Eddard Stark (292 A.C. Second Moon)
Winterfell
His eyes opened, and he saw it again, that damn tower of pale stone rising like a spear from the and its sight felt as real as he had the first time he saw it. Yet everything fell like he was dragging a pile of stones with him.
He felt the crunch of gravel beneath his boots, smelled the sand baked by the sun. His sword was heavy in his hand, and his heart heavier still. Around him stood the men he had loved, brothers in arms who had followed him without hesitation, even into this forlorn corner of the world. They were all there again, the companions who had ridden with him from the Trident, from the long road of rebellion, men who should have lived, yet had been stolen by that day.
He saw them fall one by one. Martyn Cassel, cut down with a scream upon his lips. Ethan Glover, struck down by a blade flashing in the sunlight. Theo Wull, the old warrior, was bleeding into the dust. Ser Mark Ryswell, gallant and doomed. Lord Dustin, never to return to his lady wife waiting in the Barrowlands. The dead closed around him in memory, and with them came grief, sharper than any sword.
They had come seeking his sister. They had come seeking Lyanna. And standing in their way had been the Kingsguard, immovable, resolute, and clad in white as pure as winter snow.
Ned's breath caught as his eyes fixed on the man at the center of it all. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his pale greatsword Dawn burning like a shard of fallen starlight. Even now, in dream and memory, Ned could not help but admire him. He had been the greatest knight of their age, and perhaps of any age, a man who fought with honor and grace. He knew now, fighting for his sister, their princess or q.
He watched his younger self clash with the knight again, sword ringing against sword. They moved swiftly across the stones, each stroke a dance, each breath a prayer. Arthur fought like a man born to it, and perhaps he was. Ned remembered how fear had filled him, how hopeless the contest had seemed, how death had hovered over him with each stroke of Dawn.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Howland Reed, small and unassuming, strike. A dagger under the arm, slipping through a gap in the mail. Arthur gasped, staggered, and fell. Even now Ned's stomach clenched at the memory. He had not beaten the Sword of the Morning with his own hand. Arthur had been betrayed by the smallest of them, felled by a blade slipped between plates of steel.
He saw the great knight crumple, white cloak stained crimson, Dawn slipping from his grasp.
Ned stumbled up the sandstone steps once more, his boots echoing hollowly against the tower. Each step dragged him deeper into sorrow. His breath rasped, his wounds burned, but still he climbed. He pushed open the door and entered the chamber he had dreaded, and there she was.
Lyanna.
His sister lay upon her bed, her dark hair damp with sweat, her face pale and wan as death's shadow fell over her. Beside her sat a maid, eyes wide with fear and sorrow, hands stained with blood. She had tried to keep Lyanna alive, but no prayers had been answered. That maid had later become Howland's wife, but here she was only a frightened girl, powerless against fate.
And then Lyanna had given him her child. Her son. His nephew. The boy who would be raised as his own, though the world must never know the truth. Lyanna's voice trembled with pain as she begged, as she whispered that fateful plea.
"Promise me, Ned. Promise me."
The words cut deeper than any sword.
And he had promised.
The dream shifted, as it always did, but this time it was different.
Lyanna stirred, her body rising from the blood-soaked bed. Her eyes, once filled with fear and love, now glared with fury, pale as moonlight and sharp as knives. The scent of death clung to her, but her voice was strong, harsh, and merciless.
"You promised me," she hissed, her lips curling with hatred. "You promised you would protect him."
"I did," Ned said, his voice breaking as the words tumbled out.
"Did you?" Lyanna's voice cracked like thunder, echoing in the chamber. "You let him be shamed. You let them call him a bastard. You let him live as less, though he is my son, your blood. You let him, he was a mistake!"
"I needed to protect him from Robert," Ned argued, his heart pounding in his chest. "It was the only way. The only way he could live. If Robert had known,"
"The best way?" she spat, her eyes burning. "You call this the best way? To have thought he is a mistake, to think his mother was ashamed of him, or that she didn't want him? I know intent, brother, even now. Even after he told you he doesn't know his place in the world. At least Benjen tries to keep him away from it. You truly think the Night's Watch will protect him? That cold, wall of ice filled with thieves and killers, rapers and murderers? You think he will be safe there?" Her scream tore through him, a mother's anguish turned to fury.
"You promised to protect him, Ned! And you broke it!" Her voice cracked now, grief spilling out where anger had burned before. Tears welled in her eyes, her hands trembling. "Keep that promise while you still can, or the world you know will shatter. "
Then the chamber dissolved, and he was falling into darkness.
Ned gasped awake, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat. His nightclothes clung to him like wet rags, his hair plastered to his brow. His throat was tight, and his eyes stung with tears.
