from a servant. 

Ned Stark frowned.

‘I’m not a Princess.” Arya shot back stubbornly.

Midhir laughed. “As I told your father, titles may change, but the meaning may not, little wolf.” He took the bread and ate. As the Green Man trotted forward, Jon noticed Midhir walked with a limp.

When he reached the high table, he propped his spear against the table, then laid a drawstring sack on it. He fished through it, retrieving a small bowl made from the bark of a weirwood, the crimson leaf of a weirwood tree, a mortar and pestle, a few tiny jars holding liquids, powders, and seeds. and a dagger of dragonglass.

Midhir sniffed Arya. “Who was the Septon or Septa that blessed you today?” He asked.

“Septa Mordane,” Arya replied. Midhir cursed in a tongue Jon did recognize. “The blessing she gave you would not ward the soul of an ant, let alone a child. It was done grudgingly, with no love, only malice, and spite.”

The Green Man glanced at Arya’s mother. “Lady Stark, you should have your husband remove this Septa Modrane’s hands and tongue and hang her from the tallest tower by her entrails.”

“I beg your pardon?” Lady Stark asked.

“No love this Septa Mordane has for your daughters O Lady of Winter and Trident. Black is her heart. Fawn over your eldest, she does and cruel and petty to your youngest she is. Poison she whispers into their ears. Weak and worthless she makes little Arya feel, when weak and worthless she is. Such sins are unforgivable for one honored and blessed with the role of teaching children.”

“Even if this is true, I will not mutilate a woman for that.” Ned Stark growled

Midhir shook his head. 

“Very well, but tell me, did you not ask your wife, why this Septa made it seem like Arya having the hands of a Blacksmith, was a bad thing when one of her Seven gods is a Smith?”

Ned flinched. “I did.”

“How do you-” Catelyn

“The Old Gods have eyes and ears, Your Grace,” Midhir said. He frowned.

“Did you have something to say, Little Arya?”

“S-Septa Mordrane doesn’t deserve to die.” Arya choked out.

“Oh? So the Gods did not sour my lunch two days past by telling me your Septa did not give you the back of her hand more than once. That she made it seem no matter how hard you worked, you would not master the womanly arts? That she belittled you for not being as naturally talented as your sister Sansa. That you lost count of the number of times she made you cry?”

“Yes, but She doesn’t deserve to die for that…”

A few of the guests broke into murmurings. Sansa looked down at her plate guiltily.

Septa Mordane was pale and shaking, yet she found the courage to speak.  

“Lord Stark, surely you don’t believe this heathen I-”

“Be Silent!” Mithir roared. “Hold your tongue, or I shall rip it out and make you eat it! Nod if you understand.”

The septa nodded.

“The Gods work in mysterious ways. Mordane.” Mithir said.

 “Your victim, the pupil you have abused and utterly failed believes you do not deserve to die.” 

Mordrane looked at Arya then back the Septa.

The Green Man snorted. “You should be grateful, you are being given a chance to atone for your sins and failures."

"Nevertheless, I curse you Mordane, bastard daughter of Jason Lannister. If you do not leave Winterfell in Seven days, you will die. Your flesh will slough from your bones, your heart shall rupture, and your soul shall be torn apart by the True Gods…. Go from here to White Harbor. Seek a Septa in a sealskin cloak, with one hand, one eye, and one foot, and you may realize the honors, duties, and privileges you squandered and pisssed away. Perhaps you will even find forgiveness for your sins..”

Mordane’s face was flush with rage. “I will not be mocked by you, you cretinous, barbaric, charlatan! I am an ordained Septa of the-”

Mithir slid his fingers across his throat, then leveled them at Mordane.

The Septa collapsed, choking and sputtering.

 The guests gasped.

Luwin rushed to her side. “What have you done!” The Maester cried.

“Done what you Maesters deem impossible. You are a wise man, Luwin, son of Leliana Bracken. Part of you knew the glass candles would burn again."

“Stop it!” Sansa wailed.

“Please Ser, She’s cruel and mean, but she doesn’t deserve to die!” Arya pleaded.

“I am no Ser. Princess..” Mithir growled. “And that vile, disgusting woman is not going to die, she is merely going to choke herself into unconsciousness."

"Stop it!" Arya ordered.

Mithir sighed and snapped his fingers. Mordrane gasped and rose, only to fall to her knees and vomit. The scent of piss wafted from her as well

'Your Seven must not have forsaken you yet. That is twice Princess Arya has pleaded for your miserable, pathetic life. Every breath you take is because of her. How does that make you feel?" Mithir sneered.

"Honored one enough." Ned Stark interjected.

"You are correct. Lord Stark. Enough is enough. I am through wasting time with her." Mithir said softly.

The Green Man sighed, then broke into murmurings as he rifled through his sack, he retrieved a thin square of red copper, a container that held what looked like sap mixed with amber, and a black and orange earthenware bowl.

