Chapter 5 — Surprise
Winterfell had changed.
It hadn't crumbled. The stones still stood, the godswood still whispered, the ravens still circled the rookery. But something beneath those stones had shifted—politics, I thought. Power, like a sudden frost in summer.
Robert Baratheon and his retinue were preparing to depart at first light, the banners of House Baratheon of Kings Landing flapping like tired sails on the walls of Winterfell. The sound of hooves being moved from the stables.
Servants whispered more cautiously. Guards stood a little straighter. Maester Luwin moved with uncharacteristic tension, as if sensing that everything old had been brushed aside to make way for a new, more dangerous game.
And Ned Stark—father by destiny and uncle by blood, though I could never call him that—he had changed too.
There was less softness in his eyes now, and more weight on his shoulders. Since the morning, they came from the hunt, he no longer walked the walls at dawn or joined Rickon in the godswood. He met with Luwin, with Robb, with messages arriving by raven. The South had reached its cold fingers past the Neck and wrapped itself around Winterfell's heart. The Hand of the King.
I stood by the training yard, watching Robb spar with Ser Rodrik, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
Sansa had wept last night. Not openly, not dramatically—just a single, happy tear wiped quickly with a sleeve after the announcement.
Betrothed.
To Joffrey Baratheon.
It had been delivered like a gift: golden boy and northern lady, South and North entwined in peace. No one questioned it. No one dared.
I had watched her face when they announced it. She'd tried to smile. I wondered what she imagined—fine dresses, courtly love, golden-haired children. The South was still a dream to her.
But I knew Joffrey. Not just from the week of his stay, not just from the arrogant tilt of his head or the cruel glint in his eye. I remembered what he became. What he was, beneath the silks and smiles.
If he ever hurt her, if they crossed paths again… I'd be ready. That much I swore, quietly and without fanfare.
Ghost brushed against my leg. I reached down and scratched behind his ear.
"I wonder if things would've been better if you'd torn his throat out the first time we saw him." I muttered.
Ghost huffed, which I took as agreement.
The air smelled of woodsmoke, tallow, and coming rain. Winter wasn't here yet, but it watched. It waited.
Around me, the castle moved with strange energy. Arya darted between the stables and the kitchens, chased by a frustrated Septa Mordane. Bran sulked near the kennels, daydreaming about his journey south. Rickon wailed whenever anyone tried to explain that Father was leaving. And Robb—he trained harder than ever, jaw set like ice.
Something had fractured. Something had begun.
I looked up toward the Great Hall. That night would bring the parting feast, one final celebration before the road claimed half our household. And I'd be expected to sit in the shadows, to raise my cup and lower my eyes.
Still a Snow. Still on the outside.
Or so I thought.
The Great Hall of Winterfell blazed with firelight and laughter. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar, venison pies, fresh loaves still steaming, wheels of cheese and trenchers of spiced apple. Casks of ale, mead and northern fire flowed freely — whiskey, dammit! — and the hall buzzed with the clamor of armored men and courtiers in silks alike.
It was the last night of the king's visit. Tomorrow, the royal procession would begin its long ride south, with Ned Stark soon to follow. The North had changed in less than a fortnight.
I sat beside Robb near the lower end of the high table. I wore black, as ever—plain, functional, but clean. The Stark direwolf was stitched in silver thread on my chest. No one commented on the detail. But some noticed.
Catelyn Stark sat beside her husband, expression fixed, but her wine cup had been drained more than once. Sansa shone in pale blue, speaking softly to the queen and to Septa Mordane. Arya looked miserable beside them, and every so often she glanced toward the door.
Ned Stark had not smiled much tonight. He answered Robert's jests with small nods and the occasional ghost of amusement, but his eyes remained distant, storm-dark. Duty pressed down on him.
And the king—gods, the king was drunk.
Robert had already stood for toasts twice. Once for Ned—"the only man I've ever trusted sober or bloody hungover"—and again for the honor of House Stark. Now, red-faced and booming, he tore a drumstick from a bird the size of a hound and waved it like a sword.
"You Northerners know how to feast!" he bellowed. "In the south we nibble—rabbit food and sweetmeats. Here we eat like men!"
The crowd roared their approval. Ser Rodrik coughed ale through his nose. The royal bannermen pounded the tables. Even Queen Cersei's lips twitched in disgust— her eyes icy and distant.
Then Robert staggered to his feet again, steadied by Ser Barristan Selmy on one side and Renly on the other.