"Lyanna," he whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry."
The bedchamber was dark, shadows stretching long against the walls. His hand fumbled toward the other side of the bed, reaching for warmth that was not there. Catelyn's side was empty.
Empty, and cold.
His heart clenched. That bed was where his wife should have been, the woman he had loved and shared his life with. Yet that same wife had struck his son, his nephew, the boy he had sworn to protect. She had raised her hand against him, shamed him. He spoke with Jon and the servants and heard some of what she had done. The Gods only knew what else she had done in her bitterness.
Ned pressed his face into his hands, silent sobs shaking his body. He had lived his life by honor, by duty, by promises. Yet in this, the most sacred promise he had ever made, he had faltered.
Lyanna's words still rang in his ears, as sharp as a blade. "Keep that promise while you still can, or the world you know will shatter."
He sat there in the darkness, and still he whispered, as though the dead might hear him. "I'm sorry, Lyanna. Forgive me."
Sleep did not come again. Instead, he rose from his bed, dressed himself, and walked into his solar. He lit a few candles, and sat down with a weary sigh.
"What can I do to make this right?" he muttered to himself.
His eyes fell upon the map of the North that always lay upon his desk, a worn, faded piece of leather commissioned by his grandfather. As he traced the familiar outlines of rivers and keeps, memories stirred. He recalled his father's words from the last time they had spoken, back when he had been young and foolish, infatuated with Ashara Dayne. He had lain with her then, dreaming of a small keep where they might live together.
"I have great plans, my son," his father had said. "The dowry from Brandon's match will give us the means we need to restore the North. I've worked hard these past years. The Starks will plant their roots deep in the North, and even in parts of the South."
He had never found the courage to tell his father that he had already dishonored Ashara, that he had taken her maidenhead. What if he had told him then, he would have married her, and their babe would not have been born stillborn. He hadn't been allowed to see her, nor the child. Later, he wept quietly when he heard of her death. The thought still weighed heavily on him.
"Even without the dowry, we have coin enough to expand," his father had once told him proudly. "I've made deals with Braavos, our timber for their gold. Soon after the wedding, Moat Cailin will be restored to its former glory, and you will be its lord."
He frowned at the memory. Moat Cailin. He had never thought of it quite like that before. Perhaps Jon could be made its lord; it would give the boy purpose. He had the gold to build Moat Cailin, begin the work, and if he petitioned the Crown for aid, they might grant him funds to build a holdfast for Bran and Rickon. He had never asked for compensation for all the support he had given during the Rebellions. If not the Crown, the Iron Bank could have done, he would have had to marry them into strong Northern houses to secure their loyalty. Robb, too, would need a Northern bride; the North would never again accept a southern lady of Winterfell.
Especially not after what had happened with Catelyn. Many had grown angry when he built a sept for her within Winterfell's walls. Looking back now, he knew it had been a mistake.
He sighed, the weight of that truth pressing heavily upon him. He already knew what he would do if Catelyn refused to change: he would close the sept. The thought pained him, but it was necessary.
Pushing such matters aside, he reached for the scattered papers upon his desk, forcing his mind back to the tasks at hand. There was work to be done, plans to set in motion, wrongs to make right. He would see it done, even if it caused a rift between him and his wife.
This was the North, after all. And Jon, Jon was his blood. His son. His nephew.
Catleyn Stark Tully(293 A.C. Second Moon)
Winterfell – Catleyn's chambers after the meal.
As Catelyn sat in her room, her thoughts were consumed by anger. She couldn't believe what had just happened at the dinner table. How could her children and husband turn against her? Robb, siding with Jon Snow, the bastard who was trying to steal her trueborn children's birthright? It was preposterous. Her husband had hit her in defense of the bastard, and her cheek still stung from where he had struck her.
That thought sent a shudder through her, but her anger grew. How could they not see that the bastard was a threat to their family's legacy? How could they not know that he was nothing more than a bastard trying to usurp their rightful place?
But as she sat there, her thoughts became more irrational. She began to imagine all sorts of scenarios in which the bastard was trying to harm her family. She pictured him sneaking into their chambers at night to hurt or poison their food to weaken them.
Her anger continued to build until it felt like wildfire inside of her. She wanted to lash out, to scream and yell until her family saw reason and cast Jon out. But deep down, she knew that wouldn't work. She had to find a way to convince them, to make them see that Jon was a danger to their family.
But how? As she sat there, her mind racing, she knew she needed to devise a plan. Something that would make them see the truth about the bastard. And until she did, she would remain in her room, alone with her irrational thoughts and burning anger.