Carefully, Mithir poured the sap-like substance onto the copper square. Then he reached for his knife. Carefully, he pricked his left ring finger and let a few droplets of blood fall onto the substance that soaked the copper. The Green Man then turned to the bowl made from the bark of a weirwood. He put the weirwood leaf first, then a black syrup. He mashed a white paste with his mortar and pestle and poured it atop the liquid. Mithir let the concoction settle for a few moments, then sprinkled some powders, then crushed and added some green seeds. 

Mithir turned to the substance he mixed his own blood in.

Gently, the Green Man poured it into the black and orange bowl. He added a dash of orange,fruity-smelling liquid, then fished around in his sack and retrieved a tiny bronze whisk. He whisked the concoction, then poured it into the weirwood bowl. Midhir set the whisk aside and picked up the spoon. He stirred for a few moments, then made a satisfied noise.

He dipped his finger in the bowl, coating them in white paint. Gently, he applied a crescent moon to Arya’s forehead and made patterns on her nose and cheeks.

“Arya of the House Stark, I call upon the Gods to give you their blessing. May your sword arm never waver, may your shield arm never fail you. May your hunts, either for the blood of your foe, or the meat of a beast, end in triumph. May your soul be warded against those who would bear you ill-will. May you raise your sons to be strong, and your daughters stronger. May you live a long life, or die a glorious death, before age withers you and steals your strength.” The Green Man chanted.

“Now there is one more matter before I take my leave. In fact, it is the main reason I am here.”

“And what reason is that?” Ned Stark asked.

“To bestow a geas upon your eldest son.” The crowd broke into murmurings. Bad enough a Green Man had come… But a Geas? A Geas could be anything from a taboo to an intricate prophecy, but no matter the form they took, rarely did those bound by them, have their tale be anything but tragic. 

Ned glanced at Robb. Robb stood. “I-

“Sit your ass down, boy, If I said eldest trueborn son, that would have been you, but I was referring to your brother Jon.

The Young Master. The Knight to be, The White Wolf.”  

Chapter Text

“You know besides  the ones on the Isle of Faces, the Godswood here is the oldest one in Westeros.”   Mithir said with a bittersweet smile as he stroked the heart tree’s face.

“My father said as much.” Jon replied

“I confess I thought  you'd be more  afraid.   It's not everyday a Green Man bestows a Geas. I haven't bestowed one since the Dance.” The Green Man said as he sat cross-legged on the ground.

Jon shook his head.  “ My father said a man can still be brave if he is afraid.”

The Green Man arched an eyebrow.  “There is wisdom in your father's words.”. Mithir said with a  lick his lips.

“You did not seem surprised when I mentioned I gave a Geas during the Dance.”

Jon swallowed. “Old Nan said a Green Man can live for centuries because the gods will it such.”

Mithir let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Not in the way  she thinks.  It is not living not truely,  I have not truly lived in a long long time. . I was your brother Bran's age when I did  young Knight.” 

“I am not a knight.” Jon replied.

“No not yet, but you will be. You are a bastard though.  That will never change no matter how hard you wish, even if you are legitimized.  Still, bastardy does not make a man, virtues and deeds do.  Think of your-”

Mithir broke into a coughing fit,.  “Apologies, think of Addam Velaryon, he was a bastard and died a hero.”

“I don't want to die a hero.” Jon said.

“What do you want?” Mithir asked.

Jon sighed.  “I…. I want to be a Stark… But that’ll never happen. So, for myself.   A family of my own. Trueborn children.  But Lady Catelyn has been praying all her life I'll go to the Wall and be made a Eunuch for good measure. So…  Really?  A good life for all my family  Arya and Lyanna especially.  If they want husbands, I want good men for them. Men who won't stifle them, or break their marriage vows. ”

“And say if you were a Stark.. or better yet let's say in another Westeros you were the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, would you still want those things for your siblings?”

“Why wouldn't I?” Jon asked.   “I’m their brother, and in Arya’s case at times it seems I'm the only sibling in the Starks who.. Gods this sounds arrogant, but I'm the only one who understands her, who actually cares about her.  Father and Robb try but….”

“Outcasts seek out outcasts when they have no place in the pack, just as titles breed titles.  Your mother was much the same.”

Jon's eyes widened.

“You knew-

“I was but a witness to her life, young knight.  The gods see everything.  It is not my place to tell you about her."

Jon clenched her hands.  “Lord Stark’s never told me a word about her.   He seems ashamed to even talk about her…. I don’t care if she was a whore or...what she was to him, I just want to know who she was...”

“You will.  Unless your father has a moment of weakness, he will tell you, and if not your adopted mother will.”

Mithir rubbed his scalp 

“Now  before we  get onto the matter at hand I have a question for you.”

“Why do people love your father so much?”

Jon frowned.

“He’s an honorable man.”  Jon  answered.   “Men know he keeps his word.”

The Green Man laughed.    