"Oh, but I've something more!" he called, eyes sweeping the hall. "Something fitting for this land of wolves. Something... bold!"
Silence rippled outward from the dais.
Robb glanced at me, smirking. The fuck is going on Robb! I felt something twist in my gut. No one had warned me of an announcement.
Robert reached into a leather pouch hanging from his belt. His hand came out with a rolled parchment, thick and bound in black ribbon, wax-stamped with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"This," he said, voice lowering just enough to make everyone lean in, "comes not just from me—but from your Lord Eddard Stark, and the will of the realm."
He looked straight down the table.
"Jon Snow," he said.
A hundred eyes turned to me.
I froze. My hand tightened around my cup.
"Come here, lad."
My feet moved before my thoughts caught up. The murmurs swelled behind me as I stepped away from the benches, walked past knights and stewards and lords. The king waited on the dais, Ned beside him, watching me with an unreadable expression.
I stopped at the base of the dais.
Robert raised the scroll high, sealed with the crowned stag.
"Your father asked this of me. And your service to the North, to the realm, and to Winterfell has not gone unnoticed. You have wisdom beyond your years. Honor, I daresay, that puts grown men to shame."
He looked around the hall, one arm raised like a priest at a sacred altar. "Too long have we let the sins of fathers stain the brows of sons. A child does not choose his birth, nor the cold words men put behind his name."
He turned back to me. "And so, for service rendered, for blood given, and by my hand as king... I name you trueborn."
The hall gasped.
Robert broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment with theatrical flourish. The firelight danced across the vellum.
"Henceforth," he read, voice ringing, "you shall be known as Lord Jon Stark, a true son of Eddard Stark of Winterfell, with all rights and inheritance that come with the name, and lordship over the lands of Moat Cailin are transferred to him and his blood hence forth. In the name of His Grace Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, and sealed in the sight of gods and men."
He handed me the scroll.
I took it with both hands.
My heart thundered. The parchment felt heavier than it should—heavier than chainmail, heavier than Ghost curled against my chest on a cold night.
Behind me, the silence had shattered into shouts.
Lord Glover was first to rise, raising his cup. "The King speaks true!"
The Northmen cheered, and the Southerners clapped politely. Roose Bolton did not smile, but he dipped his head. Ser Rodrik looked stunned. Old Maester Luwin's smiled proudly. The northern lords approve? Have I really done enough to gain their approval already?
At the high table, Catelyn Stark turned to stone. Her hands lay clenched on either side of her trencher, knuckles white.
Sansa stared, mouth parted. Arya looked triumphant.
Ned still hadn't moved.
And neither had Cersei.
The queen's gaze burned through me. Jaime leaned back against a carved pillar, arms folded, studying me as if I were a riddle written in Valyrian. Tyrion simply sipped his wine, his eyes sharp and alert.
"Stand tall, boy. You're Stark now," Robert said. Then, leaning in close, his voice slurred with wine and fire, he added, "One day you'll thank me for this. Or curse me." He slapped my shoulder so hard I almost staggered. Then he turned back to the crowd.
"Drink! Eat! Gods, you're too sober! Someone find me a whore!"
The feast erupted into noise again, though changed—more uncertain, charged. I returned to my seat amid stares and whispers. Robb grinned as I sat.
"You're my brother now," he said, clinking his cup to mine. "No more bastard talk."
My voice felt distant. "Aye."
I sipped from my cup and found it empty. Ghost had appeared at my feet, silent as snow, pressing against my boot.
Jon Stark.
It didn't feel real.
Had I wanted this? Yes. Once. A thousand times over. Even if I already had a name for myself. But not like this.
I looked down at the parchment again, rereading the words I had memorized already. Royal seal. Signature. The handwriting of the king.
A choice had been made tonight. And not by me.
Ned Stark hadn't said a word to me about this. His silence hung in the space between us like a blade still in its sheath.
Later, much later, when the torches burned low and the laughter dulled to murmurs, I would step outside into the snow and feel the cold bite deep into my skin.
The parchment remained in my hand, though I could no longer feel my fingers. I read the words again by moonlight, the black wax seal catching a silver gleam. The wolf in me stirred restlessly.
I was Jon Stark now I guess.
I turned the scroll over in my hands again.
Jon Stark.
The name stared back at me in looping royal script, sealed in black and gold. I had never once expected to hear them spoken aloud, let alone by the King of the Seven Kingdoms, in front of the entire North.