She fell into an uneasy sleep, hungry as her husband had given her little to eat. Then, a dream came, tormenting her with the events of the dinner. She tossed and turned in her bed, the images of the bastard haunting her. As the night wore on, her dreams grew darker and more vivid.
In her nightmare, a black dragon breathed flames over Winterfell, and she could feel the heat of the fire on her skin. She saw the bastard riding on the dragon's back, and his face twisted in a cruel smile as he surveyed the destruction he had caused. She screamed and tried to run, but her legs felt heavy as if they were made of stone.
The dragon swooped down towards her, and she could feel its hot breath on her face. She closed her eyes, waiting for the flames to engulf her. But instead, a loud crack of thunder from the sky, and all went dark.
Next Morning
Catelyn awoke with a gasp, clutching the sheets. For a long moment, she did not know where she was. The dragon's roar still echoed in her mind. Then she saw her maidservant beside the bed, worry etched across her face, and the dream began to fade.
A knock came at the door. Catelyn rose, threw on a robe, and went to answer it. It was early, too early, but she knew that knock. When she opened the door, she found her husband standing there.
"Good morning, wife," Ned said coldly as he stepped inside without waiting for permission. "So, have you had time to cool off?"
"Well, I don't see why I should," Catelyn replied sharply.
"I acted in the interest of my children," she went on coldly. "Someone has to make sure the bastard knows his place. He's trying to make Robb look bad so he can rise against him with the other lords."
Ned silenced her with a raised hand. His jaw tightened. "How could you think of sending a child, my blood, to bed without food? Or striking him, for that matter? What in the Seven Hells possessed you? As for Robb, it's good he has competition; it pushes him to improve. Otherwise, he'll grow arrogant, thinking he's above fault. Jon is his brother, and he would never betray Robb. Perhaps this kind of jealousy happens in the South, but here in the North, we protect our pack."
His voice hardened. "Do you even know what I tell our children about the pack? Or do you not listen because it's too Northern for you?"
Catelyn folded her arms, refusing to yield. "No, I don't know what you tell them," she said curtly.
"Of course you don't," Ned sighed. "It's all too Northern for you. Then hear it now: When the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. That is what I teach our children. That is what we must be. But you, "he looked at her sharply, "you do not understand the North. You never tried to understand it. We hold one truth and one rule here: winter is coming. And when it does, we survive not alone, but together."
His tone left no room for argument. "So expect change, or you will no longer have charge of this household, and the sept will be closed. You will not punish Jon again. The girls will spend less time with the septa; what they've been taught is not fitting for Northerners, and that is what they are. I'm considering calling for guidance. Someone who can teach them the ways of a Northern woman in ways I or you cannot."
Catelyn could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "Well, I'm Southern, a Tully of Riverrun," she said sharply. "Those are my children. And as I've said before, that bastard will one day take their birthright. Treachery lies in the blood of bastards. Look at the Blackfyres, how many wars did they bring upon the realm?"
"Catelyn," Ned said, his voice flat, "Jon will never do that. I'll hear no more of it. You have one chance to change your behavior. Remember what I said."
Before she could speak, he went on, "I also plan to make Jon the future Lord of Moat Cailin. I will ask Robert to legitimize him and grant him a cadet branch of House Stark, like the Karstarks. He will not come before any of our children in the line of succession. That will be made clear in the agreement, you have my word on that."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Legitimize him?" she cried. "Have you no shame? It's bad enough you keep him under this roof, among our trueborn children, but to legitimize him?"
Her voice rose to a scream. "And make him Lord of Moat Cailin? What of Bran and Rickon? They should come before that bastard!"
Ned's face darkened, his voice turning to ice. "I will also petition the Crown for compensation for our part in the Rebellion. If that fails, I'll turn to the Iron Bank or make trade agreements to raise gold. With it, I'll build holdfasts for each of our sons, perhaps even rebuild Seadragon Point."
"But why not give Moat Cailin to Bran or Rickon before the bastard?" she pressed. "They are trueborn and have seniority over him."
Ned drew a deep breath, his patience thinning. "No. Jon is older and nearly of age. Bran is three, and Rickon is not yet one. Jon will be ready to command long before they are."
Catelyn clenched her teeth. "Very well," she said through them. Yet inside, she seethed with fury.
"I've also sent letters to the Northern lords, inviting their daughters to Winterfell," Ned continued. "Alys Karstark and the Manderley girls, among them. I would see if one might suit Robb for a betrothal."
Catelyn stared at him, stunned. A Northern girl? When he could marry Princess Myrcella—or the rose of Highgarden herself? "Ned," she said, trying to sound calm, "a southern match would be better. Perhaps the princess, or Lady Margaery Tyrell, or a girl from the Vale or Riverlands."