“You are more clever than that bastard.  Your father was certainly not honorable when it came to his marriage was he? Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation and the Princess would not have a sword to end many a life would she?   If your father was “an honorable man” he’d be a blundering fool,  running in  a hundred  different directions, a puppet dancing to the whims of vile virtueless men.   You Starks did not take this kingdom through honor.  Honor feeds no one when winter comes.   They took it like the Valyrian cunts took Westeros.  Fire and blood,  a focused hunger and nigh indomitable will   So I ask again Jon Snow why is your father is so beloved?”

Jon rubbed his temple.   He glanced at the weirwood.

“He’s a godly man… Truly godly,”

“Close,  obeying the laws of the Gods is part of it..   Whats the other part…  bastard?”

“The laws of men.”

Mithir snapped his fingers

“The laws of men.   The laws of men are intertwined with honor…  But the Laws of men are separate from honor….   Honor demands one thing…  but the law.. What is truly lawful.  What is just…  the right thing is not always honorable child…   It is not always rewarded with banquets and fair maidens…..  Sometimes the rewards are scorn.  Sometimes loyalty is its own reward. ”

“Is this tied to my Geas?” Jon asked.

‘It may be but it is irrelevant…  What I tell you may help you with  it, but wisdom is never a bad thing… A  painful burden to bear, but bad?  Wisdom is not bad…  Unlike honor it can never be twisted, wisdom, true wisdom White Wolf, can never be used to justify things like murdering children or forcing girls to marry against their will.  I give this advice freely, not out of pity, but because I was once in your shoes Jon Snow.”  

“White Wolf?”

Mithir laughed.  “Of course your focus on that and not just what I said. “

“You started this by asking why my father is so beloved, then you speak of wisdom, and the meaninglessness of honor” Jon snarled.  Fury boiled in his veins.  Part of him wanted to strangle this old man, but he clenched his fists and forced himself to quiet his rage and silence his frustrations.

“Did I say honor was meaningless?”  Mithir said.

“You just said honor can be twisted… and that honor is not what made my father  beloved, and that honor is not what is right… what is just…”

Jon’s eyes narrowed

“The answer to  your question, is that my father is beloved because he does what is right… what is just”

“Like taking a  bastard to his home… to his new beautiful wife, so eager for his cock….  For his stubble to tickle her faircheeks, for his hands.. Hands that killed many many brave men to grope her breasts…..” Mithir drawled with a mad gleam and a madder smile.

“ He risked losing that fine fine trout his father caught for them, that his brother Brandon would have never appreciated.. Never truly loved…..  Ohhh the honorable Ned Stark…to risk losing that, when there were only trueborn sons and  a bastard left in their line….when their nearest kin were distant Vale Lordlings who’d never seen a heart tree, never known winter’s kiss….  Now you understand…. Don’t you boy?”

Jon nodded.   “I…. I always understood that just never…. Wanted to think about it…”

Mithir cackled. 

“It made her easier to hate didn’t it?  To pretend she never loved your father.  That he never loved her?  It was all about power and duty for them?”

Jon nodded.   “It did, but I- I don’t like to think of such things.”

“Of course you don’t lad.  No one likes to brood on their fears…  To face them….   But that is why your father is so beloved… Why I called him a King….  He faced his fears.   The Day he held you in his arms   The Day he decided to take you home, and the day he let that she-bear adopt you…   Those were all painful decisions, hard decisions… frightening decisions, but he made them  because they were right.  Honor had nothing to do with it.  What was right, what was  truly virtuous had everything to do with it.” 

Mithir put his hand on Jon’s shoulder.  He glanced at the face of the heart tree and sighed.

“It’s not too late you cunts.”  The Green Man whispered…

Jon cocked his head.  “Old Man?”

Mithir sighed.  “Ignore me… the Gods are fickle cunts. They give as much as they take boy… even from bastards like us…”

He drew a knife from one of his pouchs a blade of ice with a handle of ivory white as the bark of a heart tree.

“Time for your geas to be read.” Mithir said softly. 

Than the Green Man  plunged the blade into Jon’s heart. 

Jon screamed.  His breath  billowed out as white smoke, as if he was in  icy hell of winter and not the warm sanctuary of the Godswood.  His body burned and shook as Mithir tightened his grip on Jon’s shoulder, burying the dagger up to the hilt. 

“Easy boy, Easy.  This is a weapon to bleed and measure the soul….”  The Green Man  murmured soothingly as he  pulled the blade out.   Blood soaked the blade, but none leaked from a hole in Jon’s chest.   His skin was untouched and there was no mark on his tunic.

Jon fell on his back pants and sobs leaving his lips.  He  sat up with a groan.   He felt exhausted and rejuvenated in equal measure. 

Mithir tilted the blade, letting the drops of blood fall to his hand.   The Green Man spoke firmly and with weary resignation. 

“You will forever stand alone, and twice you will die alone.   You are  the king who shall never be crowned, and  your life shall end, as it began.  In blood and sorrow and broken oaths.  But you shall die  as you lived.  The Hunter , the Slayer of Beasts wearing  the faces of men   ”

“That is your geas.”

Jon sighed as he gathered his thoughts.

Than he opened his mouth and spoke.