And now I held them.
I had imagined it might feel like winning something, like a long-denied truth being made whole. I had imagined that it would close the wound I carried every time someone said "Snow" like it was a curse.
Instead, it felt like a blade pressed flat against my palm. Gift and threat both.
I kept thinking of Lord Stark—no, Father—and the way he hadn't moved as Robert spoke. His eyes hadn't flickered. But I could see satisfaction in his gaze, and nervousness. I imagine it came from asking his friend Robert to legitimize the son of the man he killed. Of the fallen dynasty he replaced.
It was done. The realm would recognize me now. I was no longer the bastard. I was Jon Stark, of Winterfell. My signature would carry weight. My words, legitimacy.
And that changed everything.
Not just for the name. For what I could do with it.
For years, I had been planning. Gathering knowledge, mapping timelines, waiting for events to fall into place. The Long Night. Daenerys. The dragons. The Wall. The Others. All of it had hung over me like a storm cloud I couldn't yet reach.
With a name, I could ride to any Northern holdfast and be taken seriously. I could write to Lord Reed, to Lord Glover, even to Manderly. They would open my letters. They would listen. I could summon builders to repair holdfasts along the Last River. I could fund patrols. I could speak of defenses and not be dismissed as a bastard boy with southern books in his head.
I had land now. Moat Cailin. Ancient, still half-ruined, but still standing like a broken fang at the narrowest part of the realm—where the swamps of the Neck squeezed the continent thin. Long abandoned by strategy and stripped of its former glory, it had once been the gate to the North, impenetrable to any southern host foolish enough to try their luck. Most had forgotten that. But I hadn't.
In the past few years, as coin from Winterfell's renewed trade flowed northward, I'd set things in motion. Quietly. Deliberately. Stone by stone, Moat Cailin was being restored. Not the high towers or ceremonial halls, no—those could wait. First the walls, the dikes, the kill lanes, the hidden walkways. Practical structures. A fortress first, a home second. Laborers came in droves, and with them came opportunity. Villages sprang up around the Neck's northern edge, supplying the construction crews with tools, timber, grain, and ale. And as those settlements grew, so did the need for food.
I had remembered something—something from before. Rice. A crop the North had never thought to try, but perfect for the swampy, waterlogged lands fed by the upper branches of the Fever River. Rice should have never worked in the Neck. I knew that—every book I'd ever read, every lesson I'd been taught, every map of temperature and rainfall confirmed it. It wasn't warm enough, not for long enough. The marshes of the neck were too cold, too volatile, too prone to sudden frosts. In any sane world, it would have failed. But Planetos isn't sane. This is a world where summers last three years and winters can gnaw on the bones of the living for a decade or more. The plants here have learned to bend without breaking. A specific strain of short-grain rice from the northern deltas of Yi Ti—bred in shadowed paddies and seasoned by storms—had taken to the bogs like it had always belonged. It was hardier than it had any right to be, and stubborn besides. I'd watched the first sprouts push up through muck and chill like they meant to outlast winter itself. And somehow… they had.
When I proposed its introduction, Maester Luwin had hesitated, but the results had proven him wrong. After buying seeds and knowledge from Braavos new fields had bloomed where there was once only bog and reed. Tens of thousands of people moving to the opportunity. Entire families now worked lands that had once been deemed useless. And they would call me lord.
Let the South whisper of pageants and jousts and the favors of silk-clad ladies. I would build something harder. Something lasting. Not just a castle, not just a name. A force. Drilled, trained, honed. Not wild levy-men summoned by banners and given rusty spears, but a true core of soldiers. Formations. Disciplined movements. Combined arms. Cavalry coordinated with infantry, archers who could shoot by signal. Tactics no northern lord had cared to study since the First Men stopped carving runes into their blades.
I would teach them myself if I had to. I remembered. Gods help me, I remembered warfare from history textbooks. From another world entirely. I remembered what modern armies could become when discipline was matched with purpose. Alexander, Napoleon, Charlemagne. I remembered what a trained force could do against a rabble in the times of the Roman Empire.
And now, I had the right. The lands. The keep. The name. Jon of House Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin. With lordship came duty, yes—but also command. And I would use it.
Oh, I would use it.
And Winterfell itself—Father would leave. I knew that already. He would ride south with Robert, into a lion's den.
That left Robb in charge.
And now it left me as a trueborn son. Not the heir, no. But not nothing either.