"No," Ned said firmly. "Robb will marry a Northern lady. After our marriage, the North would never accept another southern match for Winterfell."
"But you are Warden of the North," she argued. "Lord of Winterfell, surely."
"The North is only strong when it stands united, not divided," he cut her off. "That's final, Cat. And as I said, expect a change in your behavior."
With that, he turned and left her chambers.
When the door closed, she stood trembling with rage. She wanted to scream after him but forced herself to stay calm. Slowly, she sank down onto the bed.
Terrible, she thought. My son is to be betrothed to some unworthy Northern girl—Alys Karstark, perhaps, or a Manderley. The chance of a royal match slipping away, and some wild she-bear woman set to run my household. My daughters ruined, my husband turned against me, and soon my children brought closer to those heathen tree gods.
Her mind turned southward. Petyr. He had always been her friend, her confidant. He would know what to do. Yes, she would write to him.
Rising, she ordered a bath and sat at her writing desk. When the water arrived, she dipped her quill in ink and began to write.
Jon Snow (293 A.C. Second Moon)
Winterfell – Eddard Stark's Solar
His uncle, his father, had asked him to come to his solar, after his training. Earlier that day, he had trained with Robb and Theon; it had been a good session, better than most. Yesterday had been even better, freeing in a way, a chance to truly show what he could do. Now the tension between them had faded. Theon still made his jests, but they carried less bite than before. People knew what to expect of him now. He knew the truth of who he was, and it strenghted him.
Soon enough, he reached the solar and found Jory and Will waiting by the door.
"Lord Stark requests my presence," Jon said.
Jory smiled and opened the door for him. "Lord Stark, Jon is here."
Jon stepped inside and closed the door behind him. His uncle—his father—sat at his desk, quill scratching across parchment. "Please, Jon, have a seat. I'll be done in a moment," Ned said without looking up.
Jon sat opposite him, folding his hands in his lap. After a short silence, Ned set the quill aside and looked up.
"Jon," he began, "you may have noticed that my lady wife was not at the table this morning."
"I did," Jon said stiffly. He hadn't cared where the woman was.
"It had to do with something I've written to the king about," Ned continued.
Jon frowned. "The king?" he asked quietly. The thought of Robert Baratheon, the man who had called his kin dragonspawn, laughed athe murder of them and their motehr and killed his sire, made his blood run cold.
"Yes," Ned said. "I've written to ask that you be legitimized and granted the right to form your own cadet branch of House Stark. I intend to name you Lord of Moat Cailin."
Jon stared at him, eyes widening. "I'm to be legitimized? To be a lord?"
"Indeed," Ned said with a small smile. "Yesterday and today have shown me that I've made mistakes when it comes to you. I thought I'd done enough, but I see now that I have not. I want you to know, Jon, you are not a mistake. You are my son. My blood. Your mother never stopped loving you. She loved you from the moment they laid you in her arms."
Jon swallowed hard, his voice faint. "She's dead, isn't she?"
The look in Ned's eyes said it all. Jon had known the answer long ago, but hearing the truth in his father's gaze still cut deep.
"Who was she?" he asked softly, pressing for an answer he already knew he wouldn't receive.
Ned's face grew still. "I will tell you one day," he said quietly. "All I can say now is that I loved her very much. She passed far too soon."
Jon sighed, accepting it, for now. Bloodraven's words and the voice in his dreams echoed faintly in his mind. His father had come around. He was to be Lord of Moat Cailin—a stronghold both ancient and powerful.
"Father," he said after a moment, "what of the lordship? I haven't had the same lessons as Robb. I don't know how to manage a castle."
Ned's expression softened. "Indeed, and that will change. From now on, you'll join those lessons. When the time comes for you to take up your duty, you'll command the defense of the North. A restored Moat Cailin will stand at its heart, stronger than ever before."
He reached for a rolled parchment and spread it across the desk. "My father had great plans for it once. Had things gone differently, the Moat might already have been complete, and his greater vision begun."
Jon leaned forward to study the drawing. It showed not only the Moat itself but a town beside it, complete with a small harbor. Yet what caught his eye most was the long, carved line that ran eastward.
"He wanted to build a canal," Jon said in disbelief, "to connect the Fever River to the Narrow Sea?"
"Indeed," Ned said, smiling faintly. "It would have allowed trade to flow more easily to the western lands and let us build a navy to guard our shores. A grand vision, though one I abandoned when I became Warden of the North. I had enough burdens without adding more. But now… now I believe it's time to see it done."
Jon nodded slowly. "Thank you, Father. I will not disappoint you."
"I know you won't," Ned said with a rare smile.
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