That meant opportunity. I could convince Robb to follow the reforms in my own lands. And danger.
Catelyn would never accept me. Nor Sansa. But the Northern lords had cheered. They had raised their cups. They remembered the blood I shared. The name did not change their memories of me as Ned Stark's boy, raised beside his trueborn children.
Still, I could not afford to move too fast.
Everything I did from now on would be watched. Not just by Father and the lords, but by the South. By Cersei. By Varys, if he still slithered in the shadows. By Littlefinger. By those who might wonder why a legitimized bastard would start writing to Night's Watch commanders or asking about dragonglass.
So I would move quietly.
A name is not a shield. It is a sword. And like any sword, it cuts both ways.
But I could use this. I would build networks. Fund loyal men. Spread my influence, not by force, but through loyalty and preparation. Whisper the right warnings. Help Glover reinforce his keeps. Write to House Reed and speak of the things that stir beyond the Neck. Begin work on the holdfast I dreamed of—Moat Cailin, maybe. A fortress of the future.
Let the world see Jon Stark, trueborn and dutiful. Let them see the wolf while the dragon prepares.
The godswood was quiet save for the rustle of wind through the red leaves clinging to the weirwood's branches. The face looked a bit more angry today. Beneath it, the snow was patchy—thawing and refreezing, hardening into frost-bitten crusts. I stood beneath it, staring up at those eyes, red and ancient.
Footsteps crunched behind me. I didn't turn. Only one person walked like that—heavy from training, but still trying to move light. He had asked me to come here.
"You left before the end of the feast," Robb said.
"I wasn't hungry," I replied. "You're energetic for someone who drank half the king's ale." I paused. "I suppose you have answers," I said, voice flat.
Robb raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who was made a Stark in front of half the North and the whole royal court. I'd say I should be the one asking if you have anything to say."
I looked at him then. There was no mirth in his eyes. Nor mockery. Only the kind of quiet patience we used to share during play hunts in the woods behind the kennels. When we didn't need to talk to understand each other. Carefree children, before I decided to do something with all this knowledge.
"I didn't ask for it," I said. "Not like that."
"No," he said, "but I did."
I blinked. "What?"
He gave a faint smile and looked down at the frozen pool beneath the weirwood, its surface dusted with hoarfrost.
"I spoke to Father," Robb said. "Two nights after we came back from the hunt. He was brooding again, you know how he gets—silent, pacing. He said something about legacy and duty, and I—well, I asked him."
"Asked him what?"
"If he'd ever thought of legitimizing you," Robb said, glancing at me. "And giving you land."
The cold air burned in my lungs.
"You asked him that?" This boy…
"I didn't beg. I didn't command," Robb said, raising his hands. "I just... asked. I told him you deserved better than endless duty to Winterfell. I reminded him of what you'd done, the way you think, the way you see things no one else does. I told him we'd be stronger with you by our side, that I would have a loyal vassal in the future."
"And he actually listened?"
Robb hesitated. "He said nothing at first. Just stared into the fire like he always does. But when I left, I saw thinking."
I shook my head. "Why would you do that?"
"Because you're my brother," Robb said, voice suddenly sharp. "Because I'm going to have to wear that damn mantle one day, and I'd be a fool not to want you beside me. Because I trust you more than half the men who'll bend the knee to me if Father ever—" He stopped, swallowed. "If he goes."
I looked away. The weight of what he'd done settled slowly over me like snow.
"I always thought..." I began, but my voice cracked. I cleared it. "This changes a lot, you know? Most of my plans for the future depended on my status... or were held back by it. I didn't expect this at all."
"I could see you didn't, you looked like a fucking statue while the King spoke!" He laughed. And with horror I realized he must be right. Oh Gods, Arya will make fun of me!
Robb moved closer, brushing a hand along the rough bark of the heart tree as I stood up. "You don't need to thank me or make it up to me, you don't see how much everything you have done has changed the north, you don't speak to the grateful lords and the fattening smallfolk," he said. "But I know you will."
I stepped forward, still shaken by what he had admitted. "I do thank you. Not just for asking Father—but for believing in me. For seeing what I've been trying so hard to do, for helping me convince Father of my craziest ideas, really Robb... I always thought it would be Luwin and me, but you have always been there. I haven't appreciated it like I should."
"I've always seen it, you know?" Robb said simply. "Since we were boys. You used to talk about grain stores and canals while the rest of us were playing at knights."
"I didn't think it mattered to you then."
"It does now."
We stood in silence again, letting the words hang between us. Then Robb stepped forward, his boots crunching through the frozen moss. "This will help you, Jon. The name Stark carries weight."
I stepped away from the tree, my breath clouding. "Robb, you do know what some lords will see, an army, a banner... you'll make me a threat, we have talked a lot about what I think I could do as a lord, it might shake things up."
He laughed, short and bitter. "You'd be the first threat who actually gives a damn about the North. I don't want yes-men and sycophants. I want commanders. Lords with spines. You're already planning things in that head of yours, aren't you?"
I hesitated.
"You are," he said, nodding. "I see it in your face. You're already finishing the rebuilding of that ruin in your head. You're thinking of how to train men. How to make them ready. How to organize your lands, how to make taxation more efficient, how to make people's lives better." Robb nodded slowly to himself. "Then build what we need, Jon. At Moat Cailin. Quietly, if you must. Let the lords think it's just border defense. Just the new quirky Lord Stark doing his duty. But make ready."
I stared at him. "You'd trust me with that?"
"With my life," Robb said. "I already have, more times than I can count."
We stood again in silence, the godswood breathing around us. I just looked at Robb trying to convey what I felt to him.
I looked up at the carved face of the old gods. Its eyes seemed to glare less now. Maybe it was only the wind, but something in me shifted too.
"Father's leaving soon," Robb said after a long moment. "South, to King's Landing."
I nodded. "He won't be back for a long time."
Robb's mouth tightened. "I'm not ready."
"You'll have to be," I said, meeting his gaze. "And you're not alone. You're right—what you said earlier. The North will look to you. And they'll start looking to me now, too. Between us... We can start laying the foundation." It might as well be pitched now. "We don't have to change the world in a moon's turn. But bit by bit—small reforms, subtle changes. Improvements to how the holdfasts are provisioned. Roads. Better records, maybe a network of riders between key villages. Training for the young squires, proper education for stewards. We start where no one will object."
"Smart," Robb said. "Keep it quiet. Make it seem like efficiency, not revolution."
"It is efficiency," I said with a faint smile. "It just happens to be revolutionary, too. At least get people to stop shitting where they eat."
He laughed—more genuine this time. "You'll need scribes, riders, a smith or two. Maybe a good steward, you will be moving a lot."
"And you'll need someone to keep the lords busy while I build," I added. "We work together, always. No matter how wide the river grows between us."
Robb nodded. "Always."
We clasped wrists, like warriors sworn, but it was more than that. It was a pact forged not only by blood, but by trust.
"And father, he is going to a snake's pit, Robb. I could help him there too, as much as I could help here, I will try to convince him to take me with him, but he won't say yes."
"I'll miss him, and Arya, Bran and Sansa… Gods, it's all so fast." Robb said, eyes distant.
"So will I, Robb.. so will I."
We stood a while longer under the weirwood, two brothers no longer boys, not yet men, but something sharper—something beginning.
Later I entered the Great hall I had been working on organizing the supplies for the watch for a while and was feeling peckish. I would leave tomorrow at the same time as the royal party with the caravan towards Castle Black.
A the flicker of movement from the corner of my eye—a silent shadow shifting just beyond the hearth's glow. I turned slightly, heart tightening. There, seated against the far wall, was Jaime Lannister. His golden hair caught the firelight, his pale green eyes calm but sharp, fixed intently on me.
Jaime's gaze was unreadable—warily curious, almost like a scholar studying a complicated puzzle. Not hostile, but cautious.
My mind raced. Jaimie's eyes had followed him since the first day they came to Winterfell. Had I let slip a hint of knowledge that shouldn't be known? My every gesture, every carefully chosen word replayed in my head. Was there a crack in my armor Jaime had seen? Had I misstepped, revealing more of himself than intended? Did he suspect I knew about what he was doing in the tower?
I clenched my fists beneath the table, willing calm into my veins. Jaime said nothing—just held that quiet, unwavering gaze. The tension between us thickened the air, heavy but unspoken. I understood that for now, this watchful silence was a game neither of us dared to break
-END-
Author's Note:
Hey everyone, Just a quick update from my end: I've recently joined the ranks of the newly unemployed! (yay…?) While not so good for me (I have to eat), the upside is that you'll keep getting your chapters regularly at this pace as I dive deep into writing mode until I get a new job. So, silver lining, right?
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